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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
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AT THE 
 
 Foot of Parnassus 
 
 BY 
 
 EMILY SrOAKEY 
 
 
 ALBANY, N. Y. 
 
 D. R. N I VE R 
 
 1883 
 
.03 
 
 Copyright, 1SS3, by 
 D. R. NivER. 
 
 Outing Publishing and Printing Company, (limited.) 
 Alfa NY, N. Y. 
 
Several of the poems in the following pages are 
 reprinted, by permission, from various periodical pub- 
 lications in which they first appeared. 
 
 Acknowledgment is due, for such permission, to the 
 publishers of the Century Magazine, Outing, Albany 
 Evening yournal, the Independent, the Clwistian Union, 
 the J/Iustrated Christian Weekly, the Springfield Re- 
 publican, the Criterion, Our Work at Home, and the 
 Freep07-t {III.) Journal; and also to Messrs. A. S. 
 Barnes & Co., publishers of Dialogues a?id Conversations. 
 
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FORMER PUPILS. 
 
There was a shepherdess who fed her floek 
 
 At foot of Mount Parnassus. Dawn by dawn 
 
 She saw new glory hum upon the rocks, 
 
 Afid sipped their honeyed dews, and felt updrawn 
 
 And filed luith music, as a star tvith fire; 
 
 Till, from the foregone tuneful company, 
 
 She caught a far-off murmur, ''''Come, come higher. 
 
 For thou art of us ; here thy place shall bey 
 
 And she made answer, though her heart gave heed, 
 
 ''''One day, one day, it shall be even so. 
 
 But 7102V, what hand ?ny wandering lambs would lead 
 
 Among the pasture-lands that lie so low .?" 
 
 Her 7'ustic pipe she touched at even-tide — 
 
 Sweet, sweet its wildness to her ear had grown — 
 
 But when the dewy leas grew dark, she sighed: 
 
 ^'' Peace, peace, tny heai't! the Muses knoiv their ownj' 
 
 Sometimes the voice waxed louder: "Cotne away I 
 Inhabit now the country of thy dream.'''' 
 '■''But J was set to do this task.^' One day, 
 FollowiJig her feet along the lonely stream. 
 Death came by stealth and kissed her pallid cheek. 
 Far, far and dim the heights of glory grew — 
 ''''At least, at least,^' the cold lips strove to speak, 
 ^^J did the thing that I was set to do.'" 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Eurador: a Christmas Idyl. 
 
 IS 
 
 Early Verses. .... 
 
 • 43 
 
 Sowing the Seed. 
 
 45 
 
 The Sunset. 
 
 • 47 
 
 The Triumph of Spring. 
 
 51 
 
 Aspiration. .... 
 
 . 56 
 
 Luna Tacita. ... 
 
 58 
 
 Midnight on the Prairie. 
 
 • 59 
 
 Lady May. ... 
 
 63 
 
 A Chaplet of Birthday Flowers. . 
 
 • 73 
 
 Birthday Flowers. 
 
 75 
 
 A Carol. .... 
 
 • 79 
 
 White Hyacinth. 
 
 80 
 
 Morning Song. 
 
 . 84 
 
 The Opening of the Doors. 
 
 86 
 
 My Friend and L 
 
 . 89 
 
 Miscellaneous. ... 
 
 95 
 
 In the Heat. 
 
 • 97 
 
 In the Frost. 
 
 103 
 
 Against Sadness. . 
 
 . Ill 
 
God's Silence. . . . .114 
 
 Palmer's Marbles. . . . 116 
 
 The First Bluebird. . . .119 
 
 Robin's Return. . . . 121 
 
 Spring's Firstlings. . . -123 
 
 Blue Violets. . . . . 124 
 
 The Triumph of Morning. . .126 
 
 The Golden Thread. . . 128 
 
 The Hint of the Crocus. . . 133 
 
 Carol and Blvthe. . . . 136 
 
 The Birth of the Flowers. . . 140 
 
 The Awakening of the Leaves. . 144 
 
 The Coming of the Grass. . . 146 
 
 Phebe's Lover. . . . 148 
 
 Amodion. . . . . • 151 
 
 After Strife. . . . . 154 
 
 After Rest. . . . • '55 
 
 His Ways Past Finding Out. . 157 
 
 Some Day. . . . . .160 
 
 The Lily's Legend. . . . 162 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. . 164 
 
 The Awakening. . . . 168 
 
 Misgivings Corrected. . . .170 
 
 God's Gifts. . . . . 171 
 
 Mignonette. . . . '173 
 
 Song. . . . . . 175 
 
 October to June. . . • 177 
 
 A November Day. . . . 178 
 
Two Sides. . . . . i8o 
 
 Hecuba. . . . . 183 
 
 When the World was Young. . 184 
 
 What Hope? . . . . 186 
 
 My Peace. . . , .187 
 
 Re-united. .... 190 
 
 Consolation. .... 192 
 
 Secret Music. . . . 193 
 
 Reminder. . . . . .104 
 
 In thy Hand. . . . . 195 
 
 Art Thou a King .^ . . . 197 
 
 At the Gate of the Year. . . 199 
 
 The Old Man in the Twilight. . 203 
 
 Criteria. .... 206 
 
 A Whisper. .... 209 
 
 Two Friends. . . . . 211 
 
 Gone Home. . . . .212 
 
 Days of Pain. . . . . 215 
 
 At the Master's Feet. . . , 216 
 
EURADOR: 
 
 A Christmas Idyl. 
 
EURADOR: 
 A CHRISTMAS IDYL. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 Harken ! Harken ! 
 While the shadows darken 
 Of the gracious Christmas Eve. 
 Harken and receive 
 Multitudinous blessings, stealing through 
 The starred dusk, like silver-lapsing dew. 
 All the world is full of secret singing; 
 All the hidden pulses of the air 
 Thrill with finest harmonies, out-ringing 
 Clear to angels, while we unaware 
 Tread our earthly ways, not hushed enow, 
 With all the soft caresses of the snow, 
 
1 6 Ai the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 For any more than half lost echoes sweet 
 
 To touch with silver wings our silence most complete. 
 
 Harken ! though so stilly, 
 Like a pure, pale lily. 
 Lies the Earth in bridal snow, 
 From the long ago 
 Echoes linger of the wondrous strain 
 When Heaven came down to her again, 
 
 And through her long eclipse 
 Some song is ever trembling on her lips. 
 And Heaven listens, if the song is true, 
 
 Whether it strike the blue 
 In winged aspiration, or steal through 
 The dewy air, at sunrise, on low mead, 
 From grassy-bordered stream, or humble shepherd's reed. 
 
 L 
 
 Among the hills sat Eurador : 
 The sunny, daisied slopes, before 
 The shepherd blithe, ran softly down 
 To a river, wand'ring on 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 17 
 
 With crystal iteration sweet 
 
 Of all the beauty it doth meet, 
 
 With arrowy leap, and curved play, 
 
 Through shadowy dingles, where all day 
 
 The birds might sing on unafraid ; 
 
 Or, having its wild will obeyed 
 
 A season, then with statelier march, 
 
 Underneath a grateful arch 
 
 Of willows, welling coolness, where 
 
 Low tremulous murmurs fill the air. 
 
 And riverward looked Eurador; 
 The green tent of a sycamore 
 Made twilight round him, with a floor 
 Of gold of summer and dusk of summer ; 
 The wind, a sweet uncertain comer, 
 Made scarce a ripple overhead ; 
 Still were the white clouds, islanded 
 In blue mid-heaven, and still below 
 The flocks, slow-wand'ring to and fro. 
 But other silver silences. 
 
1 8 At the Foot of Parttassus. 
 
 Deeper and stiller far than these, 
 Higher and higher and ever higher, 
 
 Brooded above the mountains' height, 
 
 Luminous and infinite, 
 A crown of wreathed snow and fire. 
 
 Through the hush there clearly stole 
 A strain most sweet, as if the soul 
 Of the green hills, and flowing river. 
 And of all breathing things that ever 
 Move, or leap, or float, or run, 
 Or soar, in shadow or in sun, 
 The rocky heights and glens among. 
 Had throbbed out into sudden song. 
 There, every woodland warbler knew 
 In turn, his sylvan speech so true. 
 That soft replies from far-off wood 
 Came trembling through the solitude. 
 And forest creatures, one and all, 
 The shyest, answered to the call, 
 With kindred sounds, or flutterings, 
 Or pleasM motions in the grass. 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 19 
 
 Till all the air 's astir with wings, 
 
 And tiny shadows flit and pass 
 
 Like spirits by. The deer, that drink 
 
 Upon the water's reedy brink, 
 
 Unstartled, quit their sunny hollow. 
 
 And that wild warbled sweetness follow. 
 
 And there were subtler intimations 
 
 Of things aerial, penetrations 
 
 Of winged winds, that can divine 
 
 The heart of oak, or mountain pine, 
 
 Or ash, or poplar passionate. 
 
 And breathe out meanings separate 
 
 And sweet. And there was sound like light 
 
 Made audible, as if the bright 
 
 Far flush of sunset, or of dawn, 
 
 Or glimmer of dews upon the lawn. 
 
 Or the intense of summer's blue. 
 
 Or an aurora, melted through 
 
 Th' immutable bars, and flowed in song: 
 
 And there were mountain echoes strong, 
 
 And shadows from the awful mood 
 
 Of the giant of that solitude, 
 
 Blended ever and ever and ever 
 
 With a ripple of the running river. 
 
2 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 From the green-tented sycamore 
 
 The music ceased, and Eurador 
 
 Shook his brown curls, and rose, and stood 
 
 So brave, so innocent, so good, 
 
 So beautiful, Endymion 
 
 Shone not more radiant, when he won 
 
 The love of his bright goddess; nor 
 
 That shepherd prince, who fed his flocks 
 
 On Ida, and saw among the rocks 
 
 That vision of beauty, chosen before 
 
 Wisdom and power, nor golden-haired 
 
 Apollo himself, when forth he fared, 
 
 Shorn of his heavenly rays, to keep 
 
 Like any simple swain, the sheep 
 
 Of king Admetus. But not of these. 
 
 Nor any golden tale of Greece, 
 
 Of Fauns, or Satyrs, or of Pan, 
 
 Or any dream Arcadian 
 
 Thought Eurador. He only knew 
 
 How the first shepherd brought the true 
 
 Accepted sacrifice, and how 
 
 Before another, awfully, 
 
 In the eclipse of Horeb's brow 
 
 Burned on the unconsumed tree. 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 
 
 Cleft by God's voice. And he had read 
 
 How in Judea's pastures led 
 
 The anointed youth the golden calms 
 
 Of pastoral nights and days, ere pressed 
 
 The kingly crown upon his rest ; 
 
 And thought how soared his winged psalms 
 
 From those green fields, and heard the strain, 
 
 Solemn and sweet float o'er the plain 
 
 From heavenly harps, when broke the morn 
 
 Upon the night, and Christ the King was born. 
 
 Fair dawns and eves of beauty, thus 
 
 Forever blithesome and melodious 
 
 With his sweet pipings, and forever fed 
 
 With pure, calm thoughts, and the benignities 
 
 Of mountain and of river, softly sped 
 
 In overflow of natural sympathies, 
 
 Nor 3'et without some visionary gleams, 
 
 Some longings vague and sweet. 
 
 To fling their glory o'er the hills and streams. 
 
 And hint at life more vast, harmony more complete. 
 
At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 II. 
 
 The river winds from far away, 
 
 Far away, far away ; 
 From some sweet dell that loves the day, 
 Softly bright in early light, 
 Speeds that silver arrow's flight. 
 But never noon-tide's burning calms. 
 Nor sunsets' gold, nor twilight balms. 
 On its widening way, can match the morn 
 When the fluent life and light were born. 
 Flo\^ on, sweet river, and bear forever 
 Some orient gleam from the far away. 
 
 The river windeth far away, 
 
 Far away, far away, 
 Broadening and brightening like the day ; 
 And singing on through shade and sun. 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 23 
 
 The song with which its life begun. 
 But never dream in that far dell 
 Of some bright isle's fair miracle, 
 Or greener shores of calm content, 
 Or richer song interfluent, 
 Can antedate the mystery 
 Of the waiting sea, the glorious sea ; 
 Flow on, sweet river, and bear forever 
 The dawning hope of the far away. 
 
 So ran the shepherd's song ; or so 
 
 From his rare reed it seemed to flow, 
 
 Flow and murmur, murmur and flow. 
 
 Over the crystalline expanse, 
 
 Where he saw, as one in silent trance, 
 
 A fairy boat glide softly on. 
 
 With sails all gold in the morning sun. 
 
 And as it floated slowly by 
 
 In the charm of that sylvan melody. 
 
 Starry eyes looked out on him, 
 
 And a face that made the sunlight dim. 
 
 A fair young face, upraised to hear 
 
24 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 The bird or spirit hovering near, 
 
 With such sweet wonder and soft delight, 
 
 Lips half parted in smile so bright, 
 
 As the vision vanished, into the strain 
 
 Passed a sudden ecstatic pain, — 
 
 " Fair as the day, fair as the day, 
 
 Beautiful and far away." 
 
 " Far away ! " The languid close 
 
 Seemed to melt in the mountain air. 
 
 And wake a voice responsive there ; 
 
 From the imperial repose 
 
 Of the summit crowned with ancient snows. 
 
 Some wandering echo strayed, 
 And rather felt than heard, mysterious answer made. 
 
 " Far away ! far away ! 
 All fairest things are far away; 
 But upward, upward to the day, 
 A shining path thy soul may see. 
 And all is possible to thee." 
 He looked — the peaceful pastures shone 
 With a new glory, not their own ; 
 The hills were steps unto that throne 
 
 Of sovran majesty. 
 Itself a radiant footstool, meet 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 25 
 
 For print of heaven-descending feet, 
 While the skies, with influence sweet 
 Bedewed it silently. 
 
 When the crimson-flowing day 
 O'er the pines had ebbed away, 
 And rest was near, and strife was far, 
 And like a lily, the folding star 
 Bloomed in the fading blue. 
 The visionary boy arose. 
 And touched his pastoral pipe anew, 
 To the air that drew at twilight's close. 
 The sheep about him one by one, 
 One by one. 
 
 From the green fair dell 
 
 That they love so well, 
 
 From the dew-sweet grass 
 
 Where they lingering pass, 
 And the reeds that bend and sway and shiver. 
 Leaning above the songful river. 
 They hear, they hear the welcome call, 
 And they follow, follow one and all ; 
 
26 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And a blissful dream his being thrills, 
 Folding his flocks on the star-lit hills ; 
 Folding his flocks in safe retreat, 
 
 A step was at his side ; 
 A voice, half scornful and half sweet 
 
 To his secret dream replied : 
 " Ho ! shepherd swain, whose days flow by 
 Like some old tale of Arcady, 
 The rose of all the world would hear 
 A strain unmeet for lady's ear, — 
 Of her own praises weary grown. 
 And weary grown of harp in hall, — 
 So hasten ere the hour is flown, 
 And wake thy blithest madrigal." 
 
 And through the valley hushed and dim. 
 
 And down along the river shore, 
 
 With willows whispering over him. 
 
 Beneath the stars went Eurador, 
 
 Through the little grove, and the lawn beyond, 
 
 To the fair home of Rosamond. 
 
 A soft wind stole his steps to greet 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 27 
 
 With many a gracious sign 
 From garden lilies pale and . sweet, 
 
 And dewy eglantine ; 
 He saw the poplars dusk and tall, 
 Glooming above the ancient hall ; 
 He saw the pillars gleaming white 
 Through bowery shade, the blaze of light, 
 The radiant forms, the faces fair. 
 And seemed to tread on light, on air, 
 And one, as beautiful as Spring, 
 Came forth with words of welcoming: 
 " Art thou," she said, " the Voice like light, 
 The happy minstrel of the hills. 
 Whose music yet our memory thrills 
 
 With ever new delight ? 
 And wilt thou breathe for us again 
 The sweetness of that woodland strain ? " 
 
 Her smile besought ; and Eurador — 
 " I can but give what I receive 
 From harmonies of morn and eve 
 Among my native hills." No more 
 
28 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 He said, but stood irresolute ; 
 The music in his soul was mute 
 Without some touch from natural things 
 To call to life its trembling strings ; 
 The child of mountain liberty, 
 And only there the glad and free, 
 An alien here, in voiceless thrall, 
 What did he in the brilliant hall ? 
 
 But Rosamond, whose instinct fine 
 His inward need could well divine, — 
 Perhaps because her spirit moved 
 Obedient to the same sweet law, — 
 Bent quickly o'er the harp she loved, 
 With deep, still eyes, as if she saw 
 Some beauty others could not see. 
 And sang a simple melody. 
 
 " Blue violets, blithe violets, 
 
 Who that is human e'er forgets 
 
 Your brightness and your blithesomeness, 
 
EiiraJor: A Christmas Idyl. 29 
 
 Your innocent meek tenderness, 
 
 That e'er hath stood in budding wood 
 
 And seen you at his feet, 
 Like rarest elves that deck themselves 
 
 In fairyhood complete, 
 Though blue as mist the sun has kissed 
 
 In valleys wild and sweet ? 
 
 " White violets, pure violets. 
 
 That might be wreathed in coronets 
 
 For baby brows of spotless mould. 
 
 That no earth-shadows overfold ; 
 
 White winsome things with dove-like wings 
 
 That brood in grassy nest, 
 As thick as stars no tempest mars 
 
 With presence of unrest ; 
 The mellow moon at highest noon 
 
 Hath softly you caressed. 
 
 " Gold violets, bright violets. 
 
 The sparkling dew at sunrise wets, 
 
30 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And dcih with nectar overbrim ; 
 Lustres no cloudy day can dim ; 
 The golden sun doth smile upon 
 
 And call his children rare ; 
 The bee out-spies, the butterflies 
 
 Do claim as kindred fair; 
 The yellow bird hath sometimes stirred, 
 
 Drawn downward unaware." 
 
 The last strain did not die away. 
 
 But, as in twilight sinks the day. 
 
 It melted rather, she knew not how. 
 
 Into a murmur faint and low, 
 
 A murmur such as oft doth pass, 
 
 A winged breath, through the billowy grass ; 
 
 That grew and grew, as breezes do, 
 
 Into a ripple of silver brooks. 
 
 Into a hint of leaves embracing. 
 
 Of boughs in tremulous interlacing, 
 
 And of such sweet talk as in greenest nooks, 
 
 In the sunniest April weather, 
 
 The bees and the blossoms hold together. 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 31 
 
 Now serene interchanges 
 
 Of call and response, 
 Now harmonious ranges 
 Of song, for at once 
 The birds are awake and alive and a-wing, 
 And in copse and in dingle. 
 Hark, how they sing ! 
 With such love and such joy and delightsome com- 
 munion. 
 As when spirit with spirit would mingle 
 In heavenly union. 
 Now clearer and clearer, 
 And nearer and nearer. 
 To the boughs overhead, that the while rustle on ; 
 Now softer replying. 
 Now far away dying. 
 As it might when one goeth from shadow to sun ; 
 From shady green places 
 To bright open spaces 
 Where only soft murmurs abide ; 
 
 Where the sheep browse and dream, and the birds 
 cannot hide ; 
 
 Now the music all blends 
 Into one airy tone, 
 
32 At the Foot of Parnasstis. 
 
 So sweet, one would bid it forever to linger, 
 
 The heart it so wins ; 
 Now — O stir not, breathe not, move not a finger, 
 
 'T is flown ! 
 And none can tell where the sweetness ends, 
 
 And the hush begins. 
 
 A hush that holdeth one and all 
 
 Of the listeners in the lighted hall. 
 
 Till the spell is broken, and each would be 
 
 The first to praise him — but where is he ? 
 
 " Oh, art thou a shepherd, or art thou a spirit. 
 
 Or Pan himself in a fairer guise ? 
 Or from what muse-haunted grove dost inherit 
 
 Thy pipe of wonderful harmonies ? " 
 But nought he heareth — slipt away 
 
 Into the dark and dewy night. 
 With one sweet face to make his day. 
 
 Over an ocean infinite ; 
 And the only path across that sea 
 Is the silver bridge of harmony. 
 And many a golden morn anew 
 
Eurador: A Christmas Idyl. 33 
 
 On grassy slope, or grassy mead, 
 She listened to his charmed reed ; 
 And many a starry even drew 
 His steps amid the gathering dew, 
 Under the poplar boughs, to pour 
 Some sweetness never learned before ; 
 And oft as one who, dreaming, hears 
 The music of the silver spheres. 
 Till her dark eyes grew soft with tears. 
 She heard entranced, and asked no more ; 
 And oft as one who sees afar 
 The tender light of the vesper star, 
 Forever far — looked Eurador. 
 
 When Earth leaped up at touch of Spring 
 In waves of bright awakening, 
 And every bird sought out her nest, 
 And every tree with song was blest. 
 And every thicket and wild glen 
 O'erbrimmed with murmuring life again, 
 Where the fair river kissed the shore, 
 And uttered all his woodland lore 
 
34 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 In many a silver syllable, 
 
 Mute was the tuneful reed, the shepherd sighed fare- 
 well. 
 
 " Ah me ! my mountain horrie. 
 
 Half way 'twixt earth and sky. 
 The echoes wild, the torrents' snowy foam. 
 
 The glad society 
 Of innocent creatures, a fair multitude ; 
 (I called them, and they came from field and wood;) 
 
 The river palpitating through 
 
 In vibratory rushes, 
 The grassy slopes aglow with fiery dew, 
 And far above, the bright celestial flushes 
 About the forehead of the mount, where burns 
 The risen Morning ! Unto you 
 
 My spirit turns 
 With love unchanging, but no weak adieu. 
 
 No more in dreamful rest 
 Shall flow my slumbrous days, of nobler aim pos- 
 sessed." 
 
 The drowsy sheep-bells tinkled far away, 
 The river murmured softly at his feet ; 
 
Eurador: A Christmas Idyl. 35 
 
 And far adown the old beloved way 
 He lingering gazed, where bending willows meet. 
 " And will she miss my voice among the hills ? " 
 He said, and then, awaked from tender dream. 
 He dropped his voiceful reed into the stream. 
 A mountain wind stole down with plaintive thrills, 
 And called along the valley, " Eurador ! " 
 And the sweet river sighing wept, " No more ! no 
 more ! " 
 
 Sweet sou], dear heart, with whom mine own is knit 
 Like sounds that wed in some high harmony, 
 
 As Christmas hours draw near, apart I sit 
 
 And muse, what h3'acinthine blooms for thee, 
 
 What leaf of amaranth, what buds most fair 
 
 May make a little Spring where all is bleak and bare. 
 
 But all the wintry wold is white as death. 
 
 And though this vail doth many a pleasant root 
 
 Kindly enfold, which May's miraculous breath 
 
 Shall quicken, now appear nor flowers nor fruit ; 
 
 Only my rose in her own sunshine lives, 
 
 Nor needs return of sweets for what she ever gives. 
 
36 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Nathless, I said, one secret joy I have, 
 
 The gift of song that was my dower at birth; 
 
 My hidden pearl beneath life's roughest wave. 
 My gold mine, my sole heritage on earth; 
 
 And since she once hath cared to hear me sing. 
 
 Some idyl sweet shall be the token that I bring. 
 
 But whether through that rapture long foregone. 
 Sad silence, weariness by day, by night, 
 
 The voice which once leapt up to greet the sun, 
 
 And clothed itself with words, as stars with light, — 
 
 Now sinks, as from far sunset shores the day, 
 
 And the imprisoned breath unuttered dies away. 
 
 The broken music of my shepherd's reed 
 
 Is all I bring; and if into thy dreams 
 Its murmur faintly falls, so shall it lead 
 
 To sweeter melodies by living streams ; 
 So, where I failed, shalt thou complete the song. 
 
 The morn of Christ is near; let us be glad and strong. 
 
£u radar: A Christmas Idyl. 37 
 
 III. 
 
 Hearken, hearken ! 
 While the shadows darken 
 Of the gracious Christmas Eve : 
 The kingly pines that crown the steep, receive 
 And utter forth new inspirations sweet, 
 
 Where earth and Heaven seem to meet, 
 That run with joyous thrill 
 Down to the peaceful pastures, folded still 
 In hushes of the snow ; 
 Sweet voices come and go 
 In tender whispers through the upper air; 
 
 The moon's encurved bark 
 Cleaves with her argent prow Night's ocean dark, 
 The only silent thing; 
 And if ethereal pilot there 
 Listen attent, he hears the murmuring 
 Of thousand thousand hearts, uplift in praise and 
 prayer. 
 
38 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Bright blazed the Christmas fires, and all 
 
 Were glad of heart and merry in hall, 
 
 Where Rosamond the fairest shone ; 
 
 The years that ov«r her had flown 
 
 Since the first flush of joyous youth, 
 
 Had only wrought in outward grace 
 
 The signet of her spirit's truth, 
 
 And Peace shed starlight on her face. 
 
 The hours flew fast ; the guests had all 
 
 Departed from the festive hall, 
 
 Save one, whose gracious speech had bound 
 
 Each listener on enchanted ground. 
 
 The ages' lore, the wisdom brought 
 
 From many lands, the royal thought. 
 
 The lighter speech, the flashes free 
 
 Of wit and brilliant fantasy, 
 
 The utterance rare, had sealed his power, 
 
 And crowned him sovereign of the hour. 
 
 And now, as rang the Christmas chimes 
 
 Upon the frosty air, he told 
 
 A Christmas tale of other times ; 
 
 How once, in a cathedral old. 
 
 The midnight organ grandly rolled 
 
 In more than mortal harmonies. 
 
Eurador : A Christmas Idyl. 39 
 
 Touched by an angel from the skies. 
 But Rosamond, half wearily, 
 As if her thoughts were otherwhere, — 
 " There was a shepherd once, a free 
 Blithe mountain boy, who filled the air 
 With silver-warbled sound, most dear 
 To any lover of the woods 
 And mountain-hidden solitudes. 
 I think that I shall never hear 
 Such sweetness anywhere again." 
 
 " There was a dreamer once," he said, — 
 And his cheek flushed a sudden red, — 
 "Who saw one day how wholly vain 
 His life was in a work-day world, 
 A world ajar, and weak, and wrong. 
 Which calls for labor more than song. 
 And so his visions fair he hurled 
 Away, and dropped his song-reed deep 
 Into the river, and went from sleep 
 To action, worthier so to win " — 
 Then, tremulous, her voice joined in, — 
 
40 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 " Labor alone is incomplete, 
 
 But labor song-attuned most sweet." 
 
 But like a shadow, with the night 
 
 He mingled, and was lost from sight ; 
 
 And with bowed head she murmured, " Eurador ! 
 
 No more upon the hills, no more, no more ! " 
 
 Through the hush there softly stole 
 
 A strain as if a trembling soul. 
 
 Half doubtful of its airy flight. 
 
 Had risen through the folding night. 
 
 But gathering strength, had with it borne 
 
 An impulse from the rising morn, 
 
 The mountain's solitary height, 
 
 Th' ascending mists, the eagle's flight, 
 
 And hers, who singeth as she soars, 
 
 And seems to touch the golden shores 
 
 Of Dawn ; and with such aspirations 
 
 Interpreted, and exultations 
 
 Such as the mountain tempest brings. 
 
 When far away it shouts and sings. 
 
 And gladness of inferior things, 
 
Eurador: A Christmas Idyl. 41 
 
 A motion of its own expressed, 
 
 Calm, steadfast, clear above the rest, 
 
 In solemn adoration meet, 
 
 Uplift to heavenly throne in praise serene and sweet. 
 
 Her eyes were full of happy tears ; 
 Her heart o'erflowed with heavenly calm ; 
 Above her shone th' immortal spheres. 
 Around her all the night was balm ; 
 A sigh dissolved her solitude. 
 And Eurador before her stood. 
 
 =n^ ^ ^ TT Tf ''f 
 
 And they went forth to live laborious days, 
 Flushed with the light of love, and golden-wing'd 
 with praise. 
 
 So, after silence, cometh once again 
 
 Dear Rose, thy shepherd, with his pipe of old 
 New-touched for love of thee ; though not as when 
 
 In dreaming youth, he led his flocks a-fo!d, 
 Or forth to dewy pastures of the morn, 
 Or heard among the hills harmonious echoes borne. 
 
42 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 The pastoral vision fadeth from mine eyes, 
 
 Hushed is the stream, and veiled the grassy shore ; 
 
 The tuneful reed afar in silence dies ; 
 
 But touch it, thou, and it shall wake once more. 
 
 And all the hills re-echo with its song ; 
 
 The Christmas morn has risen ; let us be glad and strong. 
 
 1865. 
 
EARLY VERSES. 
 
Sowing the Seed. 45 
 
 SOWING THE SEED.* 
 
 They are sowing their seed in the dawnlight fair; 
 
 They are sowing their seed in the noon-day's glare ; 
 
 They are sowing their seed in the soft twilight, 
 
 They are sowing their seed in the solemn night. 
 
 What shall the harvest be? 
 
 They are sowing their seed of word and deed, 
 Which the cold know not, nor the careless heed ; 
 Of the gentle word and the kindly deed. 
 That have blessed the heart in its sorest need. 
 Sweet will the har\^est be. 
 
 And some are sowing the seed of pain, 
 Of late remorse and a maddened brain ; 
 
 *This song, — originally published in a western paper, — after undergoing 
 many vicissitudes and arbitrary alterations by unknown hands, has become 
 widely known through the medium of " Gospel Hymns and Songs." It is 
 here restored, with the omission of a single stanza, to its original form. 
 
46 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And the stars shall fail and the sun shall wane, 
 Ere they root the weeds from their soil again. 
 Dark will the harvest be. 
 
 And some are standing with idle hand, 
 Yet they scatter seed on their native land ; 
 And some are sowing the seed of care. 
 Which their soil hath borne and still must bear. 
 Sad will the harvest be. 
 
 They are sowing their seed of noble deed. 
 With a sleepless watch and an earnest heed ; 
 With a ceaseless hand on the earth they sow, 
 And the fields are whitening where'er they go. 
 Rich will the harvest be. 
 
 Sown in darkness, or sown in light, 
 Sown in weakness, or sown in might, 
 Sown in meekness, or sown in wrath. 
 In the broad world-field or the shadowy path. 
 Sure will the harvest be. 
 1850. 
 
The Simset. 47 
 
 THE SUNSET. 
 
 There was a golden bower, at set of sun, 
 
 Throned in the west ; 
 A bower which princes might liave gazed upon, 
 
 Craving its rest ; 
 A bower that by the beauty of fair wings 
 
 Seemed faintly stirred. 
 Fairer than fairest of earth's lovely things, 
 
 Blossom or bird, 
 Purpling the wondrous foliage with their glow ; 
 Dark hills and solemn woods lay veiled in trance 
 below. 
 
 Forth from its fount there rushed a broad bright flood, 
 
 Full in the light 
 Of countless forms that in their glory stood. 
 
 Dazzling the sight, 
 
48 At the Foot of Fartiassus. 
 
 Upon its banks, wood-crowned, and in the shiver 
 
 Of deathless leaves, 
 Waved their immortal wings above the river, 
 
 While yellow sheaves 
 Rose far beyond, in harvest beauty blest, 
 Yet wearing still the hush of an eternal rest. 
 
 Rich from the amber-rolling flood, upshone 
 
 A purple isle. 
 With living silver girt, like to a throne 
 
 In Night's calm smile 
 Embosomed in the holy moonlight; only, 
 
 Too dazzling, rolled 
 The " river of bliss," around that island lonely. 
 
 Its waves of gold ; 
 Calm as the summer dew, as if to steep 
 Its radiant, flowering groves in one perpetual sleep. 
 
 And now rose, faintly visible, a shore 
 Distant and dim. 
 
The Sunset. 49 
 
 Whereon those winged worshipers might pour 
 
 Their burning hymn ; 
 For on its midst, stood glowing with pure fire 
 
 An altar wide, 
 But a pale cloud obscured the sacred choir 
 
 That bowed beside : 
 O shore of all delights ! how swift away 
 Melted thy light, as dies a dream at break of day ! 
 
 But not until thy glorious hills, until 
 
 Thy gardens rare 
 Burst from their vapory zone, and soft, and still 
 
 Divinely fair. 
 With brighter than Hesperian beauty crowned. 
 
 Basked in the gleam 
 Of amaranthine blossoms showering rovmd 
 
 On bower and stream ; 
 Dream-like and silent, for no breeze was stirred. 
 Nor gush of warbling fount amid the stillness heard. 
 
 Yet the heart felt its music ; felt the leap 
 Of fountain's spray. 
 
5© At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 The quiver of the leaves, the joyous sweep 
 
 Of winds at play : — 
 But soon had left nor silver-girded isle, 
 
 Nor golden bower, 
 Nor wing that waved above the stream, erewhile. 
 
 One trace of power ; 
 The dark, interminable sea of Night 
 Rolled its stern flood between us and that land of 
 
 light. 
 
The Triumph of Spring. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING.* 
 
 Sing ye a song of triumph 
 
 For the advent of the Spring; 
 She hath quelled the mailed warriors 
 
 Of the haughty Northern king; 
 She hath burst his thousand strong-holds, 
 
 She hath set the captives free ; 
 And the shout of their rejoicing 
 
 Goeth up from land and sea. 
 How it shakes the hoary king in his retreating! 
 
 Sing a song, a song of triumph 
 
 For the advent of the Spring; 
 She hath called the hills from slumber 
 
 By the waving of her wing; 
 
 *First published in the Frecport (II].) Journal, 1853. Appeared, by 
 mistake, among the poems of my lamented friend, Mary Chase, published 
 after her death. 
 
52 At the Foot of Partiassus. 
 
 For the snow-wreaths of the valley 
 Rise the apple-blossoms white ; 
 
 Creeps the grass along the meadow, 
 Whence the frost hath taken flight, 
 And the forest's heart responsively is beating. 
 
 O the forest, the proud forest ! 
 
 How his mighty heart was shaken. 
 When he felt his stately branches 
 
 By the winter winds o'ertaken ; 
 How they moaned and tossed forever, 
 
 Like a troubled midnight sea ! 
 Sing a song, a song of triumph. 
 
 For the Spring hath set them free, 
 And the shrieking winds of winter cower before her. 
 
 O the leaves, the leaves of beauty! 
 
 They are starting from their night. 
 They are quickened into music. 
 
 They are bursting into light ; 
 Cold and dark as graves beneath them, 
 
The Triumph of Spring. 53 
 
 They were locked in shadows deep ; 
 Sing a song, a song of triumph, 
 
 For the Spring hath stirred their sleep, 
 And the wakened boughs are bending: to adore her. 
 
 Down the breezy wood-paths glisten 
 
 Thousand starry living things, 
 And the cloudless blue is shaded 
 
 With the rush of coming wings ; 
 For the birds have heard the summons. 
 
 Over land and over sea. 
 They have come to swell the triumph 
 
 With their songs of merry glee. 
 With their songs that leave no dark remembrance 
 after. 
 
 Down the hill-slope, through the meadow. 
 Through the woodland in their play. 
 
 Leap the bright unfettered waters 
 On their green and pleasant way ; 
 
54 -^^ the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Spring hath loosed them from their thralldom, 
 
 She hath broken every chain ; 
 And they look forth, in their freedom, 
 To the heavenly light again, 
 And the sunny greenwood ringeth with their laughter. 
 
 Ah, the dead ! We miss their voices 
 
 From the glad triumphal strain, 
 And we seek them in the sunlight, 
 
 But we find them not again : 
 Little heed they that the waters 
 
 Are awaking from their night ; 
 That the rich blue sky above us 
 
 Is so laughing in its light, 
 Or that Spring hath made the wildwood places glorious. 
 
 We are longing for their voices, 
 For their step among the flowers. 
 
 But they swell the song of triumph 
 In a fairer Spring than ours ; 
 
The TtHumph of Sprmg. 55 
 
 They are on the nightless meadows, 
 
 They are by the living springs ; 
 They are crowned with deathless beauty, 
 
 They are conquerors and kings ; 
 And they triumph, o'er the grave and death victorious. 
 
56 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 
 The household tree was tremulous with song, 
 
 A sudden minstrel had alighted there, 
 
 And first the warble was a plaintive prayer, 
 
 As of a spirit crushed and broken long ; 
 
 And then the utterance grew rapt and higher, 
 
 Rising and burning like a tongue of fire, 
 
 Till the full tide of praise was rich and strong. 
 
 But soon the song waxed mournfully intense ; 
 Complaining of the shadowy forest nest. 
 And stream, and meadow by the flowers caressed, 
 That these should bind with constant influence. 
 Beyond all power to weaken and to sever. 
 When the fair skies were calling upward ever. 
 And sunset's isles immortal bidding: hence. 
 
Aspiration. 57 
 
 The stream looked up, and shook its lilies white ; 
 "Why, hast thou wings, and can the earth detain?" 
 Swift dropped the sorrow from the heavenly strain, 
 Subdued, sweet murmurs filled the air like light. 
 A moment pausing, as in shamed surprise. 
 And the glad bird swept upward through the skies, 
 In their blue depths forever lost from sight. 
 
58 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 LUNA TACITA. 
 
 Silent Moon ! Silent Moon ! 
 
 The stars are hushed to sleep ; 
 Thou among them tenderly 
 
 Dost wake, and watch and weep ; 
 Thy robe sweeps o'er the grassy earth, 
 
 Thy foot is on the sea, 
 But never mortal heard thy step, 
 
 It falls so silently. 
 
 Silent Moon ! The stricken earth 
 
 Looks up to weep and pray; 
 On her hot brow tenderly 
 
 Thy soft hand thou dost lay ; 
 Thy heart, too, has been inly torn. 
 
 Sorrow has been with thee ; 
 But never mortal knew thy grief, 
 
 'T is borne so silently. 
 
Midnight on the Prairie. 59 
 
 MIDNIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 Boundlessness ! Boundlessness ! 
 
 A never-ending sea 
 Sweepeth on in fearful calm 
 
 Unto infinity ; 
 No tremulous billowy motion, 
 No sound of the storm-lashed ocean, 
 But a still expanse of darkening green, 
 With the myriad fire-flies' starry sheen. 
 
 There have been dews of morn, 
 
 The fresh wind's quickening breath, 
 Flowers in the sunlight born. 
 
 Quickly to fade in death; 
 There have been floating shadows 
 Flung from the upper meadows. 
 And the soft sweet eve, like the eve of yore, 
 In the wondrous garden seen no more. 
 
6o At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 There have been rich full gleams 
 
 Of beauty none can tell, 
 Purple and amber streams 
 
 From the realm where the blessed dwell ; 
 What poet sings of the splendor, 
 The glorious and the tender, 
 Of the sunsets far on the prairie sea. 
 As it stretcheth out like infinity ? 
 
 Now there is night, and dark, 
 
 Through which the stars look love ; 
 One slender silvery bark 
 
 Floats dreamily above ; 
 The fire-flies' luminous throbbings. 
 The wind with its far faint sobbings. 
 Are the only things of life and motion 
 On the broad still breast of this waveless ocean. 
 
 No voice of wave or wood 
 
 Breaks o'er it — let us hence ! 
 
Midnight on the Prairie. 6i 
 
 This perfect solitude 
 
 Grows painfully intense ; 
 
 Strange shapes of unrest are creeping 
 
 O'er night in her loveliness sleeping, 
 Now woe is me for my native river, 
 And the willowy branches that o'er it quiver ! 
 
 Speed for that far dim line 
 
 Between the earth and sky ; 
 Who knows what stars may shine, 
 
 What fields of beauty lie 
 Beyond this ocean of silence, 
 With its few and far grove-islands ? 
 Before us beckons a shadowy hand, — 
 Speed for the undiscovered land. 
 
 Or, perchance, for the steeps 
 Down to old ocean's floor ; 
 
 Fathoming the wild deeps 
 
 Which none e'er trode before ;- 
 
62 At the Foot of Parnassus . 
 
 Or, with a mad endeavor, 
 
 Faintly pursuing forever 
 That phantom curve which shall ne'er be gained. 
 As mortals follow the Unattained. 
 
 Peace ! The unrest is o'er. 
 
 The heavens are starry and sweet ; 
 O radiant golden floor, 
 
 Trodden by angel feet ! 
 Bend we in a worship lowly 
 Before the throne of the Holy; 
 For His voice is heard on the prairie-sea, 
 And He speaks of His own infinity. 
 
Lady May. 65 
 
 LADY MAY. 
 
 First came a passionate youth with footstep bold, 
 
 Winding among the hills his hunter's horn ; 
 True was his heart, the while his glance was cold ; 
 
 The tender flowers upon his bleak path born. 
 He crushed not on his wild impetuous way. 
 
 And then a fair child-maiden. Her path lay 
 Through budding bowers, and quiet grassy dell. 
 
 And by small graves, whereon her first tears 
 fell ;— 
 
 And then, came Lady May. 
 
 As one expectant of some dream divine, 
 
 Whereof the marvelous radiance doth at times 
 
 Clearly upon his doubtful path foreshine, 
 And from afar, the visionary chimes 
 
 Already break upon his listening sense, — 
 
64 -^i ths Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 So lingered I for her bright influence, 
 Dreaming of hopeful Spring and halcyon Summer, 
 By rock and stream awaiting that fair comer, 
 The gracious Lady May. 
 
 Sudden a deep and tremulous whisper ran 
 
 Like lightning, through the flushed and con- 
 scious leaves, 
 Fresh roundelays the enraptured birds began. 
 
 Sweeter than nightingales' on moonlight eves ; 
 The elms took up poetic parables ; 
 
 The river lightly tossed his silver bells ; 
 Awoke rich voices that had slumbered long, 
 
 And all the woodland throbbed and glowed with 
 song. 
 
 To welcome Lady May. 
 
 O Lady beautiful ! And reverently 
 
 I stood up in that consecrated place ; 
 
 Because a sense of exquisite harmony ' 
 
 Held me awhile bewildered, and the grace 
 
Lady May. 65 
 
 Of that meek Presence thrilled me like sweet sound ; 
 
 Unto the fair, calm forehead, blossom-crowned. 
 And the blue depths of those beseeching eyes, 
 
 I looked as on some dream of Paradise, 
 Not earthly Lady May, 
 
 A green and golden glory filled the glen, 
 
 A fountain trickled at the Lady's feet ; 
 Birds warbled lightly and grew dumb again ; 
 
 Then, on the silence, fell a sound most sweet 
 " Thou who in life dost dream of victory. 
 
 Of suffering unexpectant, follow me." 
 And I threw down the blossoms of the morn, 
 
 From dewy wood and sunny hill-side shorn. 
 And followed Lady May. 
 
 And upward with a still, deep aspiration, 
 I looked unto the high, heroic hills ; 
 
 Above the murmuring river's quick pulsation 
 
 Lifting their hush, that all its passion stills ; 
 
 The unsubdued, the conquering and the strong, 
 5 
 
66 - At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Like unattained heights of holy song ; 
 And quickened to pursue, I heard afar 
 
 The " Follow, follow ! " of that guiding star. 
 The true poetic May. 
 
 And, passionate, replied, " I follow thee, 
 
 While thy triumphant song the woodland thrills, 
 
 Unto repose succeeding victory. 
 
 Unto the calm, deep victory of the hills." 
 
 " Not unto loss ? " came back the questioning ; 
 
 The soft reproving that those words might bring,. 
 
 I heeded not, nor dreamed of loss more grave 
 
 Than spring flowers flung upon the river wave. 
 Still following Ladv May. 
 
 Nor could the way-side blooms our steps delay. 
 Nor birds above us, singing as in sleep ; 
 
 And straiter now, and shadier grew the way, 
 Adown a valley green and dim and deep. 
 
 Made slumberous by subdued and tender gleams, 
 And gentle flowings of perpetual streams. 
 
Lady May. • 67 
 
 Low tremulous winds, that scarce the blossoms stirred, 
 And dying footstep, far and faintly heard, 
 And prayers of Lady May, 
 
 O marvelous gloaming ! Through its purple deep 
 
 Floated intense, pathetic harmonies. 
 Whereat I fain would bow my head and weep ; 
 
 Then, after silence, followed tender sighs, 
 As of one pitying. With an icy shiver 
 
 I heard the rushing of an unknown river, 
 And rather felt than heard the ceaseless stir 
 
 Of breezy poplars, singing over her. 
 
 And knew that Lady May 
 
 Stood still within their shado\v, and a grave 
 
 Was at her feet, whereon she quickly showered 
 
 White violets, and tears. At last, I crave 
 
 No fairer resting place than this, embowered 
 
 In sweetness, and forevermore o'erblown 
 By fragrances and harmonies alone ; 
 
68 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 A hush of soft green darkness over all, 
 
 Through which the footsteps of the angels fall, 
 And murmurs of the May. 
 
 I knew not why I trembled as we passed 
 
 Within that valley in its lovely night ; 
 Impatient for the heavenly heights, that fast 
 
 Were fading, dream-like, from my eager sight. 
 Forward I rushed, presumptuously, to chide 
 
 The hidden purpose of my beauteous guide : 
 Why did she lead me in this path obscure ? 
 
 Why call me earthward from my victory sure ?- 
 This guileful Lady May. 
 
 She turned her face — and something sweet and strange, 
 Something I could not fathom, shone like light 
 
 Upon the calm, white forehead ; a swift change, 
 Like a new star uprisen on the night. 
 
 Had made her beauty seem a thing too high, 
 Too bright and heavenly, for my mortal eye ; 
 
Lady May. 69 
 
 Her eyes alone said, " Follow, follow me ! " 
 
 And thus again drawn onward, wond'ringly 
 I followed Lady May. 
 
 There stood I with uncertain shuddering; 
 
 Yet looking sunward, self-deceivingly, 
 I whispered lightly, "Wherefore hither bring. 
 
 A hill-bound traveller ? It is nought to me. 
 This is the resting place of one life-weary. 
 
 Whose home among the rocks was somewhat 
 dreary. 
 And here he sleepeth now in holy calm, 
 
 Amid the shadows and the violets' balm. 
 Wept only by sweet May." 
 
 But something in the eyes that on me shone. 
 
 Sad though immortal, drew me with quick power 
 
 Unto the grave beside her ; thereupon 
 
 My soul was 'ware of a new gift that hour. 
 
 And I looked down through sod and violet bloom, 
 And knew the secret of that lonely tomb, 
 
70 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And bouglit that wisdom with heart-agony. 
 
 O Love ! O Death ! Is this the face to see 
 Mourned over by the May ? 
 
 And on my knees I pleaded : " O sweet May ! 
 
 This dream, this phantom — bid it quickly go ; 
 I do beseech thee, take this grief away. 
 
 Which I must prove unreal. Sink not so 
 Thy name of sweetness with this deep despair. 
 
 For could I henceforth find thy presence fair ? 
 When the poetic winds, with balmy breath. 
 
 Sang all together, ' May ! ' 't would sound like 
 ' Death ! ' 
 
 O bid it pass away ! " 
 
 But as a star whose burning watch is done. 
 
 Withdraws at dawn its glory from our sight, 
 
 So those deep eyes whose gentleness had won 
 
 The pilgrim through strange pathways, with their 
 bright 
 
Lady , May. /i 
 
 Immortal beauty, grew far-off and dim ; 
 
 In the above I heard a dying hymn ; 
 And on the hill-tops saw the vanishings 
 
 Of starry robe, and soft and shadowy wings, 
 And tresses of the May. 
 
 Then downward in the darkness of that Vale, 
 
 Pressing a tearless face upon the flowers 
 Hearing in every breeze a hidden wail. 
 
 Slowly above me crept the dreary hours ; 
 That one grave filled the earth ; all gentle loves, 
 
 And all that e'er the heart to rapture moves. 
 Were swallowed up therein. — The sudden light 
 
 That from the Valley lifted up its night, 
 Was not the Lady May. 
 
 No more, my song, of sorrow or despair ; 
 
 No more, O Valley of the deathful shadow, 
 Shall I go down to greet thee unaware 
 
 And fearful, but as on some pleasant meadow, 
 
72 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Wherein there groweth many a blossom sweet ;- 
 
 Thus, if it be His will to lead my feet 
 To other losses ; — till, with guiding star, 
 
 I shall pass through thee to the land afar 
 Where smiles immortal May. 
 1854. 
 
A CHAPLET 
 
 OF 
 
 BIRTHDAY FLOWERS. 
 
Birthday Flowers. 75 
 
 BIRTPIDAY FLOWERS. 
 
 Beloved, if these flowers can speak, 
 I will not bid them any more 
 The strain thou knowest murmur o'er ; 
 
 In part, because all words are weak ; 
 
 In part, for that they would express 
 
 Has learned with seven years' growth, to shoot 
 
 In steadfast soil too deep a root. 
 And needs assurances the less. 
 
 And since my soul in silence sings 
 
 What thine, perhaps, in silence hears, 
 When Night has hung her golden spheres, 
 
 And in the freedom that she brings. 
 
76 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 The quicker sense of all divine, 
 With many a recognition sweet 
 In mystic interchange they meet, 
 
 What need of any outward sign ? 
 
 Rather shall these, the innocent 
 Unfailing tokens of that Love 
 All human measure far above, 
 
 Of that alone be eloquent. 
 
 Since never bud to bloom can burst. 
 
 Nor fields with springing grass be fair. 
 Unless His quickening touch be there. 
 
 How could we love, except He first 
 
 Had planted that celestial seed 
 
 That yields the sweetest flower below ? 
 
 Or how reach up to His, and know 
 That solace for our deepest need ? 
 
Birthday Fknvcrs. 77 
 
 His love is best, His love is best ; 
 And ours must comprehended be 
 As drops in that unbounded sea ; 
 
 His love is best, His love is best. 
 
 And though our mortal days flash by 
 
 Each with some treasure on its wings. 
 Some shadow in its vanishings. 
 
 His love lives on, and cannot die. 
 
 And whether days be dark or fair. 
 Whether we feel the blessed sun. 
 Or clouds o'erpass, and joy be done, 
 
 His love is round us everywhere. 
 
 Is, was, and shall be to the end ; 
 
 For having loved. He loveth still. 
 While suns decline, and years fulfill 
 
 Their round, — our everlasting Friend. 
 
78 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Thy everlasting . Friend ; the best, 
 
 Most tender, who shall make thee know 
 The streams that through His pastures flow, 
 
 And guide thee to His perfect rest. 
 
A Carol. 79 
 
 A CAROL. 
 
 Good morrow, love, good morrow ! 
 Thy matin song should borrow 
 
 A carol clear 
 From birds thou lovest best to hear, 
 To bid thee thy good morrow. 
 
 Good morrow, love, good morrow ! 
 The fairest flowers I 'd borrow 
 
 That ever grew 
 In forest dell or meadow dew. 
 To bid thee thy good morrow. 
 
 Far, far be fear and sorrow ; 
 
 Thou know'st Who holds thy morrow 
 
 And so for thee, 
 Where'er it lead, ' t will surely be 
 Good morrow, love, good morrow. 
 
8o At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 WHITE HYACINTH. 
 
 Before the robins could begin 
 
 Their answering calls from tree to tree, 
 White Hyacinth stole softly in 
 
 Where Pain and I kept company ; 
 And all my heart sprang up to meet 
 The gladness of that coming sweet. 
 
 White Hyacinth spoke silverly, 
 
 With murmur like a fairy bell ; 
 
 And tenderness and fragrancy 
 
 Updrawing from her crystal well, 
 
 "These be thy pillow," softly said, 
 
 And laid thereon my weary head. 
 
White Hyacinth. 
 
 I slept. And when I woke, the cool 
 
 Fair moonlight flowed and filled my room, 
 
 Wherein enshrined, my beautiful 
 
 White Hyacinth, a soul-like bloom, 
 
 Turned on me the peculiar grace 
 
 That plays round one beloved face. 
 
 " I know thee, loveliest ! " I said, 
 
 " Through all thy transmigrations sweet ; 
 My Rose, in clays evanished, 
 
 I called thee, name for thee most meet, 
 Who ever did all beauty draw 
 About thee, by a natural law." 
 
 White Hyacinth stood hushed and fair 
 Within the moonlight's sacred flood, 
 
 As one in still, ecstatic prayer. 
 
 O'er whom a dream of Heaven doth brood. 
 
 Who hears afar the solemn chant 
 
 Of angel voices jubilant. 
 
 6 
 
82 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Thou art a mortal flower no more, 
 No old delights can thee enthrall, 
 
 Thou who hast stood so near that shore. 
 Thou who hast heard the angels call. 
 
 What sweetness of inferior strain 
 
 Could bid thee back to earth again ? 
 
 White Hyacinth in moonlight's stream 
 
 Swayed softly, like a loving thought ; 
 
 A sudden rosy conscious gleam 
 
 Another transformation wrought. 
 
 And bathed her in a beauteous light 
 
 Irradiating all the night. 
 
 And straightway I was made aware 
 
 Her flower-harp trembled, answering 
 
 Some kindred music in the air, 
 
 A low-breathed call, such as the spring 
 
 Awakens in some green retreat 
 
 Where only tender murmurs meet. 
 
White Hyacinth. .83 
 
 I slept. And when I woke, the sun 
 
 Threw gold upon my chamber wall ; 
 The old fair marvel was begun ; 
 
 A robin lighted within call, 
 And could not choose but blithely sing, 
 And all the air was sweet with spring. 
 
84 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 MORNING SONG. 
 
 " Who, through the world's sad day of strife, 
 
 Still chants his morning song." — Keble. 
 
 March never comes but comes the thought to me 
 What comfort to my heart one March was born, 
 Although I knew it not ; nor winds his horn 
 Among the hills, but I look eagerly 
 To find what winter-hidden blooms may be, 
 And list within my soul for songs unborn. 
 
 For there is something in the keen, clear air, 
 And something in the sunshine, that doth bring 
 The old days back, the very soul of Spring. 
 I think how on thy cheek the rose was fair. 
 How twined the blossoms in thy dear, dark hair, 
 So glad was I, I could not choose but sing. 
 
Morning Song. 85 
 
 And now, though rude the season, though delays 
 Reluctant Spring to keep her ancient tr)'st. 
 The willows cannot hide their tender mist 
 Of golden-green, on bright, fore-running days, — 
 Sweet signs that soon shall hide in grassy ways 
 Her early blooms of pearl and amethyst. 
 
 I will not wait till she the world awake, 
 And all her singing birds imparadise 
 In airy bowers of bliss ; I will arise 
 And find some vernal secret for thy sake, 
 Some hidden leafiness that thou wilt take, 
 Some flower that may be lovely in thine eyes. 
 
 Though o'er the woodland's promise lies the snow, 
 And Time some silver to our locks may bring. 
 Let us not cease our morning song to sing : 
 Immortal roots the wintriness below 
 Keep sweet their life ; and so shall bud and grow 
 The blossoms of imperishable Spring, 
 
86 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE DOORS. 
 
 While you read and almost while I write, 
 Friend, my soul's eyes see so clear, 
 
 We are entering, softly as the light, 
 
 Through the gateway of the Earth's new year. 
 
 All behind us lie bare meadow lands, 
 Snow-flecked valleys overspread, 
 
 AH before us Spring's green realm expands, 
 And the Earth awaking from the dead. 
 
 While I twine about this festal arch 
 Simple blooms you know full well, 
 
 While the wind and rain of stormy March 
 Softly hint the coming miracle, — 
 
The Opening of the Doors. 87 
 
 Waits a host at multitudinous doors, 
 
 Longing for their Hberty, 
 Some to thrill with life the pallid shores, 
 
 Some to clap their hands in forest glee ; 
 
 Pilgrim grass, to stray the whole world through, 
 Leaves, to kiss the lonely bough ; 
 
 Violets, athirst for sun and dew. 
 
 Roots of roses are expectant now. 
 
 Rivers, tapping at their icy gate. 
 Brooks, impatient to be free ; 
 
 All the winter-housed small creatures wait 
 For the turning of the golden key. 
 
 Lo ! It turns ; and what a flood of light 
 Through the widening gateway pours ! 
 
 Gone is winter, vanquished storm and night, 
 All the world is rushinjr out of doors. 
 
88 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And around us, wheresoe'er we turn, 
 Were our vision not so dull, 
 
 Other entrances we should discern 
 Opening in this Palace Beautiful. 
 
 Though the halls we tread be dim to sight, 
 Wait before us blessings new ; 
 
 Though unseen their flitting garments' light, 
 Every doorway lets an angel through. 
 
My Frie7id and I. 89 
 
 MY FRIEND AND I. 
 
 " Our friends are those who help us climb," 
 
 In gray or golden weather ; 
 Do you remember, friend of mine. 
 
 The hills we climbed together ? 
 The work we shared, the burdens bore. 
 
 If I recall them rightly. 
 You shouldered yours, and half of mine, 
 
 I went as Hermes, lightly. 
 
 And, sometimes, in a pastoral mood. 
 
 We sought the wood's recesses, 
 When leaves were falling tenderly 
 
 And softly as caresses ; 
 We had some leisure then. But now 
 
 Life turns so fast its pages. 
 We 've left Arcadia's blithesome youth, 
 
 And thread the Middle Ages. 
 
9© At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 My other self of other cla}'s, 
 
 You filled my heart's horizon, 
 Before your being's truer mate 
 
 You ever set your eyes on ; 
 Before your fate knocked at your door 
 
 In such presentment real, 
 There was no longer room to doubt 
 
 The shape of your ideal. 
 
 The veritable voice can ne'er 
 
 Be long resisted, can it ? 
 You found your mate — but mine, I trow. 
 
 Is in another planet ; 
 Has just your hair, your eyes, your soul, 
 
 With manly ways about him, — 
 But, somehow, I can jog along 
 
 Quite pleasantly without him. 
 
 " Small cheer the Middle Ages brought," 
 I wrote once, in my folly ; 
 
 Now we are in them, they are half 
 Disarmed of melancholy ; 
 
My Friend and I. 91 
 
 We lack not medieval mirth, 
 
 Some daily music-bringer ; 
 What matter cares, when you can boast 
 
 Your bright young " Minnesinger " ? 
 
 I, too, have children ; and they tax 
 
 My wits, sometimes, to guide them ; 
 They keep the youth within me, still, 
 
 The while I sit beside them ; 
 They talk of tropes and arguments, 
 
 They praise the heaven^ starry, 
 They read how Caesar whipped the Gauls, 
 
 And conjugate '•^ amarey 
 
 Each hour hath some engrossing care ; 
 
 I am a-weary when 't is 
 Correcting " compos " till I grow 
 
 Almost non amipos mentis; 
 Reflections, wise and otherwise, 
 
 Some gleams from Fancy's tapers ; 
 Light reading this — but so is yours, 
 
 Who con the daily papers. 
 
92 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 I fancy you, your curtain drawn, 
 
 No sharp-voiced wind to chide you, 
 With papers and with books outspread, 
 
 Your other half beside you ; 
 His ample brow, eyes grave but sweet, 
 
 Alit with thought, debating 
 On science, art, or whatsoe'er 
 
 " His folks " are cogitating. 
 
 For me, your sparrow of the roof, 
 
 I sit more solitary ; 
 And, yet, in truth, I sometimes find 
 
 A season to be merry ; 
 The poets pour for me their wine, 
 
 The Saxon or the Roman, 
 Or else I j^eck my native grapes. 
 
 Nor envy man nor woman. 
 
 My comrade, this pathetic maid. 
 
 Whose head but slightly hatted, 
 
 Upholds the light whereby I write, 
 Poor patient Caryatid, 
 
Afy Friend and I. 93 
 
 Who wears, with look so resolute, 
 
 The weight of all her honor. 
 And bears the globe upon her head ; 
 
 Mine aches to look upon her. 
 
 The burden of our lives we too 
 
 Must carry, valiant-hearted ; 
 So ends my rhyme. My friend and I 
 
 Are never quite disparted ; 
 So days go on until that day 
 
 Shall dawn in beauty o'er us, 
 Eternal sunshine in our souls, 
 
 Eternal youth before us. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
In the Heat. 97 
 
 IN THE HEAT. 
 
 There is no stir in all the atmosphere ; 
 
 This elm tree will not toss the verdurous spray 
 That dashed its dews so freely, far and near, 
 
 Above us, yesterday. 
 
 I know a place of all sweet coolnesses ; 
 
 A little island, like an emerald, set 
 In the clear argent of a river, that is 
 
 Itself a shining net 
 
 Inimitably curved and interwound 
 
 Amid a small, dark wood, with clasp like fate 
 And when with low, perplexed, plaining sound 
 
 It would expostulate. 
 
98 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 The little wood replies with laughter still ; 
 
 And more and more the river hurries on ; 
 Till, 'scaped from that green ambush, at its will 
 
 It seaward wanders down ; 
 
 Yet lingers, even in victory, to fling 
 
 White, clasping arms around the little isle. 
 
 Whereon cool willows, greenly shadowing. 
 Sway softly all the while. 
 
 And every river-breeze that overblows 
 
 Wafts odorous gifts from woods it wandered through, 
 And every moss-cup on the banks that grows, 
 
 Inspheres the river-dew. 
 
 Still through the noon-tide, breathless, fierce and bright, 
 O'er the Sahara of the burning street, 
 
 Floats ever out, in momentary light. 
 That island-picture sweet. 
 
In the Heat. 99 
 
 Nor only this, but countless images 
 
 As fresh, as fair, and wholly as foregone, 
 
 Fill with soft gleam noon's torrid vacancies. 
 And die, as dreams at dawn. 
 
 White roses, dewed with morn, still summer showers, 
 
 The mystic splendors of auroral skies, 
 Green, breeze-swept valleys, where from Alpine towers 
 
 Or hoary Andes rise. 
 
 Here flashes forth a living pastoral ; 
 
 The hurrying waters overleap the rocks. 
 And shepherds blest, beside their curved fall, 
 
 Watch visionarv flocks. 
 
 Or slowly, stateliest wonder of the seas. 
 Beautiful Venice rises, queenly bright, 
 
 The sunset on her marble palaces, 
 A glory infinite. 
 
loo At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 A beauteous throng, their brows impearled with foam, 
 With dehcate wreathed shell the Nereids wake 
 
 The hidden echoes of their ocean home ; 
 Or else, from reedy lake. 
 
 Sabrina, purest nymph that parts the wave, 
 With lilies twisted in her hair's loose gold, 
 
 Comes, with moist touch to disenthrall and save 
 The lady tranced and cold. 
 
 Or to the cool, cool brook, from ruthless hands, 
 Through Ardennes' greenwood flies the hunted deer; 
 
 Or Ariel sings upon the yellow sands 
 To ship-wrecked mariner 
 
 The secrets of the melancholy sea. 
 
 Whose solemn, heaving waves forevermore 
 
 Keep time with that aerial minstrelsy 
 Upon the island shore. 
 
/// the Heat. loi 
 
 Or, o'er the lake, twice sword-cleft, in some glen 
 Adusk in shadow of his mountain-throne. 
 
 Floats that dim barge which bore the flower of men, 
 Wounded, to Avalon. 
 
 Continuous murmur of sweet fountain-falls. 
 Made audible through poets' silver rhymes, 
 
 Thrills ever the dumb, listening air, with calls 
 From charmed lands and times : 
 
 Of that wild Fount of Laughter, babbling on 
 I' the island-garden where Armida wove 
 
 Her flowery chains around the knight undone 
 And dead to all but love. 
 
 Of deathless Avon, or historic Rhine, 
 Or whatsoever rills on pleasant meads 
 
 Do make perennial greenness, where entwine 
 Fair growths from heavenly seeds. 
 
I02 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Here Tiber's lily,* safe from armed foes, 
 
 Down the dark tide floats heavenward, and therefrom 
 
 A more than moonlight radiance round her flows, 
 The crown of martyrdom. 
 
 And since that crown is in His right hand still. 
 And waits the winning, wherefore shrink to meet 
 
 The noontide toiling up the difficult hill. 
 Or the red battle's heat ? 
 
 God's river dews shall one day cool this fever ; 
 
 His tenderest touch of healing shall be laid 
 On throbbing brows and hearts athirst, forever 
 
 Of angers unafraid. 
 
 Earth's fiercest ardors, tempered and attuned 
 To kingly service, compensation sweet 
 
 Of heavenly balm for every mortal wound, — 
 There shall be no more heat. 
 
 *Delaroche's Christian Martyrs. 
 
In the Frost. 103 
 
 IN THE FROST. 
 
 The cold skies overarch a marble world ; 
 
 Mailed forest and the fixed flood, 
 And white, dumb wastes, instead of fields dew-pearled, 
 
 And May's sweet maidenhood. 
 
 The summer's gold and green have vanished 
 
 As utterly as any dream 
 That ever through the ivory gate hath shed 
 
 Its transitory gleam. 
 
 And winter softens autumn's burnished floors 
 With azure and with silver white. 
 
 Whereon sometimes the affluent sun outpours 
 His unendured light. 
 
I04 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And strikes, o'er many a glittering frozen field 
 
 Where life in folded marvel lies, 
 Such lustre brave as from some hero's shield 
 
 Of buried centuries. 
 
 Wild wandering streams are fringed, but not with ferns, 
 
 And all the fairy waterfalls 
 That bubbled music from their crystal urns, 
 
 And knew no intervals 
 
 Of silence in the long fair summer day. 
 Or in the starred dusk of night. 
 
 Now stand as still as any marble spray 
 In caves beneath the light. 
 
 Ah, would that o'er this wilderness of snow 
 Might wave some swift transforming wand. 
 
 And frost and pallor melt and flame and flow 
 Into a summer land. 
 
In the Frost. 105 
 
 Is it some dream of Faery ? What sweet glamour 
 
 Enthralls the senses at the word ? 
 For underneath the snow a silvery clamor 
 
 Of elfin bells is heard, 
 
 And, creeping from their white investiture 
 The rounded knolls laugh out in green, 
 
 And 'twixt the dark pine-shadows, fewer and fewer 
 Above the wild ravine 
 
 Gleam the pale flecks of snow, so fast they flit 
 From the young violets quickening there ; 
 
 On budding thorn a robin just alit 
 Makes vibrant all the air 
 
 With his renewed song ; anemones 
 
 And sweetest mayflowers, and all grasses 
 
 Of delicatest growth, nod to the breeze 
 That murmurously passes. 
 
io6 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And the white swans once more drift silently 
 
 Around their tiny tufted isle, 
 In the lake's mirror other swans they see 
 
 Float in the clouds the while. 
 
 And all bright, beautiful existences 
 
 The sun's warm kisses ever drew 
 From the dark earth ; that ever skimmed the seas, 
 
 Or circled in the blue ; 
 
 All loveliest lights that evanescent, crept 
 O'er wave or sky ; pale glimmerings ; 
 
 Twin-clouds that, dazzling, to the zenith swept 
 Like some grand angel's wings, 
 
 One azure noon of summer ; or the bow 
 That dipt down through a golden mist 
 
 After the storm, when heaven was all aglow 
 With rose and amethyst ; — 
 
Ill the Frost. 107 
 
 Cry with an audible whisper, "We are here, 
 
 Forever here ; we cannot die, 
 Though forms die ; Beauty hath a birthright clear 
 
 Of immortality." 
 
 And when the day is done, and darkness floods 
 The earth with dreams, midsummer's moon 
 
 Crests royally the old enchanted woods, 
 Where sometimes in the noon 
 
 Of night the fair}'-folk their fantasy 
 
 In many a wildering maze repeat, 
 Like that which drew beneath the greenwood tree 
 
 Sweet Shakespeare's errant feet. 
 
 Or verdurous valleys, with wild music fed 
 
 From songful reeds Arcadian, 
 Or tenderer nightingales, and foot-printed 
 
 By Faunus or by Pan ; 
 
io8 At the Foot of Parnassus . 
 
 And fair Sicilian meadows, slumbrous sweet 
 
 With hyacinth and asphodel, 
 Stretch out in lovely distances, and meet 
 
 The gradual mountain swell. 
 
 Or palms arise, and catch the orient day. 
 And wave o'er earlier fountain springs, 
 
 Where hoary Nilus winds his antique way 
 Among his buried kincjs. 
 
 Nor only Egypt's dim magnificence. 
 Her rock-hewn temples and her tombs. 
 
 The eternal pyramids, nor the intense 
 Of pathless desert glooms 
 
 Are here, but marvellous glimpses manifold 
 
 Of the whole torrid continent. 
 Of rivers trickling over sands of gold, 
 
 With lotos-shadows blent 
 
/// the Frost. 109 
 
 Above their drowsy calm ; of far-off slopes 
 
 Where the mimosa grows, where run 
 Ostrich and zebra, and young antelopes 
 
 Are browsins: in the sun. 
 
 Where flowers like gems, where birds like winged flowers 
 
 Irradiate all the emerald night 
 Of the luxuriant leafage, and soft showers 
 
 Of blossoms fall like light. 
 
 And more, of Afric's possible to-be. 
 When the slow recompensing years 
 
 Shall ripen into perfectness, and see 
 Her throned among her peers. 
 
 When the cold chains of Custom's cruel frost, 
 And of oppression's mailed might. 
 
 Shall melt and quail and be forever lost 
 In Love's great warmth and light. 
 
no At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Dawn, blessed Spring! No golden transiency 
 Of light no sooner won than lost, 
 
 But wreathed with blooms of immortality. 
 The Victor of the Frost. 
 
Against Sadness. 
 
 AGAINST SADNESS. 
 
 Thou, thou who hast the gift of life to-day, 
 
 Thy Father's gift, to make thee free and glad, 
 The green earth round about thee, in array 
 
 Meet for her King to look upon, and say 
 As in the old time, " It is very good ; " 
 
 Thou over whom doth brood 
 The blue serene by day, the starry firmament 
 By niglit, — Why should thy soul be sad ? 
 Thou, unto whom is lent 
 A wondrous world for thy sojourning tent. 
 Before thou goest to thine inheritance, 
 Thy Father's blest abode, 
 Why shouldst thou, grieving, veil thy countenance 
 Upon the homeward road ? 
 
 If it be thine own grief that bows thee down. 
 Thou hast been glad before, and thou shalt see. 
 
112 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Ere long, how this same sorrow proves a crown 
 
 To make thee glad hereafter; if it be 
 The anguish of another that doth move thee, 
 
 The heavy burden upon hearts that love thee, 
 Still plant sweet germs of hope, 
 
 Which shall arise, and fill the valley's slope 
 With dews of fragrance ; or if thy dear land, 
 
 That hath laid down her blithesomeness of youth. 
 Called for the sake of truth 
 And right to bide the fires of sacrifice. 
 
 Leave thee no rest, no slumber to thine eyes. 
 Hold fast to God's right hand. 
 
 Come, tell us, angels, — ye who stand with calm. 
 
 Far-looking eyes, upon the heavenly height. 
 And where we see the grief, discern the balm 
 
 We cannot see, — how well through infinite 
 Dark deeps. He guides His world; how surely move, 
 
 Unweariedly, His kingly steps sublime. 
 In an eternal time 
 With the pulsations of His heart of love. 
 
 Come, Hope and Faith, that evermore behold 
 
Against Sadness. 113 
 
 Another sunrise than the first, whose gold 
 
 Broke over Eden ; when imbued 
 With love that fails not, the dear brotherhood 
 Of man shall see immortal day begun. 
 Sorrow and sighing done. 
 Come, heavenly Joy, our souls were formed for thee ; 
 
 Drive whelming sadness far ; 
 Through life, through death, through immortality 
 Be our unsetting star. 
 
114 -^^ ihe Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 GOD'S SILENCE. 
 
 Ere ever the earth was, or angels heard 
 
 The spheres revolve in new-born harmony, 
 
 No "seraph utterance, nor interchange 
 
 Of human speech, nor the Creator's word 
 
 Broke the dread quiet of eternity ; 
 
 And there were none to think that silence strange. 
 
 But after that first luminous word, that cleft 
 The primal darkness with a sword of day. 
 And since the morning stars sang symphonies 
 Whereof sweet echoes linger, nor bereft 
 Is earth of heavenly sounds about he? way, — 
 How strange God's everlasting silence is ! 
 
God's Silence. 115 
 
 We hear the surging of the maddened sea, 
 
 The overfloodings of abhorred wrong ; 
 
 Our best beloved their best blood have poured 
 
 For the attainment of far victory ; 
 
 And when with burdened heart we cry, " How long ? " 
 
 The heavens are dumb ; He answers not a word ! 
 
 If still His skies do keep their strange grand calm,. 
 If He, the Just and True, can thus endure 
 The treason on His footstool, waiting on 
 Till His hour strike, this silence is a psalm 
 Most dear to listening souls, and proveth sure 
 The fixedness of His eternal throne. 
 
 Therefore, when wild confusions o'er us sweep, 
 When the world seems to wander like a blind 
 Forgotten thing, and Evil waxeth strong. 
 Let us sit down by that unfathomed deep. 
 The patience of our God, and we shall find 
 His silence sweeter than all human song. 
 
ii6 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 PALMER'S MARBLES. 
 
 I stood at sunset where pale marble shapes 
 Thronged round me, in a silence emulous 
 Of death. No shadow of a sigh escapes 
 
 From those half-moving lips, no murmurous 
 Divinest breath of song, nor resonant roll 
 
 Of echoes from the country- of their birth, 
 The region not of earth, 
 Calm heights and solemn deeps of a creative soul 
 
 But no death-silence this. O regnant brows, 
 
 Bright with the seal of immortality. 
 Whereon the tremble of green laurel boughs 
 
 Should ever fall ; O wondrous harmony 
 More full than speech, how in the balm 
 
 Your presence hath, the soul doth mount and siiig 
 As in the air of Spring ! 
 All earthly cares absorbed in your marmoreal calm. 
 
Fahjters Marbles. 117 
 
 For wreathed Spring herself is lingering near, 
 
 Radiant, to fling upon the waiting air 
 Her odorous gifts ; and bright Aurora, here 
 
 Among her light rose-clouds, with breeze-blown hair, 
 Bears through the blue her winged aspiration ; 
 From grassy nest no upward-floating lark 
 Ere cleft the dawn as she the dark, 
 Nor ever breathed his song such heavenly exultation. 
 
 And for the day's keen ardors, Hesper brings 
 
 Serenest consolation ; softly lies 
 Eve's shadow on the downward drooping wings. 
 
 And round the brow, and on dim slumbrous eyes ; 
 How sinks the wearied soul in blissful deeps 
 
 Of tender dreams, that seem to flood the air 
 And all things unaware. 
 In such a silver calm the orient Fairy sleeps. 
 
 No bird from lone-left woodland nest may flit 
 Unheeded by ; no sorrow maketh moan, 
 
ii8 At the Foot of Fanmssus. 
 
 No innocent joy on childish brows alit, 
 
 But thou canst give it utterance ; thy stone 
 Lifts up its voice against despotic wrong 
 
 In solemn protestation ; nor the less 
 
 Breathes forth the tenderness 
 Of an immortal hope in one adoring song. 
 
 Peace ! this august, deep silence, this white hush 
 
 Of glorious Form, best fills the soul's profound ; 
 Who asks that any roseate bloom should flush 
 
 The passionless cheek, or sweetest warbled sound 
 Should stir the charmed air, or pen indite 
 
 Weak words of praise ? The longing soul must 
 
 reach 
 Beyond the shores of speech, 
 When she would spread her wings, and touch God's 
 infinite. 
 
The First Blue- Bird. 119 
 
 THE FIRST BLUE-BIRD. 
 
 Whatever weight the hours have borne 
 Along the path of frost and snow, 
 
 The world is never too forlorn 
 
 For birds to come again ; we know 
 
 That earliest buds will soon expand, 
 
 That Spring is somewhere in the land, 
 
 For hark ! the blue-bird sings. 
 
 Somewhere the grass is green again. 
 
 The meadow mild with shower and sun ; 
 
 Out-bud the trees, up starts the grain. 
 
 Through balmy woods the brook doth run ; 
 
 If anywhere such things may be. 
 
 Then why not soon for thee and me ? 
 
 For hark ! the blue-bird sings. 
 
At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 The world is old, the world is old, 
 But Spring is ever fresh and new ; 
 
 No dream so fair, no hope so bold, 
 But some sweet day may find it true ; 
 
 Who knows how soon that morn may rise 
 
 And fill us with a glad surprise ? 
 
 For hark ! the blue-bird sings. 
 
Rob Ms Return. 
 
 ROBIN'S RETURN. 
 
 There's not a green leaf yet 
 Wherewith a breeze could play; 
 
 The bare brown earth is wet 
 With the rain of yesterday ; 
 
 But out on the apple-bough 
 
 A sound more sweet than rain ; 
 
 Hark to the overflow ! 
 
 Robin 's come again. 
 
 Snow on the mountain-side, 
 
 Never a leaf on tree ; 
 Never a spray to hide 
 
 A nook where a nest may be ; 
 Only a hint, 't is true, 
 
 That hope is not in vain, 
 A sky more soft and blue, — 
 
 Robin 's come again. 
 
122 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 O Robin, he can sing 
 
 Where not a flower can thrive ; 
 
 Musician of the Spring, 
 The blithest thing alive ; 
 
 The March winds softlier blow 
 Over the dreary plain, 
 
 A summer day or so, — 
 
 Robin 's come asfain. 
 
 The while he carolleth, 
 
 Our hearts are lighter grown ; 
 
 We almost feel the breath 
 Of violets new blown ; 
 
 He sings the song we knew, 
 The earliest, gladdest strain ; 
 
 O old friends are the true ! 
 
 Robin 's come ag^ain. 
 
Spi-iiig's Fifstlings. 123 
 
 SPRING'S FIRSTLINGS. 
 
 Here at last ! 
 Never blue-bird sang in vain ; 
 Snows are surely overpast, 
 Children of the sun and rain 
 Flock in many a verdurous hollow 
 Where the north wind cannot follow. 
 Now I know 'tis Spring, for see ! 
 Here her azure firstlings be ; 
 
 Here at last ! 
 
 Sweet they grew ; 
 Fed with April's fragrant dew ; 
 Earliest Spring that ever shone 
 The ungrieved earth upOn, 
 Tenderest skies, from which they seem 
 Soft dissevered, in a dream. 
 Knew them as we know them still ; 
 On the sunny, sloping hill 
 
 Sweet they grew. 
 
124 Ai. the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 \ 
 
 BLUE VIOLETS. 
 
 My heart was glad to-day, 
 
 And sang a secret strain, 
 For hearts leap up, as well they may. 
 
 When violets come again, 
 Sweet violets. 
 
 These flowers we know, they move us so, 
 
 Almost to weep we 're fain ; 
 Who heard us say, that fairest day 
 
 Last spring, " They 're come again, 
 Sweet violets " "i 
 
 Ah, sweet ! ah, sad ! they make us glad 
 With something like to pain ; 
 
Blue Violets. 125 
 
 (One knows) — but we — where shall we be 
 When violets come again, 
 Sweet violets ? 
 
 We shall be, as we are, 
 
 (Still breathes the secret strain), 
 Within our Father's loving care 
 
 When violets come again, 
 Sweet violets. 
 
126 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF MORNING. 
 
 Hail the morning ! Cold and clear, 
 
 Crowned and saintly, as she stands 
 On the heights to Heaven so near, 
 
 Lifting up her holy hands ; 
 And the Dark, receding ever, 
 
 O'er the hills is past and gone 
 To thy shores, forgotten river. 
 
 Gloomy Acheron ! 
 
 O what prophecies await 
 The unfolding of her lips ! 
 
 While she comes in royal state, 
 Bursting from the night's eclipse ; 
 
The Triumph of Morning. 127 
 
 Let us, reverent, pause and hearken, 
 
 Ere we grow too cold to hear, 
 Ere the ancient shadow darken, 
 
 And the Nig:ht be near. 
 
 Pale, exultant, after woe 
 
 Stands she crowned silverly; 
 And the moaning voice doth grow 
 
 To a song of victory ; 
 Hark ! from height to height it fiieth ; 
 
 All her foes are quelled and slain ; 
 On the glad earth Darkness dieth, 
 
 Morning comes to reign. 
 
 1857. 
 
128 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 THE GOLDEN THREAD. 
 
 One thing I know : Love hath no end. 
 
 What endeth is not love. 
 
 And yet, my faith to prove, 
 What have I of my only friend? 
 
 Not the step, to make my heart 
 Beat more quickly ; no apart 
 Sharing of sweet confidences ; 
 Nor the gracious influences 
 Of her presence, day by day, 
 In the old familiar way; 
 Not the voice, whose lightest tone 
 Thrilled me like no other one 
 
The Golden Thread. 
 
 With "good morrow" or "good night;" 
 Not the brown eyes' tender light ; 
 Not the smile, that always shed 
 Sunshine when the sky was dull. 
 Of the old time beautiful 
 Nothing but a golden thread. 
 
 Yet, though slight, and small, and fine, 
 
 All along its secret line 
 
 Flashes many a mystic sign, 
 
 Tokens from her heart to mine ; 
 
 Whereof mortal speech not half 
 
 Could the meaning fitly tell. 
 
 Spiritual telegraph. 
 
 Alphabet invisible. 
 
 Though nor step nor touch be here. 
 
 Murmured speech nor presence dear, 
 
 (Whoso hath them, softly fall 
 
 All their blessings on his head !) 
 
 Sometimes I think I have them all. 
 
 Only in my golden thread. 
 
 Often, as I silent lie. 
 
 129 
 
130 At the Foot of Pai'uassus. 
 
 Holding talk with memon', 
 
 Oh ! it flashes through the dark, 
 
 Beautiful electric spark, 
 
 Message felt, discerned, unheard. 
 
 And our souls kiss at the word. 
 
 Or, if she be unaware. 
 
 Then vmto myself I say 
 
 Gently, " I will bide my day." 
 
 Threads of joy, or threads of care, 
 
 Threads of love, or pleasure ga}'. 
 
 Golden, silver, rose or gray. 
 
 Threads of pain, or threads of thought, 
 
 Many are they, all inwrought 
 
 In our being. Day by day 
 
 The fateful weaving goeth on. 
 
 But this thread, this little one, 
 
 Lieth softly in her hand, 
 
 Softly in her clasped hand ; 
 
 She will not break, nor let it fall ; 
 
 And when the busy hours are fled. 
 
 When the twilight softens all, 
 
 Of a sudden, I shall mark 
 
 Wistful, in the gathering dark. 
 
 The glistening: of the o:olden thread. 
 
The Golden Thread. 131 
 
 What a small, frail thing to keep, 
 
 To hold, awaking or asleep, 
 
 In sunny or in stormy weather, — 
 
 Although it binds two souls together. 
 
 When along the beaten way 
 
 Well-known faces cannot stay ; 
 
 When the thronging multitude 
 
 That shall do us ill or good, 
 
 Crowd each other at the door. 
 
 And, God willeth, of our store 
 
 We give to each with right good will ; 
 
 When the circle widens still ; 
 
 When the nearest is the strongest, 
 
 When the shadow is the longest^ 
 
 What if one, upgathering all 
 
 The many links, should but let fall, — 
 
 Nor dream that anything is fled, — 
 
 Only a little golden thread ? 
 
 Do we hold it ? Nay, not so : 
 
 Best things have not root so low, 
 
 I will keep my simple faith, 
 
 Love loves on. The One who saith 
 
 That He loveth to the end, 
 
 The absolute, unchanging Friend, 
 
132 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Holds it softly in His hand, 
 In His strong and tender hand. 
 When He comes to claim His own, 
 When He gathereth all in one, 
 When life's troublous dream is sped, 
 When we meet in love's bright land, 
 Maybe we shall understand 
 The meaning of the golden thread. 
 
The Hi7it of the Crocus. 133 
 
 THE HINT OF THE CROCUS. 
 
 " An ante-natal dream." 
 
 — Shelley. 
 
 "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?' I cried, 
 
 'A hidden hope,' the voice replied." 
 
 — Tennyson. 
 
 First of the flower-folk, tell 
 
 Thine early parable, 
 
 Thou gentle hardihood, 
 
 That mak'st thy passage good 
 
 With tiny emerald spear, 
 
 Where bolder ones might fear, 
 
 And wearest, of the snows 
 
 And transient royalties 
 
 Of dawn-empurpled skies, 
 
 Thy tabernacle ; now 
 
 What is 't more fair than thou ? 
 
134 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Thereafter, Violets, 
 
 Which April ne'er forgets, 
 
 Shy-souled Anemones, 
 
 And all their blue-eyed kin 
 
 Cradled beneath the trees. 
 
 Where sunbeams, out and in 
 
 Hovering, their watch do keep, 
 
 And kiss their smiling sleep 
 
 As angels do those other ; 
 
 And that small angel-brother 
 
 Innocence, unafraid 
 
 Though tender ; and, in shade, 
 
 Soft tiny ferns, uncurled 
 
 To see the wondrous world ; 
 
 Spring Beauties, newly given ; 
 
 May-flowers, just dropped from Heaven,- 
 
 Rock softly, winds of heaven 
 
 The while, — in musing fit, 
 
 Shall softly whisper it. 
 
 In their infantile way. 
 
 What in their dream is meant. 
 
 More sweet, more innocent, 
 
 More tender, soulful, gay. 
 
 More beautiful than they. 
 
The Hint of the Crocus. 135 
 
 Then summer Lilies, white 
 
 As souls new-born, with light, 
 
 Aerial instrument, 
 
 Shall breathe the tale unheard 
 
 Except by ears attent 
 
 To catch a heavenly word. 
 
 O Roses, rocked asleep 
 
 In your own murmuring. 
 
 Your songful dream is deep ; 
 
 What is it you softly sing ? 
 
 Children of fire and dew. 
 
 What is it that you know 
 
 More beautiful than you ? 
 
 " A hidden hope." And so 
 
 The sweet voice singeth on, 
 
 And God the hope shall bless 
 
 To gracious perfectness. 
 
 When hint and symbol both are done. 
 
136 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 CAROL AND BLYTHE. 
 
 There was a Summer once, that seems as far 
 
 In all its rosy light, 
 As if this daisy should become a star 
 
 In the sky's infinite : 
 I seem to see in yonder field of grain 
 
 The mower's curved scythe. 
 And in the hazel copse sit warblers twain, 
 And pour their music in a silver rain, 
 
 Sweet Carol and sweet Blythe. 
 
 They sang the sun, they sang the crystal air, 
 
 They sang the meadow-dew ; 
 They sang green freshness o'er them everj'where. 
 
 With flecks of heavenly blue ; 
 
Carol and Blythe. 137 
 
 With many a wisely whispered interkide 
 
 They leaned on bough so lithe, 
 " O Blythe," said Carol, " berries grow in wood." 
 " O Carol, carol, sweetness understood," 
 
 Merrily answered Blythe. 
 
 They sought the brook, they sought the thickets green, 
 
 In many a secret dell 
 They knew what nectar and ambrosia mean. 
 
 Better than fables tell ; 
 With murmur low as when in clustering bowers 
 
 The west wind softly sigh'th, 
 '■'■ O Blythe," said Carol, " runs the brook through 
 
 flowers," 
 *' O Carol, carol, all the world is ours," 
 
 Answering, said sweet Blythe. 
 
 They sang of love, with change of tender vows. 
 
 Of joy, and faith so true ; 
 They sang of endless life on greenwood boughs, 
 
 Of skies forever blue ; 
 
138 At the Foot of Paniassus. 
 
 They companied with bees in purple thyme 
 
 Whose sweetness never dieth, 
 " O Blythe," said Carol, " let us live and rhyme." 
 " Yes, all the thousand years of sumnier time," 
 
 Made answer gentle Blythe. 
 
 They stirred the heart o' the dawn with melody, 
 
 Its dews were on their wings ; 
 They saw the sunrise from their homestead tree, 
 
 And dreamed of wondrous things ; 
 Of all the joys with every morn begun 
 
 I could not sing the tithe ; 
 Said Carol, " When the thousand years are done. 
 We '11 fly from topmost bough and reach the sun. 
 
 " A golden nest," said Blythe. 
 
 But now, whatever meads or groves among, 
 
 Or in whatever land 
 They fill the hours with silver lapse of song, 
 
 I cannot understand : 
 However hushed the field where still doth play 
 
Carol and Blythe. 139 
 
 The aged mower's scythe, 
 I know that in some country far away 
 There must be meadows where they sing all day, 
 
 Sweet Carol and sweet Blythe. 
 
140 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Like a troop of fair, embodied dreams, 
 
 With their hushes and their sudden gleams, 
 
 All their rainbow wings at once alight 
 
 In some forest's green and slumb'rous night ; 
 
 Or, with haste to greet the early morn, 
 
 In the meadow, when the Spring is born. 
 
 Flocking fast, like doves on sunny lea, 
 
 Sure as Spring, and beautiful as she ; 
 
 Or in radiant rest, where they abide 
 
 In the land of endless summer-tide, 
 
 Living out their sweet unconscious hours. 
 
 Pass the generations of the Flowers. 
 
 Yet, in their meek childhood, they behold 
 
 What no human eye can see ; 
 Yet their tender, linked hands take hold 
 
 Of the old Eternity. 
 
The Birth of the Flowers. 141 
 
 Stately sons o'er the world had swept, 
 
 Life its marvellous ebb and flow had kept, 
 
 All the woodland majesty of Eld, 
 
 Flooding Earth with sea of emerald, 
 
 With no prescient thrill of fame, in her 
 
 Found its own mysterious sepulchre ; 
 
 Yet no burst of flowery blossomings ; 
 
 Only hints, in beauteous living things. 
 
 Flashing out their marvel from the seas, 
 
 Of some type of life akin to these ; 
 
 Till the loving, ling'ring moment o'er, 
 
 Feet of Man were well nigh at the door; 
 
 Then the Father, with a gracious hand, 
 
 Brought the sweetest gift His heart had planned, 
 
 Gladdened all the home with festive bowers. 
 
 Filled the dwelling of His child with flowers. 
 
 Who beheld it ? O, the sight was good ! 
 
 Earth was dazzled at the overflow ; 
 Wonder stirred the heart of angelhood, 
 
 Millenniums ago. 
 
 Who beheld it ? O, the rare surprise. 
 When, like souls upspringing from the sod. 
 
142 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Violets unclosed their still blue eyes 
 
 In the green fair world of God ! 
 
 Pansies, with your purple and your gold, 
 
 Shall the tale by any lips be told ? 
 
 With your earliest happy smile outbreaking, 
 
 Who first stooped to bless you at your waking ? 
 
 All ye fairy dwellers of the wood. 
 
 Who first sought you in your solitude, 
 
 Guessed the secret that ye hide so well. 
 
 Pondered o'er the sylvan miracle ? 
 
 Argent Lily, when you pitched your tent. 
 
 What white angel o'er you softly bent, 
 
 Read your snowy page, and heard arise 
 
 All your exquisite deep harmonies ? 
 
 Or, did fairest Eve, when morning's gold 
 
 Crowned her garden's royalest repose, 
 First the sweet consummate grace behold, 
 
 The wonder of the Rose ? 
 
 Well they keep their ancient mystery ; 
 
 If no other eye beheld them, He 
 
 Who inscribed, could read their legend bright, 
 
 He who fashioned, felt in them delight. 
 
The Birth of the Flowers. 143 
 
 Now the hoary Earth is written o'er, 
 Page by page, with all their lovely lore. 
 And the sage learns wisdom at their feet. 
 But the poet-heart throbs out to meet 
 Something deeper in the boundless plan, 
 
 Something sweeter, which their lips express, 
 God's eternal sympathy with man. 
 
 Eternal tenderness. 
 
144 -^f ^^'■^ P'^'^^ (if Parnassus. 
 
 THE AWAKENING OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 Fast asleep they lay, 
 
 Blind to all the bliss ; 
 Dumb and cold and gray 
 
 As a chrysalis : 
 Sheathed and cradled soft, 
 
 Coaxed by sun and shower, 
 Sung to oft and oft, 
 
 Till there came an hour 
 First of shower and then of sun. 
 And the time of sleep was done. 
 
 All at once the Spring 
 
 Called them ; they awoke ; 
 
 Who was listening 
 
 When that word she spoke ? 
 
The Axuakening of the Leaves. 145 
 
 Who was there to see ? 
 
 Give the woodland warning ? 
 Was it bird or bee 
 
 Heard their sweet good morning ? 
 Saw emerge their plumy wings, 
 Caught their first faint flutterings ? 
 
 All the brown old tree 
 
 Felt a touch of might, 
 Small doors silently 
 
 Opened to the light : 
 But none ever saw 
 
 That new life unfold, 
 And we look with awe. 
 
 As they looked of old 
 At the wondrous budding rod. 
 Quickened by the touch of God. 
 
146 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 THE COMING OF THE GRASS. 
 
 Whence cometh the Grass ? 
 
 The sudden, secret Grass ? 
 
 From what deep world invisible, 
 
 What subterranean citadel, 
 
 What armory of elfin land. 
 
 Comes forth that swiftly marshalled band, 
 
 That vision of unwarlike spears. 
 
 Innumerable as the heavenly years'? 
 
 How cometh the Grass, 
 
 The irresistible Grass ? 
 
 We know not how, we cannot tell 
 
 The moment of that miracle ; 
 
The Cojuhig of the Grass. 147 
 
 We know not when, we know not how ; 
 We know the earth was bare, and now 
 That pleasantly our footsteps pass 
 Over the vieldinof emerald of the grass. 
 
 Where cometh the Grass, 
 
 The all-abounding Grass ? 
 
 Along the hills, the meadow sweet, 
 
 The river-side, the village street ; 
 
 In forest nooks its tassels wave ; 
 
 Its patient green enfolds the grave ; 
 
 Beside the cottage home doth press 
 
 The tender, faithful Grass, with mute caress. 
 
 Why cometh the Grass, 
 
 The bright, untiring Grass, 
 
 That down the ages doth repeat 
 
 With every year, its idyl sweet ? 
 
 To teach the truth declared for thee 
 
 By gracious lips in Galilee : 
 
 *' He careth." Then, when doubts harass, 
 
 Heed thou the wise soft whispers of the Grass. 
 
At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 PHEBE'S LOVER. 
 
 When noon was high, and Sirius reigned supreme, 
 And not a bird, I thought, would tell his dream, 
 And not a katydid could keep awake 
 Among the rushes of the little lake. 
 And not a cricket leaped among the grass, 
 I sat me down thereon, if there might pass. 
 By chance, a cool breath from the poplar tree. 
 Its leaves a-tremble with what breeze might be ; 
 In that green world I heard, to my surprise. 
 Small wings in flutter and then low sweet cries : 
 '• Fair 's my love Phebe ! Phebe ! " 
 
 " Is she so fair," I said, " that you should keep 
 Her praise when every other bird 's asleep. 
 
Fhcbe's Lover. 149 
 
 Folding their wings the darkest groves among, 
 As mute as harps upon the willows hung? 
 The truest lover of the fairest fair 
 Might be excused, in such a sultry air, 
 From singing her sweet name in ears so dull. 
 But tell me true — Is she so beautiful ? " 
 A little stir amid the hush, and now 
 He flung his clear wild notes down from the bough, 
 " Rare 's my love Phebe ! Phebe ! " 
 
 " Is she so rare ? Some small gray paragon ; 
 No nightingale, when all is said and done ; 
 Confess it, wandering singer, or make good 
 The praises of your lady of the wood ; 
 I know a wee lass as a lily fair. 
 With violet eyes and golden rippling hair. 
 And then her singing — Lover, you ne'er heard 
 So clear a gush from any woodland bird. 
 Come and compare her with your wild unknown." 
 He only uttered, in his tenderest tone, 
 " Where 's my love Phebe ? Phebe ! " 
 
150 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 " Well, sprite, you merit well, where'er she be, 
 Happy return for all your constancy ; 
 Grant your love worthy, come, to me declare 
 What grove she lives in, and what makes her fair. 
 Is Phebe a trim house-wife, and true blue ? 
 And can she sing as tenderly as you ? " 
 A little stir within a neighboring tree. 
 And one last song he sang, as out flew he. 
 So sweet, he took my heart with him away : 
 " Farewell ! Farewell ! I cannot stop to say. 
 There 's my love Phebe ! Phebe ! " 
 
Amodion. 151 
 
 AMODION. 
 
 The morn was pearled sweet, 
 
 The hill-tops caught the da}', 
 In noontide's burning heat 
 
 Athirst the meadows lay. 
 The sun set, and eve's star 
 
 Rose in a violet sky. 
 The heavenly light was far. 
 
 And darkness brooded nigh, 
 Amodion went singing, singing through the world. 
 
 Swept on the golden days. 
 Swept on the mooned nights; 
 
 Green Summer's leafy ways 
 Outblazed with Autumn lights. 
 
152 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Came thunder-rolls, that rocked 
 
 The everlasting hills. 
 Came silent frost, that locked 
 The rivers and the rills. 
 Amodion went singing, singing through the world. 
 
 A song like balm, that crept 
 
 Into the heart of Care ; 
 A fountain-song, that leapt 
 
 With laughter through the air. 
 Sad wayfarers at eve 
 
 Leaned, startled, through the dark, 
 And they forgot to grieve, 
 
 Forgot to fear, when hark ! 
 Amodion went singing, singing through the world. 
 
 As drops from still blue skies 
 Their benediction sweet, 
 
 So fell those melodies 
 At every pilgrim's feet. 
 
Amodion. 153 
 
 No weariest soul might be 
 ■Uncheered and desolate, 
 For toward the eternal sea, 
 And toward the heavenly gate, 
 Amodion went singing, singing through the world. 
 
154 Ai the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 AFTER STRIFE. 
 
 The Sabbath sunshine blessed the earth to-day 
 With large, still utterance of a thought divine. 
 Forever freely thus, — it seemed to say. 
 Doth heavenly love on human darkness shine. 
 Oh, bright beyond all suns that wondrous light of 
 Thine ! 
 
 To-night, the Sabbath moonlight with white wings, 
 Dove-like, doth brood o'er Earth's dark, fevered breast. 
 So God's great calm its gift of healing brings 
 To souls long tossed in sorrowful unrest. 
 And leaves therein the peace that cannot be ex- 
 pressed. 
 
After Rest. 155 
 
 AFTER REST. 
 
 The loving skies lean softly down to bless, 
 The hills reach upward for that mute caress ; 
 White calms of cloud are floating on their way, 
 As wing'd with that sweet peace of yesterday. 
 Sunrise with singing in the east is born, 
 And the whole earth is jubilant, this morn, 
 After the day of rest. 
 
 From out the white tent of that blest repose 
 We pass, as one who unto battle goes, 
 His head anointed with a kingly oil. 
 And, as we climb anew the hills of toil, 
 The work-day world, elate and all astir 
 With eager tumults, looketh hopefuller 
 After the day of rest. 
 
156 At the Foot of Famassns. 
 
 Thus o'er our path the Sabbath lilies spring, 
 Through hours of strife their dewy sweets to fiing 
 With bells of peace to call our hearts away, 
 Expectant still of that eternal day 
 When souls that burn on tireless wing to rise, 
 Shall find all high and pure activities. 
 And weariness, all rest. 
 
'■'■His Ways Past Finding Out.'" 157 
 
 "HIS WAYS PAST FINDING OUT." 
 
 Strange are Thy ways, though sweet, 
 In whom all sweetness and all wisdom meet. 
 For since the cross of fire must prove us Thine, 
 Thy purest light through deepest darkness shine. 
 The roughest waves precede the calmest calm, 
 The thirsting soul through long and sore distress 
 Attain the fountain in the wilderness. 
 Through perilous pains, the bright undying palm. 
 Since nearness unto Thee must still be won 
 Through woes whereat we cr)', " Undone, undone ! 
 
 Strange are Thy ways, though sweet. 
 
 Sweet are Thy ways, though strange, 
 Whose love, through all, doth know no shadow of 
 change ; 
 
158 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 For after iron bonds and fiery cross, 
 Darkness, and thirst, and need and pain and loss. 
 Drawing, through these, still nearer unto Thee, 
 In inner silence of the soul, we move 
 At last, upheld by such abounding love. 
 Such walls of strength our helplessness defend, 
 We wondering cry, " O Helper, Healer, Friend f 
 Sweet are Thy ways, though strange." 
 
 Strange are the ways, though sweet, 
 Through which Thy glorious works Thou dost com- 
 plete. 
 After Eternity's dread silences. 
 And slow upheaval from the ancient seas. 
 And life and strength and bloom evanished. 
 The growths and deaths of stately a^ons fled, 
 The perfect world begins her song sublime, 
 And all the elder sons of light, what time 
 The irradiate morn looks forth on Paradise, 
 Drink in that joy, and sing in glad surprise, 
 " Thy ways are strange and sweet." 
 
'■''His Ways Past Finding Oiii.^' 159 
 
 Sweet are the ways, though strange, 
 
 By which Thou bring'st through want and woe and 
 
 change. 
 Through the millenniums of slow advance, 
 The o'erwearied world to full deliverance. 
 She waits — the night far spent — and so must wait 
 The sorrowing soul perplexed and desolate. 
 Till the dawn breaks, and shadows flee away, 
 Turn thou, belov'd of God, to rise one day 
 And sing with saints and heavenly sanctities, 
 " O King, O Love most tender and most wise. 
 Thy ways are strange and sweet." 
 
i6o At the Foot of Far?iassus. 
 
 SOME DAY. 
 
 Some day, I know not when, 
 The word for which I wait 
 Shall come. The pearly gate 
 Shall softly open then, 
 And on this mortal shore 
 My face be seen no more. 
 
 Some day, I know not where. 
 Gently as breaks the dawn. 
 My soul shall be updrawn 
 Where is my treasure fair, 
 Where my heart is. The change, 
 I think, will not be strange. 
 
Some Day. i6i 
 
 Some day, I know not how, 
 By heavenly touch or breath, 
 The mystery of death 
 Shall quiet pulse and brow, 
 And with celestial air 
 Shall flood me unaware. 
 
 Here, there, Thou art with me ; 
 Some day, — when, where, or how 
 It matters not, — I know 
 That I shall be with Thee. 
 And then my longing heart 
 Shall see Thee as Thou art. 
 
1 62 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 THE LILY'S LEGEND. 
 
 A Sabbath lily near me pitched her tent, 
 And my soul rested in a large content 
 To read her legend sweet and innocent. 
 
 In golden lines it ran : " He knoweth best. 
 I will not of my calm be dispossessed, 
 Whate'er betide, restful though all unrest." 
 
 O friend, among thy lilies day by day 
 Who listenest for the tumult far away, 
 From morn's first red to twilight's hush and gray,- 
 
The Lily's Legend. 163 
 
 And hear'st through all their delicate harmonies 
 
 The discords of the battle-field arise 
 
 To trouble the sweet pathos of the skies ; — 
 
 Let us upgather all the words that fall 
 
 From God's mute ministers, when fears enthrall, 
 
 Knowing that His great love o'erfloodeth all ; 
 
 That, though this weary waiting seem so long. 
 The end is certain as His right is strong ; 
 And bear within our hearts a lily-song. 
 
 1861. 
 
164 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 At break of day God called away the sweetest of 
 
 earth's singers, 
 Whose music still, as music will, in heart and 
 
 memory lingers ; 
 Now hushed the harp and cold the hand that woke 
 
 such charmed numbers, 
 And on tired eyes there softly lies the stillest of all 
 
 slumbers. 
 
 At break of day God called away to heavenly 
 recognition 
 
 The soul whereon Heaven dimly shone in that se- 
 raphic vision ; 
 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 165 
 
 To perfect life and perfect love, from earthly 
 
 incompleteness ; 
 To know full well the " miracle " of that high choric 
 
 sweetness. 
 
 No last white moon of flowery June from silentness 
 
 could move her, 
 Nor sunniest sky of Italy, nor tears of those who 
 
 love her ; 
 What time the sun lit up the skies with mystical 
 
 adornings, 
 O crowned soul ! thine aureole was fairer than the 
 
 morning's. 
 
 Her songs o'ertiowed the earthly road with silvery 
 
 resonances, 
 Like concords rare born otherwhere, attained in poet's 
 
 trances. 
 On wing of tire again updrawn unto their source 
 
 immortal, 
 As soars the lark, to pause and hark beside the 
 
 heavenly portal. 
 
1 66 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Yet not the less to soothe and bless, her soul its 
 watch was keeping, 
 
 No music drowned the earthly sound of little " chil- 
 dren weeping," 
 
 Nor satisfied the heart that throbbed with impulses 
 most human, 
 
 With sympathies both large and wise — true poet, and 
 true woman. 
 
 Wherever rolls the strife of souls, for Freedom, dar- 
 ing, dying, 
 
 To the world's leap, deep unto deep, her soul made 
 large replying ; 
 
 From " Casa Guidi windows " old, and their great 
 story, turning 
 
 To the unrest that tears the West, with heart and 
 song: out-burning. 
 
 Sweet soul and strong ! found patient long and faith- 
 ful till life's ending, 
 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 167 
 
 The world bereaved thy gifts received, their wealth 
 
 uncomprehending ; 
 Thou only would'st, " in tears and blood," if such 
 
 thy Master's choosing, 
 Thine " inward music " pour like wine, for that world's 
 
 liberal using. 
 
 No tears for her! No troublous stir of wild and 
 
 weak complaining ; 
 Where God 's the Sun, her " days go on," while 
 
 mortal lights are waning; \ 
 
 The rapt new song upon her lips is sweeter for 
 
 Earth's sorrow, 
 As for Earth's night, the infinite of that serenest 
 
 morrow. 
 
 1861. 
 
1 68 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 THE AWAKENING. 
 
 How strange a thing to know, 
 
 This life that springs from the sod ! 
 So much beauty to grow 
 
 Out of a cold, bare clod ! 
 Pansies, purple and gold. 
 
 Royal in rare completeness, 
 If such a thing can be told, 
 
 Where did you steal your sweetness ? 
 
 Down in that dark domain 
 O, the trouble and stir ! 
 
 The longing and reaching in vain 
 For Day's first harbinger; 
 
The Awakenmg. 169 
 
 The struggle with thralling clay, 
 The quick complaint to each other, 
 
 " This growth is a slow, dull way ; 
 Will it ever be light, my brother?" 
 
 Fancy the sweet surprise 
 
 When the flower-soul cleaves the clay. 
 When open the golden eyes 
 
 In the first fair light of day ! 
 The tender greeting and smile, 
 
 Old friends and kindred knowing, — 
 "We might have trusted a while, 
 
 'T is worth the dull, slow growing." 
 
 We too, who know not yet 
 
 All that we soon shall be, 
 Why do we ever forget 
 
 Our gracious destiny ? 
 While One, the end calm-seeing, 
 
 When the soul shall spring from the dust, 
 Holds fast the thread of our being ; 
 
 Well, we will wait and trust. 
 
170 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 MISGIVINGS CORRECTED. 
 
 Sometimes I ask myself in pain, 
 
 So tired, so tired am I, 
 If the Spring will ever come again 
 
 Like the old Springs, ere I die. 
 But still the earliest flower that blows 
 
 Hath words of cheer to say, 
 And the crocus grows, O the crocus grows 
 
 The old sweet way. 
 
 Sometimes, in languor and self-scorn, 
 
 I ask, half wearily, 
 If all old love is not outworn 
 
 For such a thing as I, 
 Yet flowers die not. Can I supjjose 
 
 Love is more frail than they .'' 
 And the crocus grows, O the crocus grows 
 
 The old sweet way. 
 
God's Gifts. 171 
 
 GOD'S GIFTS. 
 
 The long slow hours of pain were passed ; 
 
 Unrest was o'er, and quiet, deep 
 And strange and sweet stole on. At last 
 
 God gave to his beloved sleep. 
 
 The east grew beautiful with light. 
 And, as the darkness swept away, 
 
 So, after Earth's dim, troublous night, 
 God gave to her the perfect day. 
 
 The birds sprang up to greet the sun, 
 The happy, free, melodious things, 
 
 And, ere their praiseful song was done, 
 God let her soul unfold its wings. 
 
172 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 The angels were her ministers ; 
 
 Loved faces shone as earth grew dim ; 
 All sweetest gifts in one were hers, 
 
 Her immortalitv in Him. 
 
 God's gift she was,, dear friends, to you; 
 
 He taketh for a little while ; 
 The years will pass ; and then anew 
 
 The well-known face on you shall smile. 
 
 God knoweth all the bitter pain, 
 
 The soul bereaved and tempest-tossed ; 
 
 The broken links He '11 clasp again, 
 For none of all His gifts are lost. 
 
Aligiwnette. 173 
 
 MIGNONETTE. 
 
 Too sweet, too sweet ; it cannot be ; 
 Some gayer garden welcomes thee, 
 And all that sweetness otherwhere 
 Makes gladder the embracing air. 
 The summer comes, the summer goes, 
 With hint of lily or of rose, 
 And 3^et I dream my dream, and yet 
 I wait for thee, my Mignonette. 
 
 One saith : " But here are other blooms, 
 Thy tuberose all the air perfumes, 
 Thy gladiolus' scarlet spires 
 Have kindled their ancestral fires." 
 But this was sweeter far to me. 
 Too sweet, too sweet ; it cannot be. 
 O sudden passion of regret ! 
 My Mignonette, my Mignonette. 
 
174 ^^ th^ Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 If some one miss a face that made 
 
 His sunshine in the dunnest shade, 
 
 What matters it that there are fair 
 
 Young faces shining everywhere ? 
 
 " But this was sweeter far," saith he, 
 
 " Too sweet, too sweet." And so with me^; 
 
 I cannot, if I would, forget 
 
 My Mignonette, my Mignonette. 
 
Song. 175 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A song of my darling who came through the meadow, 
 
 With bonny brown hair and her kirtle so red, 
 The sunshine she brought with her stole through my 
 shadow, 
 
 And sweet to my ear were the words that she said. 
 She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom. 
 
 And violets, not half so blue as her eyes. 
 Deep down in my soul they immortally blossom, 
 
 I read her warm heart throusfh their fairv disguise 
 
 She makes no pretense of undying devotion. 
 Her love, by her sho.wing, is fleeting as dew ; 
 
 She laughs at my constancy : yet I 've a notion 
 She 's truer than many who boast themselves true. 
 
176 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Her chiding is sweeter than others' caressing, 
 
 She leads me at will by a thread she doth hold ; 
 
 The least little touch of her hand is a blessing, 
 And a kiss of my darling is better than gold. 
 
October to yu7ie. 177 
 
 OCTOBER TO JUNE. 
 
 Thou in the gracious summer of thy days, 
 
 O friend with whom I touch hands, though so late, 
 
 Hast come to walk with me this side the gate, 
 
 What time the autumn of my life delays. 
 
 And lo ! the grass is green, the air like May's, 
 
 The little children frolic where we wait. 
 
 Low at our feet bright waters palj^itate, 
 
 Late blooms are radiant, reddening woodbine sprays. 
 
 Make festive garlands, whispering willows reach 
 
 And bend above us with their tender speech : 
 
 " Make not ado o'er things that pass away," 
 
 They murmur, — "do not the sweet season wrong. 
 
 Live thou thy life, be unafraid and strong. 
 
 June to October bringeth holiday.'' 
 
178 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 A NOVEMBER DAY. 
 
 A sun, a wind, a sky like March, 
 
 So bright, so keen, so clear and blue, 
 
 The broad, untroubled azure arch 
 
 Which not a cloud is sailing through ; 
 
 A smile of Earth, a festive way. 
 
 As though she woke from slumbering, 
 
 And entered on a holiday. 
 
 Might tempt one half to dream of Spring, - 
 
 Except for trees whose glow is fled, 
 Except for withered leaves and brown. 
 
 That rustle underneath our tread. 
 And make a woodland of the town. 
 
A November Day. 179 
 
 For as I walked, I turned to see 
 The vista of a climbing street, 
 
 With leaves o'erdrifted perfectly ; 
 It was a forest road complete. 
 
 Above, the branches softly bent. 
 
 And scattered still their brown and gold ;■. 
 The sunshine to the pathway lent 
 
 The glamour of some tale of old. 
 
 To-morrow morn the rain may fall. 
 
 The clouds may gloom, the day be dull, 
 
 But I must still remember all 
 That made this day so beautiful. 
 
 This unforgotten scene will bless 
 
 When darker hours must do their part ; 
 
 This late, still Autumn loveliness. 
 This sunshine in November's heart. 
 
At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 TWO SIDES. 
 I. 
 
 O friend, be either cold or hot ; 
 
 Or welcome me, or spurn me hence ; 
 Or love me well, or love me not ; 
 
 I cannot bear indifference. 
 
 I cannot bear the doubtful days 
 
 That will not shine, and will not rain ; 
 
 Nor half-way friendship, dubious ways 
 Between affection and disdain. 
 
 I love the sun, I love the shower ; 
 With fog and mist I ne'er agree, 
 
Two Sides. 
 
 But worse than their depressing power, 
 The chill indifference brings to me. 
 
 Small cheer the middle ages brought, 
 Give me the modern or the old ; 
 
 And in thy word and in thy thought, 
 O friend, be either warm or cold. 
 
 II. 
 
 "What shall Cordelia do? Love, and be silent." 
 
 She answered not ; her face was calm ; 
 
 No power of words was hers, to meet 
 Upbraiding with their tender balm. 
 
 With vows and protestations sweet. 
 
 She raised her blue eyes innocent, 
 
 A tear might rise, but would not fall, 
 
 A little flush that came and went, 
 A little half-drawn sigh was all. 
 
1 82 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 But if one saw, as souls can see, 
 And as the angels read us, read, 
 
 In faith and wise simplicity, 
 
 Then this is what the silence said : — 
 
 " Trust me, although I cannot speak ; 
 
 Take loyal act for word of mouth. 
 And find me true, though words be weak, 
 
 Though I am north, and thou art south. 
 
 " Although I cannot say, ' I love,' 
 And wear my heart so all may see. 
 
 Yet let my life hereafter prove, 
 If need be, I could die for thee." 
 
Hecuba. 183 
 
 HECUBA. 
 
 A fancy through her brain flits suddenly, 
 
 While that pale daughter of the royal race 
 
 Whom no man heedeth, for a little space 
 
 Re-iterates the ruin that shall be. 
 
 " If so, hereafter one might be aware 
 
 In some far island washed by alien seas. 
 
 Of thy renown, my brave Priamides, 
 
 And muse upon thy glory and despair." 
 
 But when she hears along that secret way 
 
 Through princely walls that soon shall melt like wax, 
 
 The laughter of the boy Astyanax, 
 
 That boding image can no longer stay, 
 
 But dieth like a ripple on the stream, 
 
 A ghost that glides through some dissolving dream. 
 
184 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG. 
 
 O happy, happy days when earth was young ! 
 
 When Aryan shepherds turned the wondrous page, 
 And caught the glimpse of distant hills unsung, 
 
 And wondered at their boundless heritage. 
 
 When poets of the prime sang heartily 
 The deeds of heroes not to be o'ercome ; 
 
 When eager Argo swept the unventured sea, 
 Or Priam reigned in dateless Ilium. 
 
 Or does the dreaming spirit half create 
 The subtle charm of ages passed away ? 
 
When the World was Young. 185 
 
 The glamour of the dawn illuminate 
 
 The old dead cities disentombed to-day ? 
 
 Who says the light is faded utterly, 
 
 The songs that move the heart have all been sung. 
 
 When wild birds carol, children laugh in glee, 
 
 And lovers love as when the world was young? 
 
1 86 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 WHAT HOPE? 
 
 What hope for me ? What music shall arise 
 
 From broken work and life, and shattered frame ? 
 
 What sequel to the dreams of Paradise ? 
 What answer to the Morning, all aflame 
 
 With promise on the dewy hills of youth? 
 Alas, my poor lute falters and is still, 
 As I go down the valley, late and chill, 
 
 So chill and late — the night is nigh, in truth. 
 
 And yet Night hath a music of her own. 
 
 Divine sweet whispers through her moonlit air, 
 
 A restful song the day hath never known 
 With all her triumphs ; if the night be fair, 
 
 The inward voice may answer, though so late. 
 Or if He hush to silence, far away 
 Stretches the vista of His perfect day. 
 
 What hope ? The hope of Morning. I can wait. 
 
" My rcacer 187 
 
 "MY PEACE." 
 
 » — John xiv: 27. 
 
 Sweet is the calm of nature, when the Spring 
 
 Touches the sod, and o'er the quickening meadow 
 The tender grass is creeping; glad birds sing 
 
 Upon the budding branches, whose soft shadow 
 Seems to caress the earth ; or when the star 
 Of evening rises, and the moonlight's hush 
 Quiets the woodland, every tree and bush 
 Silvered and still ; but there is blessing far 
 More sweet than Spring's serenest moments are. 
 
 Sweet is the calm of Autumn, when the fruit 
 Of Summer's bloom and growth is perfected ; 
 
 When the wild rains are overpast, and mute 
 The tempest ; when a bright, warm glow is shed 
 
1 88 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 From softly overbrooding skies, instead 
 
 Of threatening gloom ; when, fairest in decay, 
 
 The leaves grow brilliant ere they drift away ; 
 
 But there is calmer calm, more hallowed 
 
 A peace than ever these on earth have spread. 
 
 Sweeter than these the unforgotten hour 
 
 Of answering affection, when we first 
 Live in another's life, and feel the power 
 
 That self annihilates ; when the deep thirst 
 For human sympathy is satisfied. 
 And so we dream that we have found our rest ; 
 But sweet beyond all dreams that fountain blest. 
 That constant, free, immeasurable tide. 
 Thy peace, wherein Thou would'st we should abide. 
 
 Not as another giveth, gracious One ! 
 
 No type of earth can shadow forth that joy ; 
 Thou Fountain in the waste. Thou Midnight Sun, 
 
 Perennial Spring no winter can destroy ; 
 
My Peace. 189 
 
 And as we keep most tenderly below 
 
 The gifts our loving and our dying leave, 
 
 So that sweet legacy Thine own receive, 
 
 And love it more, dear Lord, because we know 
 
 Thy peace it is that soothes and comforts so. 
 
iQo At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 RE-UNITEU. 
 
 With one I love, within a pleasant wood, 
 Where summer green the summer gold subdued, 
 I walked all day, nor ever wearied we 
 Of pilgrim fare, nor each of other's companj^ 
 
 How beautiful, I said, this fine accord. 
 This mutual trust, this helpful hand and word ; 
 As sing the birds above us, Heart, sing on, 
 Nor longer tread thy homeward way alone. 
 
 But while I rested, one who was our Guide, 
 Did gradually our linked steps divide ; 
 And for the clasping hand did interv^ene 
 The sighing boughs, the wall of leafy green. 
 
Re-united. 191 
 
 And when I could not see the way for tears, 
 I heard the guiding Voice : " Forbear thy fears ; 
 A little season bear to walk alone, 
 Only the way divides, the end is unison." 
 
 A rift of sunshine through the branches dim, 
 
 The dear, dear face, the echo of a hymn ; 
 
 And its sweet calm within my soul expressed 
 
 " Both way and end are blest, and shall be ever blest." 
 
192 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Thinking in sore amaze how God had set 
 
 Me in a desert place apart, nor yet 
 
 Sent any answer to my broken prayer, 
 
 There fell a hush upon me unaware : 
 
 " If there be therefore any consolation 
 
 In Christ," — it said, — I ask no more. Dear Lord, 
 
 My wayward heart is broken at that word. 
 
 That thought of Thee is sweetest compensation 
 
 For any soul that loves Thee. Better so 
 
 Than any joy apart from Thee to know ; 
 
 Welcome the anguish which Thou com'st to heal ; 
 
 Welcome this pain, wherein I still may feel 
 
 Thy tender dews of blessing on my head. 
 
 By Thee upheld, reproved, and comforted. 
 
Secret Music. 193 
 
 SECRET MUSIC. 
 
 I know a music sweeter than the song 
 
 Of jubilant birds upon a day of Spring ; 
 
 Or quiet lapse of waters, murmuring 
 
 Through grassy fields ; or voiceful winds among 
 
 The soft responsive pines ; or choral swell 
 
 Of voices in some heavenly harmony. 
 
 Or wedded chime of silver bell with bell, 
 
 Or burst of organ in grand symphony. 
 
 Nay, sweeter than the voice of Love can be, 
 
 From human lips that speaks — " I love thee well ; " 
 
 And that is sweeter than all things but one : 
 
 To hear that stillest whisper, when alone, 
 
 And faint with many a failure on the road. 
 
 Inbreathe some gracious promise of my God. 
 13 
 
1 94 ^^ the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 REMINDER. 
 
 When the rain beats and March winds blow, 
 
 We should be glad if we could know 
 
 How, not so very far away. 
 
 There shineth a serener day. 
 Where birds are blithe and happy children pass 
 To gather violets among the grass. 
 
 And when Spring comes too bitter sweet 
 With thoughts of those we cannot greet. 
 We should be glad if we could know 
 How blissfully their moments flow, 
 
 How thin the veil that screens them from our sight. 
 
 We hold in dark the Hand they clasp in light. 
 
In Thy Hand. 195 
 
 IN THY HAND. 
 
 My Lord and King, I cannot see 
 What thou canst find to love in me 
 It is a joyful mystery. 
 
 But as the sculptor, in the stone 
 Where other men see that alone, 
 Beholds the angel yet unknown, — 
 
 So Thou most clearly dost foresee 
 What Thou wilt fashion out of me, 
 The nobler spirit yet to be ; 
 
196 At the Foot of Partiassus. 
 
 And bearest with the weakness so, 
 Wherefrom Thy hand shall make to grow 
 That far-off beauty Thou dost know. 
 
 Thou art my Sculptor, I Thy clay, 
 
 And let the pain be what it may, 
 
 O mould me in Thine own best way ! 
 
Art Thou a King. 197 
 
 ART THOU A KING? 
 
 As when the Roman made his fatal choice, 
 
 As when he marvelled, — " Art thou, then, a king ? " 
 So through the world, the cynical, cold voice 
 Runs questioning. 
 
 Still stands the sinless at the sinful's bar. 
 
 They scoff and jeer, they work their wicked will ; 
 The Word that called to being star on star 
 Keeps silence still. 
 
 Or our new prophets cry aloud, nor spare. 
 
 Of that dark loveless void, while they traverse 
 With a great passion of sublime despair, 
 The unfathered universe. 
 
198 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 What give they for the world's immortal dower? 
 What for the hope with which our age began ? 
 For love of God, a rootless, pallid flower 
 Of love to man. 
 
 Who taught them how to love ? What whole world's 
 friend 
 Made possible the service that they bring? 
 O Thou who lovedst to the bitter end, 
 Thou, Thou art King. 
 
 Make strong the souls that wait and long for Thee, 
 The lowly hearts that Thou hast made Thy home, 
 Through all the tossing of life's troubled sea 
 Thy kingdom come. 
 
 What if to-morrow, when the daylight thrills 
 
 The darkened sky with great illumining, 
 Thy feet should stand upon those eastern hills. 
 Our Lord, our King ? 
 
At the Gate of the Year. 199 
 
 AT THE GATE OF THE YEAR. 
 
 O pilgrim over tracts unknown, 
 To lands that do not yet appear, 
 
 Set up thy monumental stone 
 Upon the threshold of the year. 
 
 And on its snowy whiteness trace 
 The common blessings of thy way. 
 
 The safety of thy dwelling place, 
 
 Thy moon by night, thy sun by day. 
 
 And not alone such gifts as these. 
 With others shared, to others known. 
 
 Write the peculiar kindnesses 
 
 Thy Father's hand to thee hath shown. 
 
200 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 And write, if sorrow tearfully 
 
 Abode with thee some weary space, 
 
 How as she passed, she turned on thee 
 The brightness of an angel's face. 
 
 And while the New-Year silently 
 
 Points down untried, untrodden ways, 
 
 Write thou what secret word shall be 
 The inspiration of thy days ; 
 
 What power thy being shall control. 
 What love thy loyalty command, 
 
 The homage of thy willing soul, 
 The service of thy heart and hand. 
 
 That power to serve, that word to own, 
 That love in deepest trust to hold, 
 
 Inscribe upon thy fair, white stone 
 Thy Master's name in lines of gold. 
 
At the Gate of the Year. 201 
 
 Dear Lord, who brought 'st me here 
 
 Unto this gateway of another year, 
 
 I would that I could twine about its arch 
 
 Some excellent vine that should bear fruit for Thee ;, 
 
 For all my past years on their silent march 
 
 Have brought Thee nothing good that 1 can see. 
 
 Shall coming years be so ? 
 
 Shall any sweet root in this wilderness grow 
 
 To make Thy grieved ones glad ? And wilt Thou 
 
 use me 
 For any purpose in Thine infinite plan, 
 Thou who art wise. Thou who hast deigned to bruise 
 
 me? 
 And shall I yield, as bruised herbs oft can. 
 Some simple fragrance Thou wilt own as sweet, 
 Something wherewith to annoint Thy blessed feet? 
 
 The strength there is in me 
 
 Lifts up no promise that my soul can see'; 
 
202 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 In Thee is all the strength, the hope I know. 
 Though when I most would praise I most am dumb, 
 Thou hold'st me fast. Thou wilt not let me go. 
 Till from Thy reed some perfect strain shall come. 
 
The Old Alan in the Twilight. 203 
 
 THE OLD MAN IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 There, take the Book, little Nelly, I can't read the 
 
 chapter through ; 
 The twilight comes much sooner, I think, than it 
 
 used to do. 
 No, you need n't read it for me, I '11 wait for the 
 
 coming light. 
 For now is the winter twilight, and soon it will be 
 
 night. 
 
 The dimmer it grows, more plainly the old house I 
 
 can see. 
 Where your father's father, Nellie, once sat a babe 
 
 on my knee. 
 I was fearless and strong and proud then, nimble of 
 
 foot and tongue ; 
 Oh, the world is made for the young, lassie, the 
 
 world is made for the young. 
 
204 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 There 's Harry, now ; he thinks so, with his talk of 
 
 the age's course, 
 Of the telephone and phonograph, and "bioplasmic 
 
 force." 
 A " progressive thinker " he, he says he " does n't 
 
 agree with Paul," 
 If he lives to be old as I am, he won't know so 
 
 much, that 's all. 
 
 The nineteenth century tires me, somehow, with its 
 
 rush and shout ; 
 If I go with men as I used to, I seem to be 
 
 crowded out : 
 So I 'm happier here in my armchair, at the twilight 
 
 hour to be. 
 With the little ones about me, or the good Book on 
 
 my knee. 
 
 To sit in the gathering shadows and wait for the 
 
 coming light ; 
 To hear their laughter and prattle, and think of the 
 
 mansions bright. 
 
The Old Man in the Twilight. 205 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal that oft-times my own 
 
 sweet Nelly sung, 
 For there we shall all be young, lassie, there we 
 
 shall all be young. 
 
2o6 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 CRITERIA. 
 
 To the wise-hearted king they brought 
 Fair Syrian flowers ; the ahnond's snow, 
 
 Anemones with beauty fraught, 
 
 And poppies with their fiery glow ; 
 
 Rich hyacinths with spicy smell, 
 
 And the pomegranate's golden bell. 
 
 And with these, flowers by rarest art 
 Designed to counterfeit their grace ; 
 
 And in the cedarn hall, apart 
 
 From the great king some cubits' space, 
 
 They paused, and after reverence due 
 
 Besought, " O King, which are the true ? 
 
Criteria. 207 
 
 " For thou art wise." The monarch bade : 
 
 "Open the windows to the sun." 
 Then thitherward a soft wind strayed 
 
 From gardens of King Solomon, 
 And after it, in drowsy ease, 
 Entered the golden-belted bees. 
 
 They passed the fine-wrought mimicry 
 And sought the spicy sweets they knew ; 
 
 Then from his throne of ivory 
 
 The king declared: "These are the true. 
 
 The fable still is not unmeet, 
 
 The real only are the sweet. 
 
 The wisdom of the eastern sage 
 Bequeathes to us its benison. 
 
 Thou who would'st fitly serve the age, 
 Open thy window to the sun. 
 
 Let sweetness, light and truth divine. 
 
 Prove worth in every work of thine. 
 
2o8 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Since truth is truth, and right is right, 
 Though fools decry and cowards blame, 
 
 Stand in the everlasting light, 
 To-day as yesterday the same. 
 
 Let others boast their fair deceit, 
 
 The true alone shall prove the sweet. 
 
A Whisper. 209 
 
 A WHISPER. 
 
 The King is cruel and cold. 
 Hush ! be not overbold 
 To speak of all the pain 
 And rigor of his reign. 
 
 His scouts are everj-where, 
 
 But, bend your head down low, 
 There 's a whisper in the air, 
 And I know what I know. 
 
 Whence ? That I cannot say. 
 Some voice that stole this way 
 From Merlin, underground 
 In deep Arvantes bound : 
 Or Sibyl, with one page 
 By ages still unworn ; 
 Or old Egyptian sage 
 
 Ere ever Rome was born. 
 
At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 Not many clays has he 
 To lord it royally. 
 No heart will be dismayed 
 When proclamation 's made 
 
 By heralds young and bold 
 
 Arrayed in gold and green, 
 "The King so cruel and cold 
 Is dead — Long live the Queen ! 
 
Two Friends. 
 
 TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 And so once more I have clasped hands with thee, 
 And years were nothing; if but yesterday 
 
 Our ways had parted, not more perfectly 
 Soul had met soul in the familiar way. 
 
 Nor needed time in which to readjust 
 
 The old relationship of love and trust. 
 
 And so, I think, beloved, it must be 
 
 In the new life which groweth from the old, 
 
 When we two meet in blest security. 
 
 And find our Father's secret there unrolled. 
 
 " 'T is thou " — We look into each other's eyes, 
 
 No sense of loss, no shock of vast surprise. 
 
At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 GONE HOME. 
 
 In my Father's house are many abiding-places. 
 
 John XIV. 2.— R. V. Note. 
 
 Spaciousness, beauty, rest. 
 
 Of these thou art possessed, 
 O soul new-born into that country fair ! 
 
 Thy father's house is wide. 
 
 And thou art satisfied. 
 So full the feast and the rejoicing there. 
 
 But in that plenitude, 
 
 O gentle soul and good, 
 Of blest companionship, communion calm, 
 
 There must be some retreat 
 
 For thy meek nature meet. 
 Where all Earth's wounds are healed with heavenly 
 balm. 
 
Gone Home. 213 
 
 Thou who below did'st move 
 
 In atmosphere of love, 
 The patient saint, the angel of thy home. 
 
 What new, sweet work for thee, 
 
 What tender ministry 
 Is thine where want and woe can never come ? 
 
 Do flowers spring up, where'er 
 
 Thy gentle steps repair? 
 Are lambs along unwithering meadows fed ? 
 
 Are infant souls by thee 
 
 Enfolded motherly 
 And to their Shepherd with rejoicing led ? 
 
 Or, at thy Saviour's side 
 
 Dost thou in meekness bide. 
 Henceforth expecting His triumphant day, 
 
 And hold'st the golden key 
 
 Of life's strange mystery. 
 All cares at rest, all sorrows hushed away ? 
 
214 At the Foot of Faniassus. 
 
 We know not — but we know 
 
 That He who loved thee so 
 Still guards and guides thee with peculiar grace, 
 
 While we in silence wait, 
 
 Not wholly desolate, 
 Till God unveil thy blest abiding-place. 
 
- Days of Pain. 215 
 
 DAYS OF PAIN. 
 
 How glad I should be, in my days of pain, 
 Remembering the days that were so sweet ! 
 
 How glad to think I shall be glad again, 
 
 When these in full slow measure are complete ; 
 
 How glad that, though they never-ending seem, 
 
 They 're passing, passing, passing like a dream. 
 
 How glad that no mischance or fate hath swayed 
 My life, or me of gladness dispossessed ; 
 
 How glad I should be, and how much afraid 
 
 That these should pass, and leave me still unblest ; 
 
 Lest I should drink the bitter cup in vain, 
 
 And lose the sweetness of my days of pain. 
 
 Therefore, unlovely days, O let me think 
 I must not fail your blessedness to win. 
 
 Nor moan too much, nor like a coward shrink 
 To take my lot with all that lies therein ; 
 
 So learn, at last, what gracious fair suqDrise 
 
 My God has hidden in your dark disguise. 
 
2i6 At the Foot of Parnassus. 
 
 AT THE MASTER'S FEET. 
 
 I cannot toil ; the day is done. 
 
 The work I was so glad to do 
 Looks poor and pale at set of sun ; 
 
 Forgive it, Lord, and for the few 
 Days following let me but repeat 
 Some simple lesson at Thy feet. 
 
 I cannot climb ; the day is done. 
 
 The morn was bright, the hills were fair, 
 The path wound upward to the sun ; 
 
 But now the peaks look bleak and bare, 
 And I am weary ; it is sweet 
 To rest a little at Thy feet. 
 
 I cannot sing; my day is done. 
 
 Old songs, old hopes are hushed and still ; 
 If any murmur linger on. 
 
 It is the echo of Thy will, — 
 Some low strain at the Master's feet 
 Which only Thou shalt own as sweet. 
 
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