Thistle -drift 
 
 John Vance Cheney 
 
 v-s. 
 
 *v; 
 
 ■ 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 ©xcp^ng^i Ifxr* 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THISTLE-DRIFT 
 
 ey / 
 
 JOHN VANCE CHENEY 
 
 All Ms rosy body bare 
 
 Ah / the Merry Rover f s there. 
 
 2> 
 
 n Jul 23 1887 J^ 7 
 
 NEW YORK 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES 
 
 SUCCESSOR TO WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN 
 MDCCCLXXXVII 
 
?t>/a<?a 
 
 CsTz 
 
 Copyright, 1887, 
 By Frederick A. Stokes. 
 
TO ABBEY 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Love 's ever at Love's Side i 
 
 And Who is She ? 3 
 
 Eden 5 
 
 Love's Envoys 7 
 
 Whither? 9 
 
 The Way of Life 10 
 
 What of the Hereafter? 11 
 
 Thought-fall . . . . . , .12 
 
 What the Muse is Like 13 
 
 The Message 14 
 
 Hunter's Song 16 
 
 Ho, all Lovers 18 
 
 Young Love is Lord 19 
 
 Spring Song 21 
 
 Loves of Leaves and Grasses .... 22 
 
 Song of the Gloaming ..... 24 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Summer Rain 26 
 
 The Going of Autumn, 1 27 
 
 II 28 
 
 Snowflakes 29 
 
 The Weasel Thieves 31 
 
 To Youngsters 32 
 
 She Knows 34 
 
 Wounded Birdlings 36 
 
 The Way of It 38 
 
 Ere Winter Weather . . . .40 
 
 Swallow and Fairy • • « » . 41 
 
 The Merry Rover 4a 
 
 The Heart Trap 45 
 
 The Happy Captive 47 
 
 My Lady 48 
 
 Only too True ...... 49 
 
 Margery . . . . . . .51 
 
 Dodging the Godlet 53 
 
 Your Dimpled Dear 55 
 
 Luella . 57 
 
 Nature to the Poet 60 
 
 What Say ? .63 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Wise Piper ...... 64 
 
 The Informal Courtier 
 
 
 
 
 . 66 
 
 You, too 
 
 
 
 
 68 
 
 To a Tip-up 
 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 To Tree-Crickets, I. 
 
 
 
 
 70 
 
 II. 
 
 
 
 
 7i 
 
 Birthday Flowers 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 The Lost Song 
 
 
 
 
 75 
 
 The Song Unsung . 
 
 
 
 
 77 
 
 At the Hearthside . 
 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 After the Cows 
 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 The Kitchen Clock . 
 
 
 
 
 83 
 
 Collie Kelso 
 
 
 
 
 87 
 
 Grannam and Blue Eyes 
 
 
 
 89 
 
 The Widow's Comfort 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 I. Music ... 93 
 
 II. Grown Old with Nature ... 94 
 
 III. The Skilful Listener ... 95 
 
 IV. Dreams 
 
 
 
 
 96 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Parting of Ilmar and Haadin 
 Liolan 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 97 
 
 . 101 
 
 NATURE: 
 
 I. The Music of Nature . . . 105 
 
 II. In Primeval Wood . . . 106 
 
 III. The Old Tree 107 
 
 IV. The Beeches brighten Early May . 108 
 V. Summer Noon .... 109 
 
 VI. To a Humming-bird . . .110 
 
 VII. Monarch of the North . . .112 
 
 VIII. Abreast with Old Storm . . .113 
 
 IX. Sunrise in the Forest . . .115 
 
 X. Evening Clouds .... 117 
 
 Evening Songs: 
 
 XI. It is that pale, delaying hour . .118 
 
 XII. A light lies here, a shadow there . 118 
 
 XIII. Now is Light 119 
 
 XIV. Behind the hill top drops the sun . 120 
 XV. Yon ragged Cliff looks gentler down 121 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 've seen the Sun on the hill top, there . . 122 
 
 Strive on, doomed Soul 123 
 
 The Black Dawn 124 
 
 I need not hear each night-wind loud . . 125 
 
 To Hope 126 
 
 To the Fall Wind 127 
 
 One , 128 
 
 TO ALICE : 
 
 I. One lived whose wont it was . .129 
 
 II. Joy, bringing roses, found thee . 130 
 
 III. When Death approached thee Alice 131 
 
 IV. Mournful Voice haunting the quiet 
 
 air 132 
 
 V. The Years are seven . . . 133 
 
 VI. * Not her,' cried Life . . . 134 
 
 Song of the Sleepers „ 135 
 
LOVE 'S EVER AT LOVE'S SIDE. 
 
 T OVE, you are in the hills, 
 
 And I am by the sea ; 
 But, ah, I know my loved one thrills 
 With touch of love and me ! 
 No need to tell her why ; 
 Where she is, there am I. 
 Whether 
 Together 
 Or apart, 
 I fold you, Love, 
 I hold you, Love, 
 
 Hard to my heart. 
 
 Love ! Love ! Its tears and smiles 
 Wing wide as sun and rain ; 
 It reckons not the hours or miles 
 For gift of joy or pain ; 
 
LOVE "S EVER A T LOVE'S SIDE. 
 
 Love, you can have no thought 
 
 My heart shall answer not. 
 
 Whether 
 
 Together 
 
 Or apart, 
 
 I fold you, Love, 
 
 I hold you, Love, 
 
 Hard to my heart. 
 
 Love, you are far away, 
 But naught my heart shall care ; 
 This place or that, go you or stay, 
 Where you are — I am there : 
 In spite of time or tide, 
 Love 's ever at love's side. 
 Whether 
 Together 
 Or apart, 
 I fold you, Love, 
 I hold you, Love, 
 
 Hard to my heart. 
 
AND WHO IS SHE? 
 
 QHE lives, she lives up in the hills 
 
 Where mists and eagles are, 
 Blithe shepherdess of rocks and rills, 
 'Twixt mortal and a star. 
 
 So light no fairy foots it there, 
 With moonbeams on the green ; 
 
 You 'd swear her wee feet walk the air, 
 The hills and clouds between. 
 
 Of acorns is her necklace made, 
 And reddest berries found ; 
 
 While slender vines, in glossy braid, 
 Around her brow are bound. 
 
 And who is she ? Ah, by and by, 
 A-coming in her grace, 
 
AND WHO IS SHE? 
 
 My airy fair, so light and shy — 
 They '11 see, they '11 see her face ! 
 
 Ah, by and by, she '11 quit the hills, 
 Where mists and eagles are, 
 
 This shepherdess of rocks and rills, 
 'Twixt mortal and a star. 
 
EDEN. 
 
 rj* ASTWARD love's garden lay, 
 
 In Eden, long agone ; 
 Eastward, lo, it lies to-day, 
 Before the gates of dawn. 
 
 It rests as still and fair 
 As the first lovers found it ; 
 
 And the flowers are blooming there, 
 The waters winding round it. 
 
 The crystal fountains fill, 
 
 The golden glories play, 
 And the silver dews distill, 
 
 As on love's natal day. 
 
 Love's garden yonder is 
 Aglow with love's desire ; 
 
EDEN. 
 
 Thrilled by endless melodies 
 From love's own throats of fire. 
 
 Love's bower ! — I know it well, 
 And thither lies my way ; 
 
 On my soul I feel the spell, 
 I see the splendors play. 
 
 Lo, one awaits me there, 
 Wondrous as Adam knew ; 
 
 Face and form as strangely fair, 
 And throbbing heart as true. 
 
LOVE'S ENVOYS. 
 
 TO A. C. 
 
 /^NE ember star reddens afar, 
 
 In ashes of the day ; 
 Love's envoys on their journey are 
 To her that 's far away. 
 
 The slow hours with their burden sweet, 
 First fragrance of the year, — 
 
 Freely they '11 shed it at the feet 
 Of her my heart holds dear. 
 
 The voices of the cedarn boughs, 
 The soul-voice of the pine, — 
 
 They will but breathe the lover's vows, 
 Their passion will be mine. 
 
LOVE'S ENVOYS. 
 
 The brook, whose true-love murmuring 
 
 Can know no other shore, 
 Will plead for him that sweet would sing, 
 
 Beside her evermore. 
 
WHITH£R? 
 
 T T 7HITHER leads this pathway, little one?- 
 Good sir, I think it runs just on and on. 
 
 Whither leads this pathway, maiden fair ? — 
 That path to town, sir ; to the village square. 
 
 Whither leads this pathway, father old ?— 
 Where but to yonder marbles white and cold ! 
 
THE WAY OF LIFE. 
 
 r I ^HE warrior frowned and pressed his temples 
 
 gray; 
 11 Enough," he cried, " away with love — away ! " 
 
 A boy from play by fondest kiss beguiled, 
 
 " Mother, I'll love thee ever ! " spake the child. 
 
 A maiden gazed into the night sky wide, 
 
 "01 will love him when he comes ! " she sighed. 
 
 The three moved on along the way of life : 
 A fair face lured the soldier from his strife, 
 
 Upon a tomb was carved the sweet child's name, 
 The lover to the maiden never came. 
 
WHAT OF THE HEREAFTER? 
 
 BRIEF the stay of Sorrow, 
 To-day come, gone to-morrow ; 
 Unwont fair Joy to bide 
 From morning until eventide. 
 
 Glories all are shifting, 
 Darkness is ever lifting : 
 The sun gives way to shade, 
 Returns anon — the shadows fade. 
 
 What of the Hereafter : 
 Will mourning follow laughter? 
 Heaven's stars roll through our night, 
 Will earth-gloom veil the Hills of Light ? 
 
THOUGHT-FALL. 
 
 TT ^HEN south- winds are richest with fragrance 
 
 of flowers, 
 And the still sweeter breath of the deep-forest 
 
 bowers, 
 
 When the hill and the star have gone under cover, 
 To the dwelling of dreams, like loved one and lover ; 
 
 When passionate earth has her will with the sky, 
 And the black clouds stop tho' the brooks go by, — 
 
 There 's a falling of thought, like the fall of the rain, 
 And the music of youth is playing again. 
 
WHAT THE MUSE IS LIKE. 
 
 IKE the love-bringing wind when it goes 
 To the deep-crimson heart of the rose, 
 Like the beauty that, languishing, lies 
 In the arms of the day when he dies, 
 Like mist at the morning's feet, 
 Distant music, transcendently sweet, — 
 Like these is the muse, but warier far, 
 And hers the uncertainest lovers that are. 
 
THE MESSAGE. 
 
 T F only my breast had a window, 
 
 And you, Love, could look in to-day i 
 'Tis filled with golden gladness 
 Too bright for tongue to say. 
 But the birds in the air — they sing it, 
 Winging world over, they ring it, they ring it ; 
 The bees in the blossom-bell— 
 They tell, they tell. 
 
 If only my breast had a window, 
 And my heart could fly out to-day, 
 
 'Twould bear you, Love, a message 
 Too sweet for tongue to say ! 
 
 But the birds of the air — they '11 sing it, 
 
 Winging world over, will ring it, will ring it ; 
 
THE MESSAGE. 
 
 And bees in the blossom-bell — 
 They '11 tell, they '11 tell. 
 
 Can, can the bird tell, my beloved, 
 
 The bee, can he tell it true ; 
 Can sweetest voice of summer 
 
 Speak for me, Love, to you ? 
 
 my heart, it is running over ! 
 
 Come to me quickly, my Lover — my Lover ; 
 
 1 love only love can tell 
 How well — how well ! 
 
HUNTER'S SONG. 
 
 TI THEN the knowing robins build, 
 
 With love calls, all the day, 
 Then you '11 hear a ditty trilled — 
 Ho, Jenny 's calling, hie away ! 
 
 Hark ! with rifle hanging high, 
 The ramping dogs chained home, 
 
 Now, my cabin, now, good by, 
 It 's ho, my Jenny, girl, I come ! — 
 
 Mighty shy, your maiden's love, 
 Enough the faintest sound : 
 
 For every stream that runs above, 
 A thousand trickle underground. 
 
HUNTER'S SONG. i 7 
 
 First I '11 wound her — shame, the crime ! 
 
 Hang low, you pretty head : 
 Jenny, girl, the sweet wild thyme 
 
 Is sweeter for the hunter's tread. 
 
HO, ALL LOVERS. 
 
 T T 7"HEN over field the grasses start, 
 
 Time ! Let laggard lad be ready ; 
 Then winter melts in the maiden breast— 
 Away, away to milady ! 
 
 When robin 'gins his roundelay, 
 
 And the south wind comes a-wooing, 
 
 Then to it, Romeo, while you may ; 
 Hey, be up and doing ! 
 
 When sap goes top, and willows tip, 
 Then it is your wooer's weather : 
 
 Let each go sip at his Honey-lip, 
 Ho, all lovers — together ! 
 
YOUNG LOVE IS LORD. 
 
 T T is the fairies' time o' year, 
 
 Grim winter 's over, they are here ; 
 Their finger-tips the alders tinge, 
 Rimming the runs with frailest fringe, 
 While willows, from their slumber shaken, 
 In leafy fountains playing, waken. 
 
 It is the fairies' time o' year, 
 The skies recede and mountains near ; 
 Each shadow startles, as it passes, 
 The little peeping, wondering grasses ; 
 The fays are busy : brown and gray, 
 Behold— they 're spirited away ! 
 
 Young Love is lord o' earth and air, 
 And round him throng his brave and fair : 
 
YOUNG LOVE IS LORD. 
 
 A quickening touch, a vital thrill, 
 
 Links field to field, and hill to hill ; 
 
 With downward look, th' impassioned hours 
 
 Call softly to the coming flow'rs. 
 
SPRING SONG. 
 
 T NVISIBLE hands from summer lands 
 Have plucked the icicles, one by one ; 
 And sly little ringers, reached down from the sun, 
 Lay hold on the tips of the grass in the sands. 
 And O, and O 
 Where is the snow ! 
 The crow is calling, 
 Showers are falling. 
 
 up and out o: your garments gray, 
 Ho, willow and weed, each secret seed ; 
 The music of waters is heard in the mead, 
 And surly old Winter has hied him away ! 
 And O, and O 
 Where is the snow ! 
 The snake is crawling, 
 Showers are falling, 
 
LOVES OF LEAVES AND GRASSES. 
 
 n^HE little leaves, ah me, 
 
 Coquetting in the tree ! 
 Swaying in the sunny weather, 
 Now, they steal together, 
 Now, flutter free, as fain 
 Never to kiss again. 
 
 Yon grass — there, too, I see 
 Suspicious gallantry : 
 Each spear unto his sweeting 
 Whispers a secret greeting, 
 Then primly, in the sun, 
 Smiles over what he 's done. 
 
LOVES OF LEAVES AND GRASSES. 
 
 Sweet spring-time in the tree, 
 In fields where grasses be ! 
 So perfect is his vesture, 
 So pretty every gesture, 
 I ween no leaf or blade 
 But wins his dainty maid. 
 
SONG OF THE GLOAMING. 
 
 HP HE toad has the road, the cricket sings, 
 The heavy beetle spreads her wings : 
 The bat is the rover, 
 No bee on the clover, 
 The day is over, 
 And evening come. 
 
 The brake is awake, the grass aglow, 
 The star above, the fly below : 
 
 The bat is the rover, 
 
 No bee on the clover, 
 
 The day is over, 
 
 And evening come. 
 
SONG OF THE GLOAMING. 25 
 
 The stream moves in dream, the low winds tune, 
 'Tis vespers at the shrine of June : 
 
 The bat is the rover, 
 
 No bee on the clover, 
 
 The day is over, 
 
 And evening come. 
 
SUMMER RAIN. 
 
 TTIRSTLINGS of the summer rain, 
 
 Tapping at my window-pane, 
 Welcome, little hearts of air, 
 Beating, beating, beating there. 
 
 Nay, look not so timid through, 
 Sure, the world 's at home to you : 
 Every lily, every rose, 
 Well your gentle knocking knows. — 
 
 Open, rose and lily cup, 
 Fill each passioned chalice up ; 
 Sweetly lovers from the sky 
 On the breasts of blossoms lie. 
 
THE GOING OF AUTUMN. 
 
 BLEAK the storm-mottled rock, and brittle the 
 brake, 
 Plump-cropt is the cock, and denned is the snake ; 
 
 Newly furred is the hare, the marmot's abed, 
 
 Asleep is the bear, the lizard as dead ; 
 
 There 's a howl on the hill, a moan on the plain, 
 A film on the rill, a flake on the rain ; 
 
 There is death in the day, a treacherous sun, 
 A season grown gray — an Autumn undone. 
 
THE GOING OF A UTUMN. 
 
 II. 
 
 Autumn passes — she takes, to-day, 
 Her bleak and solitary way : 
 Old ocean feels it, on the sand 
 Reaching, reaching a parting hand. 
 
 As sings that bird where no eye sees, 
 Half-fearing its own melodies, 
 The brook, slow northward toward the snows, 
 Bubbling his little trouble, goes. 
 
 In naked woodlands of the vale, 
 A thousand voices utter wail ; 
 Far on the mountain, high and bare, 
 A thousand voices answer there. 
 
 Lorn branches beckon, strained in space, 
 Death-pale the field's beseeching face ; 
 Shrunk fruits drop sudden to the ground — 
 A gray shape waits on yonder mound. 
 
SNOWFLAKES. 
 
 T^ALLING ail the night-time, 
 Falling all the day, 
 Silent into silence, 
 From the far-away, — 
 
 Never came like glory 
 
 To the April leas, 
 Never summer blossoms 
 
 Thick and white as these. 
 
 Falling all the night-time, 
 
 Falling all the day, 
 Stilly as the spirits 
 
 Come from far away, — 
 
56 SNOWFLAKES. 
 
 Snowflakes, winged snowflakes, 
 Fancy, following, sees 
 
 Souls of flowers fluttering 
 Over winter leas. 
 
SONG. 
 
 HHHE weasel thieves in silver suit, 
 
 The rabbit runs in gray ; 
 And Pan takes up his frosty flute 
 To pipe the cold away. 
 
 The flocks are folded, boughs are bare, 
 
 The salmon take the sea ; 
 And O my fair, would I somewhere 
 
 Might house my heart with thee ! 
 
TO YOUNGSTERS. 
 
 /^* OLDEN hair and eyes of blue — 
 
 What won't they do, what won't they do ? 
 Eyes of blue and locks of gold — 
 My boy, you '11 learn before you 're old. 
 The gaitered foot, the taper waist — 
 Be not in haste, be not in haste ; 
 Before your chin grows twenty spear, 
 My word for 't, youngster, they '11 appear. 
 
 Raven hair and eyes of night 
 
 Undo the boys (it serves 'em right) ; 
 
 Eyes of night and raven hair — 
 
 They '11 drive you, Hopeful, to despair, 
 
 The drooping curl, the downward glance — 
 
 They 're only waiting for the chance ; 
 
TO YOUNGSTERS. 33 
 
 They 've never failed this thousand year, 
 At nick of time they '11 sure appear. 
 
 Shapely hands and arms of snow — 
 There 's nothing like them here below ; 
 Flexile wrists and fleckless hands — 
 The lass that has them understands. 
 The cheeks that blush, the lips that smile — 
 A little while, a little while- 
 Tease out the sprouts, sir, never fear, 
 Before you know it they '11 be here. 
 
 Hands, and hair, and lips, and eyes — 
 
 In these the tyro's danger lies. 
 
 You '11 meet them leagued, or one by one ; 
 
 In either case the mischief's done. 
 
 A touch, a tress, a glance, a sigh, 
 
 And then, my boy, good by — good by ! 
 
 God help you, youngster ! keep good cheer ; 
 
 Coax on your chin to twenty spear. 
 
SHE KNOWS. 
 
 "\T7HY this sighing 
 
 Of a summer night ; 
 
 All this lonely smoking, 
 Somewhere out of sight, 
 
 This rhyming to a withered rose ? 
 The cruellest of creatures 
 With crazing form and features — 
 
 She knows, she knows. 
 
 Who has done it? 
 
 Who has tamed the town ; 
 Got each dude and yokel 
 
 On his marrows down ? 
 Who rules and fools the village beaux ? 
 
SHE KNOWS, 
 
 A little dimpled elf, 
 Exceeding safe, herself — 
 She knows, she knows. 
 
 By and by, what ; 
 
 (She has asked it, too) 
 Old devices failing, 
 
 Then what will she do ? 
 She '11 find the strings — bring on the beaux : 
 
 The little angel sinner — 
 
 The very mischief 's in her — 
 She knows, she knows. 
 
WOUNDED BIRDLINGS. 
 
 • T OW is it, little lady mine, 
 
 That you in silence sit and pine? 
 Well in your teens, and have not heard 
 How worthless is a youngster's word ! 
 Why, if he 'd meant it, kept it true. 
 It had been worse for both of you, 
 
 Aha, my stripling, sighing there, 
 
 And staring into empty air, 
 
 The rustle of a rustic gown 
 
 Will trap a fellow fresh from town ! 
 
 Up, sir, for shame ! let folly go, 
 
 And thank your stars she served you so. 
 
WOUNDED BIRD LINGS. 
 
 Fall to, fall to, my pretty doves ; 
 Pin-feather fancies, callow loves — 
 My wounded birdlings, they remain 
 No more than rainbows after rain : 
 The soundest hearts at twenties two, 
 Your Cupid 's riddled through and through. 
 
THE WAY OF IT. 
 
 r I ^HE wind is awake, little leaves, little leaves, 
 
 Heed not what he says — he deceives, he de- 
 ceives : 
 Over and over 
 To the lowly clover 
 He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too) 
 That he '11 soon be lisping and pledging to you. 
 
 The boy is abroad, dainty maid, dainty maid, 
 Beware his soft words — I 'm afraid, I 'm afraid : 
 
 He 's said them before 
 
 Times many a score, 
 Ay, he died for a dozen, ere his beard pricked 
 
 through, 
 As he'll soon be dying, my pretty, for you. 
 
THE WA V OF IT. 
 
 The way of the boy is the way of the wind, 
 As light as the leaves is dainty maid-kind : 
 
 One to deceive 
 
 And one to believe — 
 That is the way of it, year to year, 
 But I know you will learn it too late, my dear. 
 
ERE WINTER WEATHER. 
 
 A LL busy in the summer weather, 
 
 Two birds will build a nest together ; 
 Will make it cosy, soft, and warm, 
 Safe from prowlers and the storm. 
 
 So, Fancy fair and Love, between 'em, 
 May make a greenwood home to screen 'em ; 
 With little twigs and odds of thread 
 Snug may put the heart to bed. 
 
 But young birds fly ere winter weather, 
 While hearts would stick it out together : 
 A frost, a norther, ice, and snow — 
 Pretties, will you heed me ? No. 
 
SWALLOW AND FAIRY. 
 
 ALL the summer will a swallow 
 Flit yon eave-nest out and in ; 
 Day and day together, 
 Twitt'ring in the sunny weather, 
 Flits she out and in : 
 But when the air gets sharp and thin, 
 And her ways the snowflakes follow, 
 Where 's the swallow — where 's the swallow ? 
 
 So, Love's castle has a fairy, 
 
 Tripping, tripping, out and in ; 
 Day and day together, 
 Singing in the sunny weather, 
 
 Trips she out and in : 
 
 But when the sober days begin, 
 Wolf to fight, and care to carry, 
 Where 's the fairy — where 's the fairy ? 
 
THE MERRY ROVER. 
 
 "\ T 7HEN the mists are thinning, 
 
 And the day beginning, 
 Shyest of wild grasses 
 Whisper, as he passes ; 
 Stillest thickets stir and sigh, 
 As he skims it lightly by : 
 Echoes call him, over — over: 
 All know the Merry Rover. 
 
 Soon as the birds sing roundelay. 
 He's a-tripping on his way : 
 On the blossom-bank, 
 Where the weeds are rank, 
 And the thick air hot ; 
 Where the winds can rifle not, 
 
THE MERRY ROVER. 43 
 
 And the wild bee's work is wrought ; 
 
 Where the drowsy hours are caught, 
 
 And held in twine 
 
 Of herbs and berry-vine — 
 
 All his rosy body bare, 
 
 Ah, the Merry Rover 's there. 
 
 By the singing meadow-brook, 
 Loves he long to sit and look ; 
 On his hands his chin, 
 Laughing, leaning, looking in. 
 
 Where the squirrels frisk and banter, 
 
 And the changing rabbits canter, 
 
 As the leaves begin to wither, 
 
 Fall, and flutter hither, thither — 
 
 There, holding his rosy sides for laughter, 
 
 Runs the Merry Rover after. 
 
 Where the old, old shadows stay, 
 All the night and all the day, 
 
THE MERRY ROVER. 
 
 Where the fireflies strike their spark, 
 'Gainst the hardness of the dark ; 
 Where gray silence, close beside him, 
 Helps the night to hide him — 
 There, must be, till peep o' sun, 
 Is his happy dreaming done. 
 
 By and by, my bonny dear, 
 Matters not what time o' year, 
 Matters not what hour o' day — 
 All the same to him, 
 Sweet Dimple-cheek, sweet Rosy-limb- 
 He '11 be coming up your way. 
 He will tell you where he 's been, 
 He will tell you what he 's seen, 
 And he '11 tell you something more, 
 W T hich you '11 never have heard before. 
 
 Ask me not, no, ask me not, 
 The Merry Rover — he will tell : 
 May he bring you happy lot — 
 He's a-coming, fare you well ! 
 
THE HEART TRAP. 
 
 /"* AILY a moth is flitting, flitting, 
 
 Around my candle ; (Heavens, the sin !) 
 Hours — hours I 've spent here, breathless sitting, 
 To have it get a wee bit in. 
 
 The sweet, sweet bird outside my window- 
 Such oft in durance vile have died — 
 
 I might forget the pains I 've been to 
 Would it but stick its head inside. 
 
 My moth, my bird, on airy visit, 
 A-flitting, flitting, here and yon ! 
 
 Nay, neither moth nor bird, what is it ? — 
 A little nearer, nearer — gone ! 
 
THE HEART TRAP. 
 
 Ha, here 's my heart trap ; nice I '11 set it, 
 Put love bait !— hist ! 'T is coming now. 
 
 In? No — yes— there ! I knew I 'd get it, 
 I knew I would somehow, somehow. 
 
THE HAPPY CAPTIVE. 
 
 A GOLDEN cage, I Ve heard, 
 Is just as cruel to the bird ; 
 But I, in close of golden hair, 
 Am happy captive there. 
 
 One dread is mine, but one ; 
 A finger-lift and — I 'm undone. 
 Dear golden bars, bend hard about 
 Oh, should she let me out ! 
 
MY LADY. 
 
 QHE 'LL not rely upon her dress, 
 To fabrics trust attractiveness ; 
 A native elegance will be 
 First sponsor for her quality. 
 
 Frail charms she will not lean upon, 
 Fading to-day, to-morrow gone ; 
 The fountains of inherent grace 
 Will well supply both form and face. 
 
 Yes, I shall know her by her mien, 
 My some-day sovereign, my queen : 
 Does she in me true subject see, 
 Straight queen and liegeman we will be. 
 
ONLY TOO TRUE. 
 
 TV 7 O blushing daughter of the morn 
 
 Can vie with her of woman born ; 
 No face at windows of the spring 
 Is like a virgin's blossoming. 
 
 Betwixt the blue lids of the sky — 
 No orb, there, mates a maiden's eye ; 
 Not mighty Mars' unfailing lance 
 Can match the mischief of its glance. 
 
 Nature, how weak art thou to harm 
 As does a dear unsleeved arm ! 
 Thy rocks would trickle into sand 
 With tingles from a dimpled hand, 
 
So ONLY TOO TRUE. 
 
 What swaying shapes of sun or shade 
 Approach the motions of a maid? 
 What snowy curve by winter traced, 
 Can take the taper of her waist ? 
 
 And that soft darkness of her hair, 
 Thy twilight shades — ah, their despair 
 Not all the striving stars beguile 
 As may one memory of her smile. 
 
 That foolish lips should speak so wise, 
 Makes merriment from earth to skies. 
 Nay, Nature, drop a dewy tear 
 For solemn knowledge bought so dear. 
 
MARGERY. 
 
 ' I ^ELL you every feature 
 
 Of so sweet a creature ! 
 What a fool I 'd be 
 To wake the whole world up to see 
 Pretty pretty Margery ! 
 
 Blue eyes full of twinkles, 
 Hair in cutest krinkles, 
 Dimples — Cautiously ! 
 I fear that you begin to see 
 Little witching Margery. 
 
 Well, then, tell me whether 
 Two rosebuds together 
 
 Could shape lips di-v 
 
 But that is making much too free 
 With the charms of Margery, 
 
5 a MARGERY. 
 
 Something of a notion 
 Of her brooky motion, 
 
 That were safe : her fee 
 
 No, no ; another word, ah me 
 And the end of Margery ! 
 
 Such a throat ! thereunder, 
 Why, the gods would wonder 
 
 As they gazed : a b 
 
 Bless me, stop there, decidedly ; 
 How she 'd blush, would Margery ! 
 
DODGING THE GODLET. 
 
 13 ESTRING your golden bow, 
 
 The silver quiver fill ; 
 You '11 hit too high, too low, 
 Young Rosy-cheeks — you will. 
 
 Look to your darts, my lad, 
 That dimpled arm prepare 
 
 Such mark was never had 
 Since arrow sped the air. 
 
 Your ringlets backward toss, 
 The silky wings lift free : — 
 
 Heaven, let no shadow cross 
 That shoulder's ivory !— 
 
DODGING THE GODLET. 
 
 A very blind man's shot ! 
 
 One side, too high, too low, 
 Too something — matters not. 
 
 She laughs : I told you so. 
 
 Once more ; down on your knee. — 
 How warm his pink heels show, 
 
 Shell colors tremblingly 
 Thro' all his body glow ! — 
 
 Once more, mine armed elf — 
 Missed it ! Go, godlet, go. 
 
 She '11 dodge old Death himself ; 
 Put up the golden bow. 
 
YOUR DIMPLED DEAR. 
 
 PHE 'S not for thought, your dimpled dear, 
 Philosophy is not her forte ; 
 But then, to corner her — I fear 
 
 You'll find it solemn sport. 
 I 've learned by search somewhat severe, 
 That she 's extremely queer — 
 Your dimpled dear. 
 
 She 's ignorant, your dimpled dear, 
 Of Huxley, Lubbock, and all such ; 
 
 But I shall be upon my bier 
 Before I know as much. 
 
 Her grandam didn't, at ninety year. 
 
 She is extremely queer — 
 
 Your dimpled dear. 
 
 She 's tender, is your dimpled dear, 
 The very sweetest thing to rhyme ; 
 
YOUR DIMPLED DEAR. 
 
 But 'tis a smile, and not a tear, 
 
 At others' weeping-time. 
 Her sympathies get out of gear, 
 She 's so extremely queer — 
 Your dimpled dear. 
 
 She 's lonely, is your dimpled dear, 
 She vows her dallying is done ; 
 
 But — take my word — it will appear 
 That you are not the one. 
 
 Why, she out-veers Miss Vere de Vere, 
 
 She 's so exceeding queer — 
 
 Your dimpled dear. 
 
 She 's plump and fair, your dimpled dear, 
 Young, lonely, lovely, innocent 
 
 O, will some Oedipus make clear 
 For what the darling 's meant, 
 
 Some Swedenborg please name her sphere, 
 
 She 's so egregious queer — 
 
 Your dimpled dear ! 
 
LUELLA. 
 
 "XT' ATE 'S at her best in an apron, 
 Jinny 's bewitching by gas, 
 
 While Becky, in kitchen or parlor, 
 Is just the ne plus of a lass ; 
 But Katie and Jinny, 
 With Sadie and Minnie 
 And Becky and Bella, 
 Are not — not Luella. 
 
 Deb, in the choir of a Sunday, 
 
 Sings like a bird in the bough ■, 
 Brisk Nan sits a saddle superbly, 
 And Betty's a charmer, somehow ; 
 But Debby and Nanny, 
 And Betty and Annie, 
 And Edna and Stella, 
 Are not— not Luella. 
 
LUELLA. 
 
 Fan is a sylph in a bonnet, 
 
 Nett has her dozens undone ; 
 Grave Addy would madden Adonis, 
 And Caddy is certain to stun ; 
 But Fanny and Addy, 
 And Nettie and Caddy, 
 And Hetty and Delia, 
 Are not — not Luelia. 
 
 Clara— the turn of her ankle ; 
 
 Dolly — her eyes and her smile ! 
 And where is the match for Semantha 
 (Unless it be Molly) in style ? 
 But Clara and Dolly, 
 Semantha and Molly, 
 And Esther and Ella, 
 Are not — not Luelia. 
 
 Heavens, what a reign of all graces ! 
 Each is a queen in her way ; 
 
LUELLA. £9 
 
 And turning it over and over, 
 There 's only a word left to say : 
 Give me one and another 
 For this and the other, 
 But, O, for a "fellah"— 
 Luella ! Luella ! ! 
 
NATURE TO THE POET. 
 
 TT chanced, not many years ago, 
 
 Upon a throbbing morn in May, 
 Our Mother met a bard, I know, 
 And thus to him did gravely say : 
 
 " My little pallid son, I fear 
 
 You '11 die some years before your time ; 
 They 're aptest things — the tape and shear, 
 To kill the rhymer and his rhyme. 
 
 " I 've told you oft the tailor bard 
 
 Is sure to cut his own life thread." 
 Then she put on so very hard 
 I dare not tell one half she said : 
 
 " Young winds, and mother winds with brood 
 Deep in the close of sober boughs ; 
 
NA TURE TO THE POET. 
 
 Old winds that scale, in savage mood, 
 The dizzy cliffs where eagles house ; 
 
 11 Those choristers that first and last 
 Lead yearly chorals of the air — 
 Bold singers of the northern blast, 
 Opening their throats in forests bare ; 
 
 " The pines which sorrow, unconsoled, 
 The owl in darkness of the hill, 
 The rattling hail when nights are cold, 
 The ringing rain when winds are still ; 
 
 " The brook with tripping melody 
 
 To witch the feet of slowest shade ; 
 The mountain torrent dashing free, 
 By neither rock nor forest stayed ; 
 
 11 Those minstrels shy with singing wings 
 Tuned, hour to hour, in tree and field- 
 
62 XA TURE TO THE POET. 
 
 The little joy the moment brings, 
 
 Their theme, in cunning lodge concealed ; 
 
 11 The bird which weaves the light of morn 
 Into the measures of his breast, 
 Which gurgles back the gladness born 
 Of dancing leaves about the nest, — 
 
 " These singers use nor tape nor shear, 
 Their shop roof is the high, blue sky : 
 I '11 let you have another year 
 
 To rid you of the goose, and try." 
 
 This chanced, I 've said, some years ago ; 
 
 Our Mother trounced him with a will, 
 But somehow — how, I do not know — 
 
 Her little son is tailoring still. 
 
WHAT SAY? 
 
 T T 7ITH twiddling quill we write, to-day, 
 That ink the page right recherche '; 
 
 With kitten strokes, light here and there, 
 
 We urge the jingle debonair, 
 The Frenchy measurelets ait font. 
 
 We prink instead of think, we play — 
 We builders of the little lay ; 
 We pink the scented pages fair 
 With twiddling quill. 
 
 It 's very cruel, oni, cest vrai, 
 To hint of harm to hearts so gay ; 
 But savez vous que sleazy wear 
 Invites the time for going bare ? 
 Le froid — confound the French ! — let 's stay 
 The twiddling quill. 
 
THE WISE PIPER. 
 
 TI 7HEN other birds sing not, 
 Rifting the drip of rain, 
 The sparrow cheerily 
 Pipes up his little strain. 
 
 The measure wayward is, 
 
 Unstudied, I dare say ; 
 But very sweet to hear 
 
 Upon a rainy day. 
 
 Fault with it might be found 
 Were the sky not quite so drear : 
 
 Bless you ! he knows it well, 
 This little piper, here, — 
 
THE WISE PIPER. 65 
 
 I could a moral point, 
 
 But it would hardly do : 
 Some ticklish bardlet — What ? 
 
 No, friend, no thought of you. 
 
THE INFORMAL COURTIER. 
 
 /^OURTIER, in unpretending dress 
 
 Of all-excelling idleness, 
 No liegeman struts that can outshine 
 Me in this good old garb of mine. 
 
 Young whirlwinds alway ask me where 
 They turn round dances in the air ; 
 And I am masker on the green 
 When fire-fly lanterns light the scene. 
 
 The squirrel, sharp in tooth and eye, 
 Salutes me as I saunter by ; 
 Yes, ere the robin starts her nest 
 She asks which bough I think the best. 
 
 V 
 
 You '11 find me hid with bats at noon, 
 Abroad with owls at rise of moon ; 
 
THE INFORMAL COURTIER. 6 7 
 
 With cant'ring hare and sleeky mole, 
 I am the same congenial soul. 
 
 I 'm free to count the hornet's rings, 
 The spots upon woodpecker wings ; 
 I take the breezes by the arm, 
 And tramp at will my neighbor's farm. 
 
 Courtier, in unpretending dress 
 Of all-excelling idleness, 
 Peerless, I serve, without a care, 
 Her Highness of the Open Air. 
 
YOU, TOO. 
 
 ~D EE — bee — bee, 
 
 Happy in my apple blossoms, 
 Merry in my cherry blossoms, 
 Happy, merry make you, 
 And no tree-toad take you. 
 
 Bee — bee — bee, 
 Busy in the sunny hours, 
 Hidden in the honey bow'rs, 
 When I hear your singing, 
 Then I fear your stinging. 
 
 Bee — bee — bee, 
 Take my treasures, every one, 
 Bring me pleasures never one, 
 To my heart sweets strike you : 
 All the world is like you. 
 
TO A TIP-UP. 
 
 OLIM, unbalanced bird, 
 
 A-tip upon the sands, 
 Here 's a friendly word, 
 A mental shaking-hands. 
 
 Ludicrous enough, 
 But not more so than I : 
 Of such teet'ring stuff 
 Is all mortality. 
 
 Man, as well as you, 
 Just bobs it on the brink : 
 Clap a bill on, too, 
 'Twould twin us in a wink. 
 
TO TREE-CRICKETS. 
 
 \70U little pulsing voices heard 
 
 The warm, still evening long, 
 Must be there 's something, could I catch it, 
 In so persistent song. 
 
 The ring is of good legend gray, 
 
 As old as Adam's fall : 
 Be what it may, let's have the whole o* 't, 
 
 The whole, or none at all. 
 
 A lusty tale, budding so well, 
 
 Should hurry to the blow ; 
 But you just keep beginning — 'ginning, 
 
 And will no further go. 
 
TO TREE-CRICKETS. 
 
 For reason good, you choose the time 
 
 When Sol is full of fire ; 
 I know you, rogues — you throb with passion 
 
 Of some wee heart desire. 
 
 Fiddle the facts out, to the last ; 
 
 I '11 stand by great and small, 
 Though they out-grizzle Granther Adam, 
 
 Poor Grannam Eve and all. 
 
 Bravo — bravo ! I catch it, now : 
 What? " Love " so long ago ! — 
 
 Yes, / believe ; I didn't promise 
 For other folk, you know. 
 
 Constant mites that briskly whip 
 One stave over and over, 
 
 How like you are, a-harping there, 
 The larger sort of lover ! 
 
TO TREE-CRICKETS. 
 
 Scratch-scratch — scratch-scratch, all the night, 
 You twang it, brave and cheery ; 
 
 One jerky stave, the whole night long — 
 Just, Deary — Deary — Deary. 
 
 High the moon rides, high and clear, 
 
 The filling dewdrops glisten ; 
 Thrum, plucky lovers ! well I know 
 
 Your little ladies listen. 
 
 Stick to 't, wooers ! So will I, 
 
 Nor ever slightest vary 
 The one sweet word of all the world — 
 
 Just, Mary — Mary — Mary. 
 
BIRTHDAY FLOWERS. 
 
 /^F those soul blossoms only found 
 Upon the poet's golden round, 
 What one will best become 
 The mistress of my home ? 
 Some queenly rose of reason — 
 The rarest of the season, 
 Or lily fancy frail and white, 
 Or hope bud blushing into light ? 
 
 So pondering, sought I far and wide, 
 Suing the muses to decide ; 
 I searched love gardens thro', 
 But not a bloom would do. 
 Shapes exquisite in fashion, 
 Colors of chastest passion, 
 Invited praise ; but none appeared 
 By quite the needful charm endeared. 
 
BIR THDA Y FLO WERS. 
 
 If, mistress mine, I could not find 
 The gift I would, a heart so kind 
 Will see these trifles bear 
 My worship and despair ; 
 Will make them hourly fairer. 
 Till they be (to the wearer) 
 The tenderest of baffled tho'ts — 
 Sweet little word forget-me-nots. 
 
THE LOST SONG. 
 
 T PON a summer day, 
 I sang a little song ; 
 And something soft did say, — 
 " It won't, it won't go wrong." 
 
 I sang it high and clear, 
 Right cheery to the last ; 
 
 But freighted with a tear, 
 It down the summer passed. 
 
 I sang it brave and loud, 
 
 The tear quenched not its flame : 
 'T was caroled to the crowd 
 
 For long applause of fame. — 
 
76 THE LOST SONG. 
 
 Now many years had gone, 
 The heralds went and came ; 
 
 Alas ! it was not on 
 
 The mighty winds of fame. 
 
 "Well, let it go," I said, 
 " The little idle song ; 
 The tear was foolish shed, 
 It did, it did go wrong." 
 
 Then, sweet, with love's own art, 
 A mother sang and smiled : 
 
 She 'd kept it in her heart 
 To sing it to my child. 
 
THE SONG UNSUNG. 
 
 /"^OULD I make mine the native skill 
 
 Of wood and stream and field, 
 The touch would not be sure enough 
 
 To bid my silence yield. 
 If nature might not, how shall art 
 
 Indite the wary strain 
 That, all the day and all the night, 
 
 Is ringing in my brain ? 
 
 It is a secret melody, 
 
 A murmuring of tho't ; 
 The breath of gentlest instrument 
 
 That woos, could win it not : 
 At sound of it the deftest hand 
 
 Would falter on the strings, 
 And Hope within the minstrel's breast, 
 
 Forever fold her wings. 
 
7 3 THE SONG UNSt/NG. 
 
 Oft as its measures rise and fall, 
 
 I think to give it tongue ; 
 Alas, it is so sweet, so sweet, 
 
 It never can be sung ! 
 No, never yet was singer's voice 
 
 Could catch this spirit air ; 
 But, O, my heart so wondrous clear 
 
 Hears every accent, there ! 
 
 Dear melody ! were it set free, 
 
 Pleasure might turn to pain : 
 Perchance sent out upon the winds, 
 
 'Twould not come home again. 
 Safely imprisoned, may it bide, 
 
 And mute shall be my tongue. — 
 Poor heart, you hear a sweeter song 
 
 Than ever bard has sung. 
 
AT THE HEARTHSIDE. 
 
 T T IS children early laid away, 
 
 His hearthside bright and still, 
 The farmer's frowns are all that say 
 The day has brought him ill. 
 
 The mother slowly strokes her arms, 
 Unsleeved and plump and fair ; 
 
 In vain you 'd try a hundred farms, 
 To find her equal there. 
 
 She softly nears the chimney nook 
 Before she ventures more : 
 
 So waters of a sunny brook 
 Do woo the moody shore. 
 
So AT THE HEARTHSIDE. 
 
 If he, if he but lift his face — 
 
 The hearth flames quicken, spring ; 
 A yielding smile, his old embrace, 
 
 And wife and kettle sing. 
 
AFTER THE COWS. 
 
 ■' T_T IGH time, high time the cows -ere hcrr.e : 
 Will lingerin' Jenny never come?" 
 The father stroked his grizzly head ; 
 
 The mtther, slowly sewir.g, said, 
 " Put :ne and :ne together : 
 The bars slip hard in rainy weather." 
 
 ; ' N ;w, mcther. io y:u mean tD say 
 
 A little quicker passed the thread, 
 As :uietly g::d mtther said, 
 " Put :ne and :ne tcgether; 
 The cows climb high in sunny weather." 
 
 " But busy Brindle with her bell, 
 (She knows the hour o' milkm' well,) 
 
82 AFTER THE COWS. 
 
 I 've often heerd her half a mile." 
 Good mother answered, with a smile, 
 11 Put lad and lass together, 
 'Tis love, not cows, in any weather." 
 
THE KITCHEN CLOCK. 
 
 TV'NITTING is the maid o' the kitchen, Milly, 
 Doing nothing, sits the chore boy, Billy : 
 " Seconds reckoned, 
 Seconds reckoned ; 
 Every minute, 
 Sixty in it. 
 Milly, Billy, 
 Billy, Milly, 
 Tick-tock, tock-tick, 
 Nick-knock, knock-nick, 
 Knockety-nick, nickety-knock, ' ' — 
 Goes the kitchen clock. 
 
 Closer to the fire is rosy Milly, 
 Every whit as close and cozy, Billy : 
 " Time's a-flying, 
 Worth your trying ; 
 
84 THE KITCHEN CLOCK. 
 
 Pretty Milly— 
 Kiss her, Billy ! 
 Milly, Billy, 
 Billy, Milly, 
 Tick-tock, tock-tick, 
 Now — now, quick — quick ! 
 Knockety-nick, nickety-knock," — 
 Goes the kitchen clock. 
 
 Something 's happened , very red is Milly, 
 Billy boy is looking very silly : 
 " Pretty misses, 
 Plenty kisses ; 
 Make it twenty, 
 Take a plenty. 
 Billy, Milly, 
 Milly, Billy, 
 Right-left, left-right, 
 That 's right, all right. 
 
THE KITCHEN CLOCK. 85 
 
 Knockety-nick, nickety-knock, " — 
 Goes the kitchen clock. 
 
 Weeks gone, still they 're sitting, Milly, Billy ; 
 O, the winter winds are- wondrous chilly ! 
 " Winter weather, 
 Close together ; 
 Wouldn't tarry, 
 Better marry. 
 Milly, Billy, 
 Billy, Milly, 
 Two-one, one-two, 
 Don't wait, 'twon't do, 
 K nockety-nick, nickety-knock, " — 
 Goes the kitchen clock. 
 
 Winters two have gone, and where is Milly ? 
 Spring has come again, and where is Billy ? 
 11 Give me credit, 
 For I did it ; 
 
86 THE KITCHEN CLOCK. 
 
 Treat me kindly, 
 Mind you wind me. 
 Mister Billy, 
 Mistress Milly, 
 My— O, O — my, 
 By-by, by-by, 
 
 Nickety-knock, cradle rock," — 
 Goes the kitchen clock. 
 
COLLIE KELSO. 
 
 /^"^VLD Sideways, up ! You harrow your track 
 
 As if every muscle had gone to rack ; 
 Ho, yonder ! see that chuck on the knoll ? 
 Time was when you cropped 'em a-top the hole. 
 Ah, Collie, it 's over ; you 've had your "day "; 
 Death whistles, and you must hobble away. — 
 Fat chuck, you 're safe ; keep on end where you are : 
 My Collie can't focus a barn so far. — 
 Brown Blessed ; he *s old, and it hurts my soul 
 To see him blink tow'rd the game on the knoll. — 
 Still a touch of youth those old bones feel ! 
 Down, plucky tyke, settle back to my heel ; 
 Back, fellow, back ! Death 's calling, I say ; 
 He whistles you off another way. — 
 
 The rhythmic beating of that tail, 
 No wonder it, at last, must fail ; 
 
COLLIE KELSO. 
 
 He thwacks it feebler, less and less — 
 Spent pendulum of pleasantness. 
 The humor of that postern motion, 
 Answering exact each passion, notion, 
 As though two hearts took turn about — 
 One thump inside, and then one out ; 
 Pacific gesture (Mercy's plan) 
 Betwixt the animal and man ! — 
 What ! This the last time I shall bless 
 
 His poor old patient shagginess ! ■ 
 
 Up, fellow, up ! Kelso, I say 
 
 Dead ! Yes, the old dog 's had his day. 
 
 He's happy in some sort of heaven ; 
 With him that watched the sleepers seven, 
 And thousand sainted Towzers there, 
 He frisks it in the fields of air. 
 
GRANNAM AND BLUE EYES. 
 
 11 T T OW many days since you were a child ? " 
 
 The blue-eyed boy looked up and smiled - 
 " Grannam, the days since you were a child ? " — 
 " Dear soul, I cannot tell : 
 Would I had lived them well." 
 
 11 How many months since you were a child ? " 
 He climbed her knee, and sweeter smiled — 
 '* Grannam, the months since you were a child ? ' 
 11 'Twere wiser far for me 
 To count the few to be.'' 
 
 11 How many years since you were a child ? " 
 Blue as the sky his eyes, so mild — 
 li Grannam, the years since you were a child ? " — ■ 
 " The years are not for me : 
 God give a-many to thee ! " 
 
gd GRANNAM AND BLUE EYES. 
 
 Soft did she stroke his pretty brown head, 
 
 But not another word she said ; 
 
 He waited long — not a word she said, 
 
 And Blue Eyes slipt, once more, 
 To his playthings on the floor. 
 
THE WIDOW'S COMFORT. 
 
 /^* REEN is the grass upon the hill, 
 
 The wild-flow'r blossoms by the way ; 
 And never ran the meadow rill 
 More lightly than it runs, to-day : 
 But the rose-grown cottage 
 'Neath the poplars tall, 
 In the wide landscape is fairest of all. 
 There, a child looks into his mother's face, 
 And wondrous brightness fills the place, 
 As he says for her widow's comfort, — 
 " Mother, I have a plan : 
 When I am once a man, 
 I '11 walk in goodly company, 
 And you shall be a lady." 
 
92 THE WIDOW'S COMFORT. 
 
 Paler the grass upon the hill, 
 
 The wild-fiow'rs fail beside the way ; 
 
 And mournfully from wood and rill, 
 
 Float dirges for the summer day : 
 
 But the lowly cottage, 
 
 Where the sick boy lies, 
 
 Still lends the splendors of Paradise. 
 
 With his last look into the mother's face, 
 
 A fadeless glory fills the place ; 
 
 And he says for her widow's comfort, — 
 " Mother, you'll come to me, 
 Wherever I may be, 
 Among the goodly company, 
 And you shall be a lady.' 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 r T^AKE of the maiden's and the mother's sigh, 
 
 Of childhood's dream, and hope that age doth 
 bless, 
 Of roses and the south wind's tenderness, 
 Of fir tree's shadow, tint of sunset sky, 
 Of moon on meadow where the stream runs by, 
 Of lover's kiss, his diffident caress, 
 Of blue eyes' yellow, brown eyes' darker, tress, 
 Of echoes from the morning bird on high, 
 Of passion of all pulses of the Spring, 
 Of prayer from every death bed of the Fall, 
 
94 SONNETS. 
 
 Of joy and woe that sleep and waking bring, 
 Of tremor of each blood-beat great and small ; 
 Now, pour into the empty soul each thing, 
 And let His finger touch that moveth all. 
 
 II. 
 
 GROWN OLD WITH NATURE. 
 
 T F true there be another, better land, 
 
 A fairer than this humble mother shore, 
 
 Hoping to meet the blessed gone before, 
 I fain would go. But may no angel hand 
 Lead on so far along the shining sand, 
 
 So wide within the everlasting door, 
 
 'Twill shut away this good, green world. No more 
 Of Earth / — Let me not hear that dread command. 
 Then must I mourn, unsoothed by harps of gold, 
 
 For sighing boughs, and birds of simple song, 
 
SONNETS. 95 
 
 For hush of night within the forest fold ; 
 
 Yea, must bemoan, amid the joyous throng, 
 These early loves. The heart that has grown old 
 
 With Nature cannot, happy, leave her long. 
 
 III. 
 THE SKILFUL LISTENER. 
 
 ' I ^HE skilful listener, methinks, may hear 
 
 The grass blades clash in sunny field together, 
 The roses kissing, and the lily, whether 
 It laugh or sigh low in the summer's ear, 
 The jewel dew-bells of the mead ring clear 
 When morning's nearing in the sweet June weather, 
 The flocked hours winging, feather unto feather, 
 The last leaf wail at waning of the year. 
 Methinks, from these we catch a passing song, 
 (The best of verities, perhaps, but seem) 
 Hearing, forsooth, shy Nature, on her round, 
 When least she imagines it ; birds, wood, and stream 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 Not only, but her silences profound, 
 Surprised by softer footfall of our dream. 
 
 IV. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 r J "HE robber artists that in ambush wait 
 
 To follow in the train of sleep, like wind 
 At evening ; ay, the color clan that bind 
 The pickets of the mind, and take its gate 
 By noiseless storm, and, merciless as fate, 
 Plunder its secret treasure, — what their kind, 
 Whence come they, how creep they the heart behind, 
 To work of mirth and murther dedicate ? 
 A touch, and, lo, the airy canvas glows ! 
 Here, coming bliss ; there, woes of bygone years: 
 This scene too well we know ; that, no man knows. 
 Confused, befooled by shifting hopes and fears, 
 At last we seem to grasp — The picture goes, 
 Fled are the workers in our smiles and tears. 
 
THE PARTING OF ILMAR AND HAADIN. 
 
 T)UT out thy torch, O watcher by the dead, 
 
 Unto the darkness give its own ; 
 Silence and darkness — they alone 
 Must minister about this breathless bed ; 
 Put out thy mocking torch, good watcher gray, 
 Thine old head cover ; come away. — 
 
 And so I leave thee, Ilmar ! That queen brow 
 
 Where diamond light were pale as mist, 
 
 I yield it up to Death, unkissed. 
 
 He took thee from me ; thou 'rt his only, now : 
 
 No, no — I cannot lay on that still hand 
 
 Mine own, and thou not understand. 
 
I THE PARTING OF ILMAR AND HA A DIN. 
 
 Mine was no little winged fantasy — 
 Gnat-passion of a summer day, 
 I loved not in the common way ; 
 Therefore must I accept this misery, 
 Must hug it close, feed me upon its pain, 
 No more than thou to smile again. 
 
 The spider can restore each riven thread, 
 
 The bee refill its empty comb ; 
 
 Alas ! the heart's imperial home, 
 
 Once plundered, goes for aye untenanted. 
 
 Henceforth I* wander, homeless, helpless, lone, 
 
 Only my bitterness mine own. 
 
 The haggard night, with wet, disheveled hair, 
 
 On her black path at large, shall be 
 
 My mate ; the gesturing specter tree 
 
 Shall reach his arms to me through glitt'ring air ; 
 
 Friends will I make where, with despairing roar, 
 
 The baffled sea assaults the shore. 
 
THE PARTING OF ILMAR AND HA A DIN, 99 
 
 Wan as the bleachen kerchief smoothed around 
 Thy whiter neck, the realm of Death 
 Shall be my realm ; and my stopt breath 
 Shall be unheard as thine down in the ground. — 
 Mine own are deaf as that sweet sleeper's ears ; 
 Watcher, why speak when neither hears ? — 
 
 Thou art so meek ! Ah, why am I not so 
 
 Because thou art ? — It cannot be : 
 
 My tameless blood increasingly 
 
 Does heat me fierce as tiger crouched low, 
 
 Hard-spotted pard, that, glancing back the glare 
 
 Of sun fire, dapples all the air. — 
 
 Had I, O wind, your liberty, the sea 
 
 Should lift so wildly he must spray 
 
 The shining azure Death's own gray, 
 
 Put out the splutt'ring stars, to say for me 
 
 How black, how cold is all this world ! — No, no ; 
 
 I must be calm. Lo, she is so ! 
 
ioo THE PARTING OF ILMAR AND HA A DIN. 
 
 Quench thy poor torch, good watcher. Death sleeps 
 
 sound : 
 A candle cannot cheat her night. 
 Do smiles strengthen the noon sun's light? 
 And shall we weep but to make wet the ground ? 
 Old man, the gaping grave — didst ever note 
 The swallowed coffin choke his throat ? 
 
 I tell thee she is Death's — Death's only, now : 
 Let us be gone. Come ! Haadin's tear 
 Would be a raindrop on that bier, 
 His breath but wind against that bloodless brow. 
 Put out thy torch — ay, thou hast done it. All 
 Is dark — how dark ! — Ilmar ! — I — fall ! 
 
LIOLAN 
 
 A ND now the call of " Liolan ! " 
 
 Filled all the thronged hall of judgment : 
 She had sinned as woman can 
 With fear of neither God nor man 
 Before her eyes. — "Summon two guardsmen 
 For the queen's maid, Liolan ! " 
 
 Shorn of her order robe, nigh nude, 
 Slow up the long, wide aisle they led her. 
 Gently led the guardsmen rude, 
 Respectful sat the multitude : 
 Were she thrice guilty, none dare jeer at 
 Such a shape of womanhood. 
 
 As stands the solitary pine 
 
 She stood, unmoved, casting her shadow. 
 
 Choked, the king saw each curved line 
 
LIOLAN. 
 
 He 'd drunk so oft in costly wine ; 
 
 His minions gazed with strained eyes fastened, 
 
 Spelled by that dark shape divine. 
 
 Only the queen stared cold as stone, 
 
 Rigid with pride, steel-hard with hatred : 
 
 Liolan had brought the throne 
 
 To shame, now let her life atone 
 
 For it. And this her lord had promised, 
 
 For her honor and his own. 
 
 Ay, such the king's high word — to screen 
 
 The gray-beard coward, not for honor : 
 
 He himself with touch unclean 
 
 Had stained the favorite of his queen, 
 
 Then pointed his polluted finger 
 
 At his son, famed Darragine. 
 
 Her heart by this young soldier won, 
 Bitter was Liolan's repentance 
 For the evil she had done. 
 
LIOLAN. 103 
 
 A sinless life but now begun, 
 
 Lo, she was called to the hall of judgment— 
 
 And brave Darragine was gone. 
 
 To death the king doomed Liolan, 
 But he must mask it in compassion : 
 " Woman, merciful, we plan 
 To spare thy life if straight the man 
 That sinned with thee appear before us. 
 Bid him hither, Liolan." 
 
 Low to the king bowed Liolan, 
 
 Then slowly turned her toward the people : 
 
 Hear me ! More I ask not than 
 
 This boon : If I timely bring the man, 
 
 See to it that I go forth scathless, 
 
 Not queen's maid, but— Liolan. 
 
 " Good people, meanest life is dear, 
 I know you would not take it lightly. 
 Grant one word in the king's ear ; 
 Then, if he bid it, instant here 
 
to4 LIOLAN. 
 
 Shall be the one with me in evil." — 
 Pleased, the king bade her draw near. 
 
 Lithe as the supple panther can, 
 The queen's maid leaned over the monarch, 
 When a flash like lightning ran 
 The air through. " Look," cried Liolan, 
 Holding on high her studded dagger, 
 " Gentle friends, behold the man ! " 
 
 That moment through the guarded door 
 Sprang in a band of swarthy troopers, 
 Darragine striding before : 
 " Your sabres ! Strike him to the floor 
 That lifts a hand ! — Ye know me, comrades ; 
 Mark my words : I say no more." — 
 
 From out the hall walked Liolan, 
 While still the guilty king lay bleeding. 
 She had struck as woman can 
 When stung by faithless lust of man : 
 Honor itself to honest lover, 
 Safe passed plighted Liolan. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF NATURE. 
 
 'HP* HE songs of Nature never cease, 
 Her players sue not for release. 
 In nearer fields, on hills afar, 
 Attendant her musicians are : 
 From water brook or forest tree, 
 For aye comes gentle melody, 
 The very air is music blent — 
 An universal instrument. 
 Beneath the voice of brook or bird, 
 There is another nigh unheard ; 
 Does sound a moment drop the strain, 
 Then silence takes it up again, 
 Still sweeter — as a memory 
 
to6 NA TURE. 
 
 Is sweeter than the things that be. 
 Pleased Nature's heart is alway young, 
 Her golden harp is ever strung ; 
 Singing and playing, day to day, 
 She passes, happy, on her way. 
 
 II. 
 
 IN PRIMEVAL WOOD. 
 
 t I^HIS deep, primeval wood — how still ! 
 Lo, Silence here makes all his own ; 
 Veiled shapes, with hands upon their lips, 
 Stand round about his darkened throne. 
 
 The patient pleading of the trees — 
 How deep it shames the soul's despair ! 
 In supplication moveless, mute, 
 They keep their attitude of prayer. 
 
NA TURE. 107 
 
 III. 
 
 THE OLD TREE. 
 
 \70N stricken monarch — lifeless form !— 
 
 No longer scorns the winter storm ; 
 Tempest, at last, and length of days 
 Have mastered : lo ! the king decays. 
 
 That shape so pitiful, once stood, 
 The Saul of his tall brotherhood ; 
 From out his boughs, now ragged, sere, 
 Rang blithest songs of all the year. 
 
 Time was when gravely to his shade, 
 At noon, the lordlier cattle strayed ; 
 When into his arms, at fall of night, 
 The shyest bird dropt from her flight. 
 
 Years since, I climbed that highest bough ; 
 Only the hawk dare trust it, now. 
 
io8 NA TURE. 
 
 Alas ! I, too, was younger then : 
 We go together, oaks and men. 
 
 How like our own last reach of prayV- 
 Those empty hands upheld in air, 
 Our own stern close with destiny 
 The struggle of the aged tree ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE BEECHES BRIGHTEN EARLY MAY. 
 
 nr^HE beeches brighten early May, 
 
 And young grass shines along her way ; 
 Now, Joy first bares his sunny head, 
 Leaned over brook and blossom bed ; 
 The smell of Spring fills all the air, 
 And wooing birds make music there. 
 Though naught of sound or sight does grieve, 
 From quiring morn to quiet eve, 
 
KA TUR£. 109 
 
 My restless thoughts are forward cast : 
 This loveliness — it cannot last. 
 The merry field, the ringing bough, 
 Will silent be as tuneful now ; 
 Chill, warning winds will hither roam, 
 The Summer's children hasten home : 
 That blue solicitude of sky 
 Bent over beauty doomed to die, 
 Ere long will, pitying, witness here, 
 The yielded glory of the year. 
 
 V. 
 SUMMER NOON. 
 
 A SUMMER noon is this, 
 
 The trees are breathless, every one : 
 Underneath the shadow is, 
 And overhead the sun. 
 
NA TURE. 
 
 Alone, the butterfly- 
 Lifts fitfully in lower air ; 
 
 While the circling hawk on high 
 Is all that 's moving there. 
 
 The brook — does it go by ? 
 
 Is it the water brook, which flows ? 
 'Tis more like a line of sky, 
 
 So quietly it goes. 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO A HUMMING-BIRD. 
 
 *\ ~\ 7TTH a whirr and with a hover, 
 
 Fickle, spinning blossom-lover, 
 Arab of the golden air, 
 Type of all that 's fleet and fair, 
 
 Incarnate gem, 
 
 Live diadem, 
 
NA TURE. 
 
 Bird-beam of the summer day, — 
 Whither on thy sunny way ? 
 
 Hope too high — bid it forsake thee, 
 To her breast the rose would take thee ; 
 Loveliest of lovely things, 
 Look on her, and fold thy wings : 
 
 Yea, take thy rest 
 
 Upon her breast, 
 So forget lost Paradise, 
 Star-bird fallen from happy skies. 
 
 Vanished ! — Back I cannot call him, 
 Would not. Gentlest fate befall him ! 
 Seeking that that is not here, 
 I must follow him with fear — 
 
 Swift passion-thought 
 
 In rapture wrought, 
 Plumed with azure and with fire 
 Of a burning heart's desire. 
 
NA TURE. 
 
 VII. 
 MONARCH OF THE NORTH. 
 
 T TNBARRED, to-day, the arctic door, 
 The royal army marches forth ; 
 
 Back ! angry blasts ride on before 
 
 The hoary Monarch of the North ! 
 
 The trumpets sound, the captains glance, 
 
 From crest to crest, from lance to lance ; 
 
 Think ye to move his heart with prayer, 
 
 This gray old terror of the air ? 
 
 He glories in the dying groan, 
 
 The shrunken flesh, the staring bone ; 
 
 He gloats upon each pleading eye 
 
 As savagely he passes by. 
 
 Rouse ! up ! it is the warrior's day, 
 
 Wild hosts of Winter march this way ! 
 
 Beware — again the trumpets blare ! 
 
 Lo, answering powers crowd the air ; 
 
NA TURE. 113 
 
 Dread horde invisible, they drive 
 Together, wrestle, fiercely strive, 
 In writhing masses downward leap, 
 Down — down the helpless valley sweep. 
 Onward they ravage ; hark — the roar 
 From mountain top to ocean shore ! 
 Aha, who bars the arctic door, 
 Who shall oppose his marching forth ? 
 Back — back ! mad blasts ride on before 
 Wroth Winter, Monarch of the North ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ABREAST WITH OLD STORM. 
 
 " /CROUCH by your cheery fire, 
 
 Ay, draw your bare bones nigher, 
 Dwarfed, shriveled son of a bloodless sire ! ' 
 So shouts Old Storm with a rousing roar 
 As he slams my door. 
 
ii 4 NA TURE. 
 
 Hold ! Not too fast, Old Storm : 
 Rather, to keep me warm 
 I will abroad. Here 's your mate, Old Storm- 
 Ready ! I 'm with you for farthest shore ; 
 Roar, grim braggart, roar ! 
 
 Out on the frozen ground, 
 Whizzing from mound to mound, 
 I care no whit to what quarter bound ; 
 In whirling leap to the tempest-tide, 
 Now for 't, side by side ! 
 
 Vaulting the mountain's crown, 
 Swooping the valley down ; 
 Among the steeples that peak the town, 
 Along the rivers, past wood and plain — 
 Storm, it is we twain ! 
 
 Felling the tall trees fast, 
 
 All to the earth we '11 cast ; 
 
 Men's houses, yea, their gray tombs, at last. 
 
NA TURE. 115 
 
 Lead on, Old Storm ! Be it chasm or steep, 
 Tis as one we leap. 
 
 On ! for 'twill soon be day, 
 
 Let there be no delay ; 
 
 On — on, Old Storm,, not a moment stay ! 
 
 Steer straight— you stagger — you slack your 
 
 speed ; 
 To your steps give heed. 
 
 Howl ! — why, your voice grows thin ! 
 March ! — why, your knees give in ! 
 Aha, Old Storm, shall the weakling win ? 
 The earth and sea and the air are his : 
 'Tis in Genesis. 
 
 IX. 
 SUNRISE IN THE FOREST. 
 
 T T 7TTHIN this wood from man removed, 
 The satyrs, poised, with standing ears 
 
n6 NA TURE. 
 
 Close listen, as in olden time ; 
 
 With them all folk old poets say 
 
 Are nurtured 'neath the forest leaves. 
 
 Happy the heart here welcome made 
 
 By them, lapt in green quietude, 
 
 In cool maturity of shade : 
 
 Benignant beings, best of friends 
 
 I find these legendary shapes, 
 
 Taking the likeness thought may please. 
 
 Shy creatures ! They will leave me, now ; 
 
 Eastward their gentle faces turn. 
 
 A breath, fresh from the heights of morn, 
 
 Rouses the oak : through all his leaves 
 
 A tremor runs, and waking birds 
 
 Send on the thrill from hill to hill, 
 
 In a love-burdened burst of song. 
 
NATURE. 117 
 
 X. 
 
 EVENING CLOUDS. 
 
 PLOW, changeful shapes, afar and lone, 
 
 Along the sea that makes no moan, 
 Like surf against a voiceless shore 
 The evening clouds roll up once more. 
 
 No sounds of sorrow or of pleasure 
 Accompany that stately measure : 
 Remote and lone, they 're rolling, white, 
 To land — the silent Land of Night. 
 
 Along, along the azure ocean, 
 On and on with mazy motion, 
 Thronging the fady heights of day, 
 They take their evanescent way. 
 
EVENING SONGS. 
 XL 
 
 7 T is that pale, delaying hour 
 
 When Nature closes like a flower, 
 And on the spirit hallowed lies 
 The silence of the earth and skies. 
 
 The world has thoughts she will not own 
 When shades and dreams with night have flown ; 
 Bright overhead, the early star 
 Makes golden guesses what they are. 
 
 A 
 
 XII. 
 
 LIGHT lies here, a shadow there, 
 With little winds at play between ; 
 
NATURE— {EVENING SONGS). ng 
 
 As though the elves were delving where 
 The sunbeams vanished in the green. 
 
 The softest clouds are flocking white 
 Among faint stars with centres gold : 
 
 Slowly from daisied fields of night, 
 Heaven's shepherd fills his airy fold. 
 
 N 
 
 XIII. 
 
 OW is Light, sweet mother, down the west, 
 
 With little Song against her breast : 
 She took him up, all tired with play, 
 And fondly bore him far away. 
 
 But his sister — she is singing still, 
 The merry Maiden of the Rill : 
 She follows happy waters after, 
 Leaving behind low, rippling laughter. 
 
NA TURE-{EVENlNG SOtfGS). 
 
 XIV. 
 
 T> EHIND the hill top drops the sun, 
 
 The curled heat falters on the sand, 
 While evening's ushers, one by one, 
 Lead in the guests of Twilight Land. 
 
 The bird is silent overhead, 
 
 Below the beast has laid him down ; 
 Afar the marbles watch the dead, 
 
 The lonely steeple guards the town. 
 
 The south wind feels its amorous course 
 To cloistered sweets in thickets found ; 
 
 The leaves obey its tender force, 
 And stir 'twixt silence and a sound. 
 
NATURE— {EVENING SONGS). 
 
 XV. 
 
 WON ragged cliff looks gentler down, 
 The twilight dims its grisly scars ; 
 Hushed earth awaits that second dawn, 
 The morning of the moon and stars. 
 
 Far creeping clouds — unguarded flock — 
 At pleasure rove the pathless sky ; 
 
 While watchful eyes of waters still, 
 Look up and count them, passing by. 
 
 Belated birds from paths of air, 
 Deep into closed boughs have gone ; 
 
 Joy's smallest minstrels, all as one, 
 Alone their tireless pipes play on. 
 
 The nimble herds that take the hill, 
 The sober droves that crop the dell, 
 
 Worn beasts of toil, with creatures wild, 
 In universal shadow dwell. 
 
I'VE SEEN THE SUN OX THE HILL TOP, 
 THERE. 
 
 T 'YE seen the sun on the hill top, there, 
 Shine all as bright in a harlot's hair ; 
 I 've known no midnight black as the morn 
 An innocent babe to earth was born. 
 
STRIVE ON, DOOMED SOUL. 
 
 O TRIVE on, doomed soul, cross the sword with 
 Fate, 
 
 Blind Time's award — set no store thereby ; 
 Th' unclean may creep to the Golden Gate, 
 
 The saint plunge, damned, from his place on high. 
 
THE BLACK DAWN. 
 
 HP HERE was crying by night, and the winds were 
 
 loud, 
 Worn women were working a burial shroud : 
 11 She is gone," they said ; " ay," they said, " she is 
 
 gone ! " 
 And the night winds moaned, and the hours went on. 
 
 But the morrow dawned clear, and the world shone 
 
 bright, 
 No trace was there left of the dreadful night : 
 " Nay ! " cried the lover, " the sun is long gone ! 
 How the night winds sigh ! Do the hours move 
 
 on?" 
 
I NEED NOT HEAR. 
 
 T NEED not hear each night wind loud 
 
 Go moaning down the wold, 
 I need not lift each bleachen shroud 
 From bodies white and cold 
 
 Call not, O naked, wailing Fall, 
 
 O man's unhappy race ! 
 One drifting leaf — it tells me all, 
 
 'Tis all in one pale face. 
 
TO HOPE. 
 
 A H, Hope, no more — no more 
 Deceive 
 That my heart may believe ; 
 For I know that the flake will follow 
 On the airy way of the swallow, 
 That the drift will lie where the lily blows, 
 And the icicle hang from the stem of the rose : 
 Ah, Hope — no more ! 
 
 Nay, Hope, once more — once more 
 Beguile 
 With thine olden smile, 
 Though I know that the flake must follow 
 On the airy way of the swallow, 
 That the drift must lie where the lily blows, 
 And the icicle hang from the stem of the rose : 
 Ah, Hope—once more ! 
 
T 
 
 TO THE FALL WIND. 
 
 HAT I might borrow thy voice, Fall Wind, 
 To sing the sorrow of human kind ; 
 To speak for speechless tears, 
 For the hopes and fears 
 Of the wearisome years ! 
 
 That I might borrow thy voice, Fall Wind, 
 To sing the sorrow of human kind : 
 
 Fall Wind, thy voice to grieve 
 For the hopes that deceive 
 And the hearts that believe ! 
 
ONE. 
 
 /^VNE day is gladdest of the year, 
 
 One loveliest when shadows near ; 
 One cloud floats softest, lone and high, 
 One star is brightest of the sky. 
 
 One glory, when the winds are still, 
 Gleams keenest on the wintry hill ; 
 One whitest lily, reddest rose — 
 None other such the summer knows. 
 
 Once come and gone — the one dear face, 
 Forever empty is its place ; 
 But one far voice the lover hears, 
 Sounding across the waste of years. 
 
TO ALICE. 
 
 /""\NE lived whose wont it was, at eventide, 
 
 To lean upon a hoar rock's lichened side ; 
 There would she heed, not nature's voices clear, 
 But those beyond the hearing of the ear. 
 
 Her steadfast eyes looked softness through the vast, 
 Like moonlight in deep forest — lost, at last ; 
 She leaned : no thought can stiller be, 
 Not dream itself can rest more dreamingly. 
 
 Hearts are that open only to some high, 
 Pure realm, as blossoms open to the sky : 
 Such heart was hers. She came, and passed away 
 As goes the light at dying of the day. 
 
i 3 o TO ALICE. 
 
 She came and went, but in the sun and wind 
 Left faithfulest remembrancers behind : 
 There 's something of her in each breeze that blows, 
 Each color-change from April to the snows. 
 
 II. 
 
 T OY, bringing roses, found thee, 
 ** With fairest flowers crowned thee ; 
 He promised all a lover may : 
 Thou sentest him away. 
 
 Sorrow no less admired thee, 
 For his dark breast desired thee ; 
 He came with gift of great domain — 
 Alone, went back again. 
 
 Time in his triumph sought thee, 
 His rarest offerings brought thee ; 
 
TO ALICE. 
 
 He vowed to love thee aye and aye : 
 Still thou didst answer, " Nay." 
 
 Death, last, did wiser woo thee ; 
 He whispered softly to thee, 
 1 Grief goeth, Joy and Time wax dim ! "- 
 Thou gavest thyself to him. 
 
 w 
 
 III. 
 
 HEN Death approached thee, Alice, 
 Life smote the olden foe ; 
 
 But when he kissed thee, Alice, 
 And thou didst answer low, 
 
 To his great love she yielded, 
 And, weeping, let thee go. 
 
i 3 2 TO ALICE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 TV yf OURNFUL Voice, haunting the quiet air, 
 
 What the burden of thy long despair ? 
 What the whispered mystery of grief 
 Trembling ever on the summer leaf ? 
 
 Sadder far than any song of tears, 
 Whose the music that my lone heart hears ? 
 Wandering Sorrow, come and take thy rest ; 
 Thou art welcome to mine empty breast. 
 
 — Oh, the passion breathed against my brow : 
 Human is this touch ! — I know thee, now : 
 Thou dost bring me kisses Alice gave, 
 Reached thro' quickened grasses on her grave. 
 
TO A LICE. 133 
 
 V. 
 
 r T^HE years are seven 
 
 Since by brook and wood 
 We wandered, or in rapture stood ; 
 She, my own, 
 With my heart ingrown, 
 My love and I, her lover, 
 Beneath night's kindly cover : 
 Yea, the years are seven 
 Since we watched for the stars of heaven. 
 
 The years are seven ; 
 
 And, O traitor years ! 
 
 We, fearing, trusted still, with tears, 
 
 Where is she 
 
 That was all to me ? — 
 
 Beneath th' unlifted cover. 
 
 Lo, night to night goes over— 
 
134 TO ALICE. 
 
 Are the years but seven 
 
 That have stricken the stars from heaven ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 " TV T OT her," cried Life ; " Alice is mine ": 
 
 Gray Death smiled faintly, — "No, not 
 thine." 
 And is Life strong ? Yea, but Death stronger : 
 Soon they strove no longer. 
 
 Then Life fell weeping bitterly, 
 So sorely Death, pitying, drew nigh ; 
 And, now, they sit in sunny weather, 
 By thy grave together. 
 
 Ay, Life and Death close friends have grown 
 Since thou didst die. I am alone ; 
 With Life, with Death, I have no part. — 
 Oh, my heart— my heart ! 
 
SONG OF THE SLEEPERS. 
 
 HPHE mold is our mother ; 
 
 She trusts no other. 
 Life must lay down 
 Both robe and crown ; 
 Naught can keep 
 The fairest from sleep ; 
 His labors shall close, 
 And the toiler repose. 
 
 The mold is our mother ; 
 We have no other. 
 All lips shall be sealed, 
 The old hurts healed ; 
 On the mother's breast 
 Shall her children rest. 
 
i35 SONG OF THE SLEEPERS. 
 
 As the day is bright, 
 
 So dark the night. 
 
 A glowing, a gloom, 
 
 The cradle, the tomb, 
 
 'Tis to come and go 
 
 Like the summer, the snow ; 
 
 Remembered, forgot, 
 
 We are — and are not. 
 
 The mold is our mother, 
 More kind than another : 
 With the gift of years 
 For smiling and tears, 
 Is a better, she saith — 
 The blessing of death. 
 
 Set the font by the urn ; 
 For the given return. 
 The fairest we know, 
 Has her bed below, 
 
SONG OF THE SLEEPERS. 137 
 
 And the daughter of care 
 Finds quiet there. 
 
 We may laugh or may weep, 
 We have waked and must sleep ; 
 The young and the old 
 In the mother mold, 
 The blamed and the blest 
 On the mother breast. 
 
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