PS 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 Shelf ^.CsTsTS 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
yonqttilles 
 
 and 
 
 Heather-Bloom. 
 
 BY 
 
 JANE GREY and MAY MORROW. 
 
 
 PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 1893- 
 
 ^'■-^^■"Y,. 
 
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 Copyright, 1892, by Anna M. Carpenter. 
 
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CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JONQUILLES 7 
 
 Easter Morning 7 
 
 Snow-Drops 9 
 
 March 10 
 
 To THE Hepatica 10 
 
 April 11 
 
 In the Dawning 12 
 
 Passion-Flowers 13 
 
 The Bluebird's Song 14 
 
 Lines to 14 
 
 Crowned 15 
 
 Discontent 16 
 
 The Spirit of Song 16 
 
 A Mother's Lament 17* 
 
 Decoration Day 18 
 
 Dream-land 19 
 
 When the Roses Blow 20 
 
 An Eve in June 21 
 
 Night in June 21 
 
 A Vanished June 22 
 
 On Dream-land's Shore 23 
 
 The Warning 24 
 
 Bemorse 25 
 
 Lesbia 25 
 
 Aspersion 26 
 
 3 
 
4 Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Visitant 27 
 
 MossKS 28 
 
 Delusion 29 
 
 In the Silent City 30 
 
 Vespertine 31 
 
 Regret 32 
 
 Elinor 33 
 
 My Guest 34 
 
 Just as of Yore 35 
 
 At Birth of Dawn 35 
 
 Life's Chalice 36 
 
 Waiting for the Night 37 
 
 The Mission of the Rosk 38 
 
 Morning-Glories 38 
 
 He who sang "Sweet Home" 39 
 
 An Autumn Ramble 40 
 
 Desolation 41 
 
 October 41 
 
 Jack Frost 43 
 
 November 44 
 
 The Bride of Death 45 
 
 Autumn-Tide 46 
 
 In Dreams 47 
 
 The Poets 47 
 
 A Christmas Chant 48 
 
 The Old Year and the New 48 
 
 A Dream 49 
 
 The Singer 50 
 
 Time and Death 51 
 
 Song 51 
 
 To Margaretta 52 
 
 To THK Ivy ON the Wall 53 
 
Contents. 5 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Gift of Song 54 
 
 Heliotrope 56 
 
 When Years have Flown 57 
 
 Lilts of Song 58 
 
 To 58 
 
 Drowned 58 
 
 To-MoRROW 59 
 
 Passing into Dreams 60 
 
 Where'er thou Goest 61 
 
 Why, Old Winter? 61 
 
 A Tribute 62 
 
 Why Cooes the Dove? 62 
 
 Nature's Devotee 63 
 
 Pines 64 
 
 Plaint of the Wanderer 65 
 
 Winter's Harp 66 
 
 The Scattered Flock 66 
 
 Wintry Memories 66 
 
 A Winter Chime 67 
 
 Beneath the Snow 68 
 
 Haunted by a Song 69 
 
 Sleep 69 
 
 Fledged and Flown 70 
 
 Evening Song 71 
 
 Never More 72 
 
 Out of the Gloom 72 
 
 Looking West 73 
 
 Mountain-Laurel 74 
 
 Her Face 74 
 
 Tuberoses 75 
 
 A Thought 76 
 
 Sylva 76 
 
 1* 
 
6 Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Moth-er 77 
 
 A Missing Voice 78 
 
 To AN English Poet 78 
 
 Imagination 79 
 
 a rondelet 79 
 
 The Forgotten Tryst 80 
 
 Not for a Mine 81 
 
 Changed 82 
 
 Impromptu Lines , ... 83 
 
 Feuille-Morte 84 
 
 Crimson Roses 84 
 
 At Last 86 
 
 Easter Joy 87 
 
 Thou hast Unravelled 88 
 
JOIS^QTJILLES. 
 
 JoNQUiLLE with the crimson cup, 
 Crimson dashed with orient gold, 
 
 Poet ne'er your praise hath sung, 
 Nor your grace in measure told. 
 
 Waxy petals, snowj^ white, 
 
 Perfume-breathing calyx fair, 
 Lowly bending toward the earth 
 
 Like a devotee at prayer. 
 
 Easter was your time to blow ; 
 
 When on Golgotha's waste you stood, 
 'Twas there you caught that crimson glow 
 
 W^hiie dropped the dying Jesus' blood. 
 
 EASTEE MOENING. 
 
 Brightly broke the third day mornin; 
 
 O'er Gethsemane of old, 
 All the eastern heights adorning 
 
 In a shadowy veil of gold. 
 
 7 
 
Easter Morning. 
 
 Sadly rose the sorrowing Mary 
 From a sleepless night of pain, 
 
 And with orient spices laden 
 Seeks the sepulchre again. 
 
 Amethystine blossoms springing 
 As she passes to the tomb ; 
 
 Vapory sweets an incense flinging 
 From their golden-hearted bloom. 
 
 Stainless snow-drops, starry crocus, 
 And the royal violet blue, 
 
 Greet her with a joyous welcome 
 As they burst to life anew. 
 
 But she recks not spring-tide's glory, 
 Wrapt in brooding sorrow deep. 
 
 Winds and waves prelude the story. 
 Yet doth stricken Mary weep. 
 
 Ah ! couldst see beyond the shadows, 
 Burning tears were quickly dried. 
 
 Lo ! the Master hath arisen. 
 Lives again the crucified ! 
 
 See, the stone that held the portal 
 Loving hands have rolled away — 
 
 ]^ot the trembling hand of mortal, 
 Nor a sturdy arm of clay. 
 
Snow-Di^ops. 
 
 ADgel might the Father sendeth, 
 And the rock is rent in twain ; 
 
 Heavenly guest with love attendeth, 
 Watcheth where the Lord hath lain. 
 
 SNOW-DEOPS. 
 
 How shall we paint their dainty cups, 
 
 These stainless bells of snow 
 That lift their bloom to seek the light 
 
 While winter lies below ? 
 
 How shall we paint their fairy grace? 
 
 Their subtle sweets we know 
 Awake delight within the mind 
 
 And set the pulse aglow. 
 
 They brave each storm with faint, sweet 
 smile, 
 
 l!^or heed the WMnds that blow ; 
 They only know that light is fair, 
 
 And seek its genial glow. 
 
 O ! sweet white harbingers of spring, 
 
 No fairer flower hath earth ; 
 Ye must have dropt from angel-wing 
 
 To crown glad Easter's birth. 
 
10 To the Hepatica. 
 
 MAECII. 
 
 Like a bright-eyed maid she entered in 
 (This month of stormy weather), 
 
 With a wild-flower wreath beneath her chin, 
 And her glad hands clasped together. 
 
 Oh, rare was her robe of fleecy white, 
 And veil of sparkling splendor ! 
 
 Folding the snow-drops from our sight 
 And hiding the bndlets tender. 
 
 And gay was the light of her matchless 
 eyes. 
 And the smile from her bright lips beam- 
 ing, 
 As she lightly stept from the wintry skies 
 While a slumbering world lay dreaming. 
 
 TO THE HEPATICA. 
 
 Bright amethystine star, 
 
 Glad'ning the woodland wide, 
 
 We greet thee, near and far, 
 Sweet herald of spring-tide. 
 
April. 1 1 
 
 Thou wearest the blue of heaven 
 
 Upon thy silken breast; 
 Of all fair Spring hath given 
 
 Thou art the loveliest. 
 
 In many a sheltered dell 
 
 Thy petals fair put forth ; 
 Thou lovest the hill-side well 
 
 Which shields thee from the North. 
 
 'Neath mossy knoll and brae, 
 
 Where only lichens grew, 
 " Sol" poured the sapphire ray 
 
 That tinged thy leaflets blue. 
 
 APEIL. 
 
 Wild wintry winds no longer blow, 
 
 Spring's harbingers have come; 
 The flitting bluebirds come and go. 
 And robins in the barn-eaves low 
 Prepare a summer home. 
 
 And close beside the garden wall 
 
 The snow-dro2)s open wide, 
 As if in answer to the call 
 Of thrushes in the pear-tree tall, 
 Where budding blossoms hide. 
 
12 In the Daioning, 
 
 The hills have doffed their crowns of snow, 
 
 The streams again flow free ; 
 The vernal zephyrs softly blow, 
 And in the tasselled maple bough 
 
 Is heard the murmuring bee. 
 
 The skies assume the same warm blue 
 
 They wear in summer hours, 
 And soon fair Nature's face we'll view. 
 With sunny radiance smiling through 
 
 A veil of leaves and flowers. 
 
 IN THE DAWNING. 
 
 Where the fair Paulownia's* purple bloom 
 Hangs royally sweet o'er my casement 
 high, 
 
 Glad robins come in the early gloom 
 With a silvery flood of melody. 
 
 They come with the spring-tide's first faint 
 
 And sing with a joy that is theirs alone ; 
 Oh, the birds love best the dawn of day. 
 And this royal tree is their chosen throne! 
 
 * The Paulovvnia imperialis 
 
Passio n- Flo tvers. 1 3 
 
 In its outstretched arms they sway and sin a-, 
 While their red breasts swell with the 
 
 notes they pour, 
 And Earth grows glad while their voices 
 
 ring, 
 And smiles while they trill the same song 
 
 o'er. 
 
 PASSION-FLOWEES. 
 
 "What are these," you ask, "I wear 
 With such mute solemnity?" 
 
 They are passion-flowers rare. 
 Gathered in Gethsemane I 
 
 O'er that garden's ancient wall 
 Purple blossoms droop and trail. 
 
 And where mystic shadows fall 
 Mournfully the west winds wail. 
 
 On each passion-flower's breast 
 Lies the cross in holy sign ; 
 
 And above this heart's unrest 
 I now wear their bloom divine. 
 2 
 
14 Li7ie^ to 
 
 THE BLUEBIED'S SONG. 
 
 His soDg is like the perfume 
 
 From purple violets flung, 
 So silvery is its cadence, 
 
 So subtly sweet 'tis sung. 
 
 Once heard 'tis heard forever 
 Down in the musing heart, 
 
 Just as the violet's fragrance 
 Floats back when they depart. 
 
 Long after they have faded 
 
 Or wilted 'neath our gaze. 
 The witchery of their essence 
 
 Steals back through memory's maze. 
 
 His song is like the perfume 
 
 From purple violets cast, 
 And thrills spring's vernal morning 
 
 With strains too glad to last. 
 
 LINES TO . 
 
 (With spring violets.) 
 
 I HAVE gathered and knotted with thread of 
 gold 
 
 Spring violets white and blue. 
 And their fragrant cups a prayer enfold, 
 
 Breathed into their hearts for you. 
 
Crowned, 15 
 
 CPvOWNED. 
 
 Pale, bursting buds and snowy bells, 
 
 In cross and crown to-day. 
 Were twined to deck a lovely one, 
 
 But not a queen of May. 
 
 The lilies white and rose-wreathed cross 
 On pulseless breast were laid, — 
 
 Alas! how oft earth's fixirest flowers 
 Are doomed the first to fade ! 
 
 The valley lily shed its sweets 
 
 Amid her hair and dress ; 
 Oh, rarely hath the coffin hid 
 
 Such touching loveliness! 
 
 But should the tear of anguish flow, 
 Or hearts with woe be riven. 
 
 If He who bade the blossoms blow 
 Now culis a bud for heaven ? 
 
 No ! Faith and Hope both bid ye cast 
 Grief's gloom from soul and brow. 
 
 And point ye where with glory crowned 
 She waits for loved ones now. 
 
16 The Spirit of Song. 
 
 DISCONTENT. 
 
 A LAUGH rings up from the street below, 
 
 Borne up by the morning breeze, 
 With the silver tinkle in its flow 
 Of a heart that throbs at ease ; 
 And while wondering who the owner may be 
 Of a heart that laughs so merrily. 
 The laugh rings on and the feet glide by 
 Till their joyous sounds in the distance die. 
 
 Oh, fain would I give ni}^ couch of down, 
 With its hangings of rose and dead-leaf brown. 
 And those gifts of art, and painted walls. 
 With the glitter and gleam of stately halls, 
 Could they buy a heart as free of care 
 As hers who laughs in the frosty air ! 
 
 THE SPIEIT OF SONG. 
 
 When the soul of music throbbeth 
 
 In thy bosom's inmost core. 
 And you feel soft spirit fingers 
 
 vSounding chords scarce touched before 
 
 Lay aside each common duty, 
 
 Listen to the goddess fair; 
 In the guise of song she cometh. 
 
 With a footstep light as air. 
 
A Mother^ s Lament 17 
 
 From the border-land she glideth 
 With a missive, bard, for thee. 
 
 And in silence fills thy bosom 
 With Promethean ecstasy. 
 
 A MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 When Spring shall bring each joy she hath 
 
 And robe the earth in bloom, 
 These eyes will only see the path 
 
 That wends to one lone tomb. 
 
 The throstle's note henceforth must knell 
 
 Like sorrow on. mine ear. 
 Since she w^ho loved his song so well 
 
 No more that song shall hear. 
 
 My beautiful, my snow-white flower, 
 
 LTnscathed by breath of sin ! 
 Alas ! that black-winged Death should lower 
 
 And fold such whiteness in. 
 
 The glad'ning vSpring can never Avake 
 
 For me one joyful dream ; 
 My tears must flow for her sweet sake 
 
 Till death shall staj- the stream. 
 
 2* 
 
18 Decoration Day. 
 
 DECOEATION DAY. 
 
 The tide of contention that surgingly swept 
 'Tween the ]N||rth and the South has at last 
 
 Been stayed, and the tears both their people 
 have wept 
 Have washed out the stains of the past. 
 
 From the heart of the fair, sunny South 
 Cometh forth 
 Warm proffers of friendship once more ; 
 Their symbolic palm and the pine of the 
 North 
 Now mingle their sprays as of yore. 
 
 And the white wings of Peace are shelteringly 
 spread 
 Over all the bright land of the free. 
 Then why should brave freemen to malice be 
 wed 
 Or brooders of enmity be? 
 
 "'Neath oblivion's shade" let us bury for aye 
 The rancor we cherished too long, 
 
 And under the odorous blossoms of May 
 Cast the memory of sorrow and wrong. 
 
Dream-land. . 19 
 
 A tribute of liliea we scatter to-day 
 
 O'er the brave ones who fell in the 
 fight, 
 Nor ask we, " Which wore they, the blue or 
 the gray?" * 
 
 Since each battled for that they deemed 
 
 right. 
 1876. 
 
 DEEAM-LAND. 
 
 Queen of Night, from thy throne on high 
 Flooding all earth in a glory of gleams, 
 
 In the lands thou hast hghted didst e'er 
 descry 
 Thatradiantlandcalled "Land of Dreams"? 
 
 Have thy silvery raj'S been mirrored back 
 By the waves that wash its gilded strand ? 
 
 Hast thou shone above the boundless track 
 Pursued by hosts in that rose-clad land ? 
 
 Beautiful orb, thou answerest not, 
 Yet a mystic meaning veils thy face. 
 
 Ah ! I divine the answer sought, — 
 Dream-lan4 is love's own abidjng-place ! 
 
20 When the Roses Blow. 
 
 WHEN THE EOSES BLOW. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Where the sweet arbutus 
 
 Trails its graceful sprays 
 Over northern hill-sides 
 
 And o'er mossy braes, 
 In the scented shadow 
 
 Of embowering greens 
 Stands the low brown cottage 
 
 Of my queen of queens. 
 
 On her curls the sunbeams 
 
 Left a glint of gold ; 
 On her brow the angels 
 
 Have poured the light they hold. 
 Could I paint her picture 
 
 In tints of sky or flowers, 
 I'd trace the witching semblance 
 
 Of one whom Beauty dowers. 
 
 Where the sweet arbutus 
 
 Scents the vale below^ 
 Dwells the maid who'll w^ed me 
 
 When the roses blow ! 
 
Night in June, 21 
 
 AN EYE IN JUNE. 
 
 How sweet at morn to watch the rise 
 
 Of the kingly orb of day ! 
 How sweet to list the oriole's cries 
 
 Break through the roseate ray ! 
 
 How sweet to breathe the fragrant breath 
 
 Of dew-enamelled flowers, 
 Yet feel the withering hand of Death 
 
 Withheld for Autumn hours ! 
 
 Oh, a summer dawn is an anthem sweet 
 From Nature's harp-string flung. 
 
 But an eve in June is the poem complete 
 By languid Twilight sung! 
 
 NIGHT IN JUNE. 
 
 Heavily sweet on the evening breeze 
 Falls the odorous woodbine's breath ; 
 
 Spice of roses 'mong clustering trees 
 Scents the shade that sleeps beneath. 
 
 Out of the vaulted blue on high 
 Luna beams from a jewelled throne ; 
 
 Glimmering dews like diamonds lie 
 Languishing roses' hearts upon. 
 
22 A Vanished June. 
 
 Twittering birds in the sprays o'erhead 
 Bask in the glinting rays that gleam, 
 
 Drink of the sweets from blossoms shed, 
 And turn fair night to a blissful dream. 
 
 A VANISHED JUNE. 
 
 Through blinding veil of bitter tears 
 I'm looking back through vanished years 
 
 To one bright June day ; 
 The redbird trilled his sweetest song. 
 The thrushes warbled glad and long, 
 
 And all the earth was gay. 
 
 The crimson roses and the white 
 Bent o'er our pathway in delight 
 
 To woo a maid so fair ; 
 The wild sprays caught her snowy dress. 
 As if with ardorous caress 
 
 They strove to hold her there. 
 
 Ah ! such sweet day as that of yore 
 I'm sure I never knew before, 
 
 So beautifully fair! 
 The melody of birds and bees. 
 The perfumed breath of every breeze 
 
 That tossed sweet Agnes' hair. 
 
On Dream-lancVs Shore, 23 
 
 Again the June days return, 
 Again the crimson roses burn 
 
 And cast their fragrance on the gale ; 
 But she, the rose caressed of yore, 
 Will never grace the garden more, 
 
 Xor thread life's shadowy vale. 
 
 ON DEEAM-LAND'S SHOEE. 
 
 I SLEPT a dreamful sleep last night, 
 
 And in my dreams 1 walked with thee ; 
 
 The setting sun cast crimson light 
 On silver lake and daisied lea. 
 
 I heard the wild birds sing again, 
 Just as they sang that summer day 
 
 When over hills and through the glen 
 We rambled, gathering Avood-bloom ga\'. 
 
 I heard the rippling of the rill, 
 As silvery as it laughed of yore ; 
 
 And all the twilight was athrill 
 
 With cadences of dream-land's shore. 
 
 So lightly seemed our steps to flee 
 
 We soon had gained the wave-washed 
 strand, 
 
 And list'ning to the deep-voiced sea, 
 We walked in silence hand in hand. 
 
24 The Warn ing. 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 An ivy climbs o'er my casement high, 
 And its tendrils wreathe the inner wall ; 
 
 Its leaflets turn towards the arching sky, 
 While their graceful shadows flit and fall. 
 
 The moonlight streams through its sprays 
 to-night 
 
 And casts its gold on their glist'ning green ; 
 But a mist of tears makes dim my sight 
 
 As I lie and watch its shimmering sheen. 
 
 For a phantom song sounds on my ear, 
 Though I cannot wholly catch the air. 
 
 And it seemeth me an angel near 
 Is whispering, " Prepare ! prepare !" 
 
 What the message means I dare not ask, 
 Though plain to me the warning seems; 
 
 But to prepare is a mournful task 
 With earth aglow in beauty's beams. 
 
Lesbia. 25 
 
 EEMOESE. 
 
 Some brood and wee]) 
 
 Eegretful tears 
 Above the long since 
 
 Buried years. 
 
 You weep repentant 
 
 Tears to-day 
 Above a silent 
 
 Face of clay. 
 
 'Tis strange, now that 
 
 She hears no more, 
 Remorse should pierce 
 
 Your bosom's core. 
 Since neither words 
 
 Nor quivering sighs 
 Can win forgiveness 
 
 From her eyes. 
 
 LESBIA. 
 
 Unrecognized she walked the earth, 
 
 A singer rarely sweet; 
 Each strain from purest fount had birth, 
 
 And like the songs that greet 
 The dawning of a morn in May, 
 So pure, so clear, so glad were they. 
 
26 Aspersion. 
 
 Unrecognized she walked 'neath heaven 
 
 And kept her lonely way, 
 Just as the lone, pale star of even 
 
 Throbs over dying day. 
 No taint of sin her spirit knew ; 
 She walked as w^alk Grod's holy few. 
 
 But though she sang like birds of spring, 
 
 'No answering warble gay, 
 No fair approval's echoing, 
 
 Resounded on her way. 
 To-day for her soft dirges swell, 
 While redbirds chant from dell to dell. 
 
 ASPERSION. 
 
 'TwAS but a breath by Malice blown 
 
 Upon a stainless name. 
 And yet the blur it cast thereon 
 
 Corroded just the same 
 
 As tarnish born of Shame. 
 
 Her path in life a lowly one. 
 
 What cared the scornful world 
 \i' blight on blight were coldly thrown 
 Upon a rose that drooped ere blown, 
 With leaf-heart still unfurled ? 
 
My Visitant. 27 
 
 'Tis said that " Truth will rise again, 
 
 Though crushed to earth it be ;" 
 But scars once seared on heart and brain 
 By scathing doubt and low disdain 
 Can never be set free. 
 
 'Twas but a breath by Malice blown 
 
 Upon a guiltless name, 
 And yet the blur it cast thereon 
 
 Corroded just the same 
 
 As tarnish born of Shame. 
 
 MY VISITANT. 
 
 I SAT alone in the twilight, 
 
 In museful, Avistful mood, 
 And watched the day's last glories 
 
 Enfold the western wood. 
 My heart was like a fountain, 
 
 With mournful memories filled, 
 And every sound of wind or wave 
 
 On saddened pulses thrilled. 
 
 A bird came fluttering downward 
 From out the crimsoned heaven, 
 
 And paused as if to view the glow^ 
 That lit the skies of even. 
 
28 Mosses. 
 
 Ay, softly fluttered downward 
 
 Till his white breast touched the pane, 
 Then sang a song far sweeter than 
 
 The nightingale's refrain. 
 
 Then plumed his silken pinion, 
 
 And tapped with tiny beak, 
 Like one who fain would love express, 
 
 Could he his meaning speak. 
 Yet I lifted not the window, 
 
 Nor pressed his songful breast ; 
 The sweet bird seemed a visitant 
 
 From recjions of the blest. 
 
 MOSSES. 
 
 Oh, what beauty ye possess, 
 
 Mosses of the forest olden ! 
 Mosses green and mosses gray, 
 
 Mosses tinged with sunlight golden. 
 
 O'er the oak-tree's knotted root 
 
 Ye have spread your velvet splendor, 
 
 And encircled in your clasp 
 
 Many a woodland flow'ret tender. 
 
Delusion. 29 
 
 Mosses green and mosses gray, 
 Mosses of the wood-aisles hoary, 
 
 On your borders dance the fay 
 Heard of oft in song and stor3^ 
 
 Who would give this sylvan dower 
 For the summer's rarest blossom. 
 
 Born to grace the passing hour, 
 
 Or droop and die on Fashion's bosom ? 
 
 Mosses gray, and green, and gold, — 
 Jewelled moss-cups brimming over 
 
 With secrets dropt from fairj- lips 
 When gay wood-elves play the lover. 
 
 DELUSION. 
 
 The sails we in the distance saw 
 Appeared to be of snowy white ; 
 
 Their airy shapes without a flaw 
 
 Gleamed fresh and pure as morning light. 
 
 But as the}^ slowly came to port 
 
 Their whiteness wore a tinge of soil, 
 
 As if the waves in wild disport 
 
 Had lashed them with their briny coil. 
 
30 In the Silent City. 
 
 'Twas only in the distance blue 
 
 They seemed to be so fair, said we ; 
 
 But when they reach our nearer view, 
 
 How blurred, how stained they seem to 
 be! 
 
 Like this, too oft the fancied great 
 A splendor wear that dims the eyes, 
 
 Till, passing through Delusion's gate, 
 Their unmasked souls before us rise. 
 
 IJST THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 HoAV sadly exquisite the chant 
 
 Of trilling bird and murmuring breeze, 
 
 While fell the sunset gold aslant 
 The purple bloom of althea-trees ! 
 
 While all the green aisles westward lying 
 Were flooded with soft evening red, 
 
 And all the pitying winds were sighing 
 A requiem o'er the silent dead ! 
 
 Low sank my soul beneath that splendor, 
 That mantle of an autumn eve, 
 
 While ring-dove voices soft and tender 
 Seemed with my grieving heart to grieve. 
 
Vespertine. 31 
 
 How sweet, I mused, when of earth weary, 
 Could we but flee like light of daj^, 
 
 And leave to night all brooding dreary, 
 Could vanish like a sunset ray! 
 
 YESPEETINE. 
 
 What a sweet, sweet life is thine, 
 Warbling songster, robin mine ! 
 Mounted 'mong the waving trees, 
 Pouring on the scented breeze 
 Strains that thrill the heart like these 
 Kinging through the Vespertine. 
 
 This thy mission, I opine, 
 Just to lilt that song of thine ; 
 Making wistful listeners pine 
 For a gift so pure and sweet 
 Hearts to melt and winds to greet ; 
 For the power to thrill and move 
 Souls to musing and to love. 
 
 Warbling songster, bird divine. 
 Chant again those notes of thine. 
 Gladden thou each Vespertine. 
 
32 Regret 
 
 EEGEET. 
 
 What light feet tread Morn's flowery land ! 
 
 What glad hearts greet life's rosy dawn ! 
 Yet ere its nooil is past they stand 
 
 And muse o'er cherished joys withdrawn. 
 
 The bnds of Hope that brake to bloom 
 
 Beneath the sun of April-tide 
 Leave but a subtle, faint perfume, 
 
 Like roses that have drooped and died. 
 
 I fain would quafl:' from Lethean fount 
 One draught to make this heart forget, 
 
 That I on Thought's swift wing might 
 mount 
 Beyond the regions of Eegret. 
 
 I fain would wipe the bitter past 
 From off the tablet of my mind, 
 
 And ask fair Truth her light to cast 
 Upon the prints Time leaves behind. 
 
Elinor. 33 
 
 ELINOE. 
 
 Let sweet lilies of the valley 
 Languish on her bosom's snow, 
 
 And with waxy bud and blossom 
 Crown her sculptured girlish brow ; 
 
 She is sleeping, sweetly slee])ing; 
 Wail nor sigh shall wake her now. 
 
 All the weary, wistful waiting 
 For a step that cometh not, 
 
 All her vain and mad'ning yearning 
 For the love he hath forgot. 
 
 All are ended, and we only 
 
 See what perfidy hath wrought. 
 
 Strew sweet lilies of the valley 
 
 O'er the breast that aches no more ; 
 
 Let them languish, e'en as languished 
 Broken-hearted Elinor, 
 
 Whose blue eyes will never open 
 Oil Time's sorrow-haunted shore. 
 
34 My Guest. 
 
 MY GUEST. 
 
 Sorrow came one dismal day 
 
 Sadly knocking at my heart. 
 " Ope thy door," she said, " I pray ; 
 
 Do not bid me thence depart f 
 All her aspect sombre gray. 
 
 Ashy lips and ashen heart. 
 
 '•Joy," she said, '• hath been thy guest 
 Many a long and blithesome year, 
 
 Gathering roses for thy breast, 
 Roses that ne'er hekl a tear; 
 
 Hope therein once built her nest. 
 Scouting gloom and pallid fear." 
 
 " Ope thy door," she faintly cried ; 
 
 " Take the weary wanderer in ; 
 Dark waves surge on every side. 
 
 In the distance thunders din ! 
 Let me hence with thee abide, 
 
 Ope thy door and let me in !" 
 
 Sorrow, thou the truth hast spoken. 
 Sobbed my heart in undertone ; 
 
 Joy and Hope, with every token 
 
 Of my spring-time guests, are flown ; 
 
 For thee this portal's bars lie broken. 
 Those echoing cells are now thine own. 
 
At Birth of Dawn. 35 
 
 JUST AS OF YOEE. 
 
 The birds sing just as gaj^l}' now 
 
 As in the long gone by, 
 Wiien earth held hosts of loving heai'ts 
 
 That now 'neath mossed stones lie. 
 
 The winds blow just as lightly as 
 
 They blew in days of yore, 
 And wildly toss the woody heights, 
 
 Or dance where oceans roar. 
 
 And, darling, were we both to pass 
 
 To-night from earth away, 
 To-morrow birds would trill their songs 
 
 As blithely as to-day. 
 
 AT BIETH OF DAWK 
 
 Across the dusk of yonder eastern knoll 
 
 A flood of rose with mingled gold is shed. 
 
 The morning breaks ! the mists from uplands 
 
 roll, 
 
 The wood-thrush waketh in her lowly bed. 
 
 And redbreasts twitter in the boughs o'er- 
 
 head. 
 
36 JJife^s Chalice. 
 
 But bark ! What sweet entrancing notes 
 are these 
 That rippling fall uj^on the breath of morn, 
 That backward float along the dewy breeze 
 And thrill the heart with joy till now un- 
 born ? 
 The mounting skylark's song is earthward 
 borne. 
 
 LIFE'S CHALICE. 
 
 When Sorrow lays her icy hand on hearts, 
 How mute they grow beneath her fingers' 
 chill ! 
 The fount from whence all joyous cadence 
 starts 
 Is choked with tears and sobs we cannot 
 still. 
 
 And yet — and yet, we know, while we are 
 grieving, 
 That sorrows come, just as good gifts are 
 given, 
 That we may turn from idols we are leav- 
 ing 
 And ""ive our undivided hearts to heaven. 
 
Waitlnf/ for the Night. 37 
 
 We canno't pass beyond God's shining portal 
 Till we have quaffed the cup life holds for 
 all, 
 Till we have drank, as drank the Son immor- 
 tal. 
 The bitter cup of mingled myrrh and gall. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE NIGHT. 
 
 He is waiting at the set of sun, 
 His work at last seems wholly done, 
 
 And he awaits the night, — 
 The night to earthl}' plans and dreams, 
 
 The night to weary toil. 
 The night to ej^es that watch and weep 
 And yearn for one long, restful sleep 
 
 Afar from life's turmoil. 
 
 The world may praise, the world may sneer 
 It hath not power to gloom or cheer; 
 
 He cares not for its moods. 
 Ho walks the echoing earth alone. 
 And many a low, sweet undertone 
 
 He heareth while he broods. 
 
 He is resting at the set of sun, 
 His work at last seems wholly done, 
 And he awaits the night. 
 
38 Morning- Glories, 
 
 THE MISSION OF THE ROSE. 
 
 A CRICKET croon etb 'neath the rose 
 That ill my autumn garden glows; 
 
 It Cometh every twilight's close 
 And plaineth of its many woes. 
 
 But though the rose may saddened be 
 To hear his oft-told misery, 
 
 She only bends her queenly head 
 And drops a leaflet for his bed. 
 
 Her sweet breath scents the passing breeze, 
 Her chalice feeds the hovering bees. 
 
 What recketh she of grief or mirth ? 
 She blooms to glorify God's earth. 
 
 M O E N I IST CI - CI L O E I E S . 
 
 Morning-glories pale and crimson, 
 Morning-glories white and blue, 
 
 Climb about the garden trellis, 
 Quiver in the early dew. 
 
He ivho sang " Siceet HomeJ' 39 
 
 Up the pine-tree tall and stately, 
 
 O'er the arbor-vitffi spread, 
 They now flaunt in royal purple 
 
 And in silver-bordered red. 
 
 Ah ! the glories have run riot 
 
 In my garden once so neat ; 
 Everywhere their bell-like blossoms 
 
 Hang in dewy freshness sweet. 
 
 Bells of purple, bells of crimson. 
 Bells of white and bells of blue, 
 
 Ye have vanquished thyme and lilies. 
 Hidden half my roses, too. 
 
 Hosts of bees have ye for lovers. 
 Coming with the dawning gay, 
 
 Stealing from your honeyed petals 
 Sweets to store for winter gray. 
 
 HE WHO SANG "SWEET 
 HOME." 
 
 (Published at the time of his removal to America.) 
 
 They bring his ashes back 
 To rest beneath home's roses ; 
 
 Deep in his country's heart 
 His cherished name reposes. 
 
40 An Autumn Ramble. 
 
 And memory drapes that Dame 
 In wannest, purest splendor. 
 
 What lips shall breathe again 
 A song so sweetly tender? 
 
 AN AUTUMN EAiMBLE. 
 
 'Tis but a dim o'ershadowed day, 
 
 While just a transient gleam 
 Of sunlight o'er the hill-tops plaj^ 
 
 And mist-like touch the stream. 
 
 We've wandered through the woodland wide 
 
 Where fern and lichen grow. 
 And climbed the mountain's sloping side 
 
 Where reddest tea-berries glow. 
 
 Our hands with forest gems are filled, 
 
 With tinted leaves and sprays; 
 Our souls with that pure pleasure thrilled 
 
 Which Nature's breath conveys. 
 
 And yet the skies are overcast, 
 
 The blue is draped with gray ; 
 The sun seems brooding o'er the past 
 
 As night broods over day. 
 
October. 41 
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 How desolate each garden seems, 
 
 When those who walked of yore 
 With us amid its fragrant paths 
 
 Have gone to come no more ! 
 When only murmuring winds sob back 
 
 The grieving spirit's moan, 
 And Desolation coldly mocks 
 
 Our every word and tone ! 
 
 The very lilies on the lawn 
 
 Droop with a sadder grace. 
 As if they wept from hearts of gold 
 
 O'er Love's forsaken place. 
 We list the chant of every bird 
 
 That floats from rustling trees, 
 But sweeter notes our hearts have heard 
 
 In low-breathed symphonies. 
 
 O C T O B E E. 
 
 October with her tinted leaves 
 
 And ripe fruits glowing red 
 Smiles over Summer's gathered sheaves, 
 
 And sighs for Summer dead. 
 
 4* 
 
42 October. 
 
 The hazy air is sweet with rose, 
 
 The Autumn rose's breath, 
 Who keeps her blush for Summer's close, 
 
 And smiles o'er Summer's death. 
 
 No longer joyous trills are heard 
 
 From warblers on the wing, 
 Nor is the brooding silence stirred 
 
 With sounds like those of Spring. 
 Yet lovely is October's haze, 
 
 And soft her vapory light, 
 And glad and fair her fleeting days, 
 
 Though frosts may fling their blight. 
 
 No mourning weareth Autumn-tide 
 
 For beauties that have flown ; 
 The sighing winds alone regret 
 
 The glow of radiance gone. 
 The mountains clad in red and gold. 
 
 And crowned with splendor rare. 
 Are bright as fairy-land " oft-told" 
 
 When Mab with wand was there. 
 
 1877. 
 
Jack Frost. 43 
 
 JACK FROST. 
 
 Jack Frost slept forth one slariy night 
 While Earth in heauty dreamed, 
 
 And cynic-like he viewed the gems 
 That on her bosom gleamed. 
 
 He saw the scarlet sage aglow, 
 
 The ivy's shimmering sheen, 
 The swaying willow and the elm 
 
 Arrayed in summer green. 
 
 The morning-glories in the night 
 
 Unclosed their bells of blue, 
 And held imprisoned rays of light 
 
 In cups agleam with dew. 
 
 Jack Frost stood there with scornful ej'e, 
 AYhile chill the north wind blew, 
 
 Then scoffed: -'Dame Earth, I had not be- 
 lieved, 
 Had I heard this tale of you, — 
 
 " That you would wear a garb so g;iy 
 
 At such a time as this ; 
 But since this bloom is all ^^our own, 
 
 I greet it with a kiss." 
 
44 November, 
 
 He bent bis grizzled locks so low 
 
 They fanned the glow-worm's flame, . 
 
 Yet every rose defiance smiled, 
 And blossomed just the same. 
 
 "Good-night, sweet flowers, good-night to 
 all! 
 
 Fast onward I must hie, 
 For soon old ' Sol' will peep at us 
 
 From 3^onder eastern sky. 
 
 " Good-night, good-night, bright buds and 
 bells. 
 
 Good-night, Dame Earth !" said he ; 
 Then flung his mantle stark and white 
 
 O'er woodbine, flower, and tree. 
 
 N O V E M B E E. 
 
 The autumn gloom is deep'ning, 
 Yes, deep'ning day by day, 
 
 And louder blow the evening winds 
 From skies of lowering gray. 
 
 When first she came, how splendid 
 Her crimson and her gold ! 
 
 But scornful winds have scattered 
 Her raiment o'er the wold, 
 
The Bride of Death, 45 
 
 To-day, she stands with gloomy brow, 
 
 A vciy queen of grace ; 
 But ragged is her robe of gold, 
 
 Wind-rent her veil of lace. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF DEATH. 
 
 If Death to-night stood here beside my 
 pillow, 
 I'd welcome him with smiling lip and eye; 
 Nor shrink, though cold and black the surg- 
 ing billow 
 That rocked the barque launched for eter- 
 nity. 
 
 I'd yield my hand as trustingly and fondly 
 As yields her hand the loving, girlish 
 bride ; 
 For well I know he'd claim its keeping only 
 Till we had reached '■ the river's" other 
 side. 
 
 Faith teaches me he'd pass me safely over 
 
 Into the realm of the King of kings. 
 Then which, think you, would seem the 
 truest lover, 
 One earthly, or he wlio weddeth not with 
 rino-s ? 
 
46 A utumn- Tide, 
 
 AUTUMN-TI T)E. 
 
 Gay woodland nymphs arc tinting now 
 
 Each forest, field, and fen ; 
 They hover round the mountain's brow 
 
 And Ininnt each gi'ot and glen. 
 
 Rare crimson robes in regal fold 
 
 They cast about the trees, 
 And fling their tattered cloth of gold 
 
 On every passing breeze. 
 
 The scarlet haw upon the thorn, 
 The rich grapes on the vine. 
 
 Hang out to robin's eyes at morn 
 A feast he deems divine. 
 
 At eve the glow-worm sheds his light 
 'Mong mosses green and gray ; 
 
 Unmindful of the chill of night, 
 lie glints his cheery ray. 
 
 And where the harebell's cup bends low- 
 Suffused with tear-like dew, 
 
 He pours his brightest, warmest glow. 
 And gilds her chalice blue. 
 
The Poets. 47 
 
 Let singers sing of Summer's pride, 
 And crown fair Spring with praise ; 
 
 But give to me the Autumn-tide 
 With flaming hues ablaze. 
 
 IN DEE A MS. 
 
 What golden fancies daze tlie musing 
 hours ! 
 What lovely scenes in dreaming minds 
 arise ! 
 We walk o'er hill-sides radiant with flowers, 
 Fair as the lilied fields of Paradise. 
 
 We see beyond the evening's crimson glory 
 White gates emitting floods of dazzling 
 light. 
 While back and forth, as in the sacred story. 
 White visions pass too fair for mortal 
 sight. 
 
 THE POETS. 
 
 Thetr works arc here, — the webs they wove, 
 
 The silken webs of Thought; 
 Like cloth of gold with diamonds gemmed 
 
 Appear the folds they've wrought. 
 
18 The Old Year (tnd the New. 
 
 A (MIIUSTMvVS CHANT. 
 
 From out the forest's wintry hciirl, 
 
 From cedarcd slope and woodland wide, 
 
 We bring the pine-tree's fairest part 
 To beautify our Christmas-tide. 
 
 We wreathe the bay-leaf's deathless green, 
 We twine the ivy's graceful spra}", 
 
 And welcome in with joy serene 
 
 The dawn of Christ's own natal day. 
 
 Oh, gift of gifts ! Oh, boon divine ! 
 
 How vain our lives were Faith denied ! 
 Shine out, O star of Bethlehem, shine! 
 
 The (^hrist-cliild's birth is iclorificd. 
 
 Tirp] OLD YEAR AND Tilh 
 NEW. 
 
 Across the crispy breath of morn 
 ^Phe bells chime out "A year is born !" 
 
 A glad and bright new year! 
 Enra])t, we listen to the chime, 
 And wonder if this link of Time 
 
 Will prove to us more dear 
 
 'i'han the expiring year. 
 
A JJrfiini. 40 
 
 In jasper U)\n\} Ik; will hIccj), llu^y hji}', 
 On hills of Silence, far away, 
 
 Beyond our niorlal view; 
 While Memory's fitful li^^hi shall fall, 
 And cast her glamour over all, — 
 
 The fickle, false, and true, 
 
 The old year and the; new. 
 
 A i> i: p:a M 
 
 iiti<^ of the rno 
 Mornini^ of a sumrnei- day. 
 
 Nk.\|{ the dawiiiti*^ of the moi'ning, 
 
 O'ei- my soul there swept th(! music 
 Of a song sung far away. 
 
 On the head) th(5 waves were singing. 
 And the winds were singing too, 
 
 And the sea was thrilled and thi'ohhing 
 With a music sweet and new. 
 
 Saintly Bard, methought, composing, 
 
 Angel voices caught the strain. 
 Singing till all earth resound(;d 
 
 With the heavenly n^frain. 
 
 '• Comes this pa)an from heaven ?" I wondei-ed ; 
 
 Had Love's hand unbarred the door, 
 Pouring thence that flood of rapture 
 
 Which sliall haunt me (jvei'more ? 
 
50 The Singer. 
 
 Were the dear ones gathered from us 
 Singing with that joyous throng? 
 
 Oh, how wistfully I listened 
 
 Till closed gates shut in the song! 
 
 1876. 
 
 THE SINGER 
 
 Thou whose sad dirges 
 
 Eang sweetest of all 
 When the Eeaper had gathered 
 
 Thy mates 'neath his pall ; 
 
 Who watched like a brother 
 Each thorny path trod 
 
 By the singers of earth 
 Or the gifted of God ; 
 
 In silence to-day lies 
 Thy harp and thy song, 
 
 For thou, too, hast joined 
 The " invisible throng." 
 
y^ong. 51 
 
 TIME AND DEATH. 
 
 Time is like ii surging stream, 
 
 With Death for a light-house keeper, 
 
 Who wakes us from life's fitful dream 
 As we oft wake a sleeper 
 
 Who troubled in his sleep doth seem. 
 
 We wake him if we deem it best 
 
 His fevered sleep be broken, 
 AVith tender touch we calm his breast ; 
 Or, if a child, we soothe to rest 
 
 With kind words softly spoken. 
 
 Ah ! well Time's light-house keej^er knows 
 
 When dano;erous reefs we are nearin^;: 
 He points to where Faith's beacon glows, 
 And where Sin's undercurrent flows 
 When we are gulfward veering. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 IN THE twilight's HUSH. 
 
 In the twilight's hush he told his love 
 
 Under the drooping willow-tree. 
 And the stars gleamed out from the bhie 
 above 
 While he murmured in low, deep tones to 
 me. 
 
52 To Margardta. 
 
 "Be mine!" he said in his fervid way; 
 
 " Be mine, sweet love, and our lives shall be 
 Bright as the stream whose limpid waves 
 
 Are singing their song for thou and me. 
 
 " Never a pang of grief shall mar 
 The perfect peace that shall fold thee in. 
 
 Together we'll tread the paths of earth. 
 Unheeding its strife or noisy din." 
 
 And the stream swept on its shining way 
 With rippling laugh at the voice it heard ; 
 
 But the night-bird sang in the boughs above ; 
 A song of love sang the list'ning bird. 
 
 TO MAKGAEETTA. 
 
 Time cannot alter thee, my precious love, 
 Nor mar the spirit beauty of thy face. 
 
 The years may cast their snow thy brow 
 above. 
 But cannot rob thy presence of its grace. 
 
 So fair thou art ! I stand in rapt delight 
 And watch the sunset fold thee in its rays, 
 
 Yet tremble as departs that golden light, 
 Lest thou, too, vanish from my wistful gaze. 
 
To the Ivy on the Wall. 53 
 
 So pure thou art, the mould that holds thee 
 here 
 Is radiate with the glory held within ; 
 Thus to our hearts thou growest each day 
 more dear, 
 Like all things holy, or devoid of sin. 
 
 TO THE IVY ON THE WALL. 
 
 Whence comes thy strength, O fragile vine? 
 
 Arrayed in emeralds bright! 
 
 Vivid as summer's rarest green 
 When lit by summer's light. 
 
 Thou wearest the look of one serene 
 Despite misfortune's blight. 
 
 The sparrow winters 'mid thy sprays 
 
 And cheers us with his voice; 
 His joyous chirp, his blithesome ways, 
 Seem like a full heart's hymn of praise. 
 
 And tell the sparrow's joys. 
 
 In vain the Storm-King's hand hath striven 
 
 To smite thee from the wall ; 
 The snow-wreath 'mong thy branches driven 
 
 Hangs round thee like a pall; 
 Yet thou, with leaflets turned to heaven, 
 
 Art smiling 'mid it all. 
 5* 
 
54 The Gift of Song. 
 
 THE GIFT OF SONG. 
 
 The Giver of gifts sent down a boon 
 
 (A boon of priceless worth) 
 To one who laid the gift aside, 
 
 As we cast some thoughts at birth. 
 
 Yes, he laid the treasure softly down, 
 
 With smiling lip and eye, 
 But, musing, said, " I shall bring it forth 
 
 Ere many years roll by. 
 
 " I'll bring it forth, and my harp shall gleam 
 
 In the golden light of even. 
 And the birds will pause in glad delight 
 
 When its notes to the winds are given. 
 
 "The birds shall pause in their upward flight 
 When I sound that throbbing strain. 
 
 And the murmuring streams more softly 
 flow 
 To hear my harp's refrain. 
 
 " The robin whose song awakes the dawn 
 
 From its blossom-hidden nest 
 Shall mingle with mine his chant divine 
 
 As it flows fi'om his crimson breast." 
 
The Gift of Song. 55 
 
 Thus the dreamer mused in his idling 
 way, 
 
 While the fleet years swept along, 
 And his harp unstrung in silence lay 
 
 Untouched by the thrill of song. 
 
 Yes, the years swept by while the dreamer 
 dreamed. 
 
 And regret like an adder stung ; 
 '• Lost, lost, is thy gift, O Giver!" he ci-ied ; 
 
 •'^o song from my harp hath rung. 
 
 " No song from its sweet vibrating strings 
 
 Have these idle fingers called, 
 Though countless strains were whispering 
 
 Through a soul by folly 'thralled." 
 
 There was a murmurous sound on the mid- 
 night air. 
 And a flutter of coming wings; 
 (lod's heralds drew nigh, the cherubs of 
 Light, 
 He knew by their murmurings. 
 
 A diri>-e like chant on the breath of niiz-ht 
 As they grasped his harp, love-given. 
 
 And upward they bore in tearful flight 
 The gift of the Lord of heaven. 
 
56 
 
 1 1 (ii of rope. 
 
 II K \i\OT \lO PK. 
 
 On, wlion llio sliroiul shall bo my dross 
 
 Aiul 1 asloc]) shall Ih\ 
 liOl (hoso, 1 |>ray, who lovo jirotoss 
 
 Tw ino holiolropo lor luo ! 
 
 Nt> t\>sos palo nor lilies white 
 'I'wiiio then in cross ov crown ; 
 
 J\ry lite luis boon ono lonj;- drear ni^ht 
 InMioalh Mistortnno's frown; 
 
 Then why, when Doalh has kindly laid 
 
 Mo in Ids sludt'rino; sloop, 
 Coneoal with crown of losos niado 
 
 ^Pho thorns that niorcod so dooj)? 
 
 Tho holiotrojH' is dear to mo. 
 And its i^alo pnr})lo bloom 
 
 Soomoth tho tit tost flower to bo 
 Kntoldod in tho tomb. 
 
When Years hare Floimi, hi 
 
 W JI V) S Y I-: A II S I J A V i: V L O W N. 
 
 Shall wc ever look Inu-k' when tlio yciirs 
 lijive flown 
 
 On tlie diij's thiit arc jjassin^^; now, 
 With rc^rotf'nl si^h or hcurl-born moan 
 O'ci" wasted h(Mirs or lost da^'s 
 
 Shall we evei', I oi- thon ? 
 
 'OIK! 
 
 Shall W(; (;V(M' look haek when 'tis all loo lal(;, 
 
 And yearn to live over a^ain ? 
 Or blot from the changeless pai^e of Fate 
 The errors we've made through love or ha((;, 
 
 And the tears we have caused to j-ain ? 
 
 Shall we ev(j)- look hack when the years 
 have flown, 
 Jjook baek from life's sinking prow, 
 And remember how few were the good seeds 
 
 sown, 
 How many the tai'es by our own hands 
 
 thrown 
 Over fertile fields? Oh, had we but known 
 All our wistful eyes k(;c now ! 
 
58 Drowned. 
 
 Lii/rs iw soNr;. 
 
 Wk never Iviiovv 11 jevvern woitli 
 
 Until we cliance to loHo it. 
 Too late! too late! when lost, we tind 
 The rays to which our eyes were blind 
 Shine out with rarer radiance now 
 ^riian when it ijfi'acod some; lost one's brow 
 
 Vi) 
 
 No sono' by other poet sum; 
 
 Hath seemed so rarely sweet as thine 
 
 We hear their silver numbers rung*, 
 And hush our very hearts lest we 
 Miss one note of thy minstrc^lsy. 
 
 I) liOWNIM). 
 
 'TwAs evening, and its shadows crept 
 O'er mosses gennned with dew. 
 
 And bleak winds through the forest swept, 
 And sobbed 'mid pine and j^ew. 
 
 Alone with woo and decp'ning gloom 
 
 lie knelt beside her there. 
 She who at morn was bright with bloom, 
 
 At eve lay deathly fair. 
 
To-Morroic. 59 
 
 He clasped her cold hands in his own 
 
 And wildly called her name, 
 But there was no responsive tone, 
 
 No wakening thrilled her frame. 
 
 He bent above her pulseless breast 
 
 With silenced breath to hear; 
 But not one throb disturbed its rest 
 
 Or thrilled his eager ear. 
 
 He swept the cold, damp curls aside 
 
 And kissed her eyelids white, 
 For her he knew 'twas blissfid morn, 
 
 Fo]' him 'twas ray less niglit. 
 
 T O - M O E J{ O W. 
 
 " Count not on to-morrow," 
 For thou knowest not 
 
 If with joy or sorrow 
 Its weft be wrought. 
 
 Like some beautiful garment 
 We fain would wear. 
 
 The morro.w gleameth 
 vSo brightly fair. 
 
60 Passing into Dreams. 
 
 But, save One, none knovveth 
 If this vesture fine 
 
 Shall enfold us here 
 Or in Court Divine. 
 
 PASSING INTO DEEAMS. 
 
 What strange, fair faces loom upon my 
 
 sight 
 While passing into dream-land's aisles of 
 
 lio-ht! ^ 
 
 Face after face in 'wildering beauty rise 
 Before my languid, dream-entranced eyes, 
 While reason faints and memory softly dies. 
 
 Face after face 
 
 They come and go ; 
 The face of joy, 
 
 The face of woe, 
 And 'mid the throng how few I know ! 
 
Why, Old Winter f 61 
 
 WHEEE'ER THOU GOEST. 
 
 A SOx\G. 
 
 Where'er thou goest, Love will walk with 
 thee ; 
 
 Where'er thou bid'st, 
 
 There will Love abide, 
 And clasp thy hand, and linger tenderly 
 
 Thy path beside. 
 
 Where'er thou rovest, Hope shall hover near, 
 
 All foes to chide. 
 And cast her blossoms thy lone path to cheer. 
 Or breathe her song to charm thy spirit ear 
 
 When ills betide. 
 
 Where'er thou goest. Truth will go before, 
 
 Though scorn deride; 
 Where others grope upon Time's darkened 
 
 shore. 
 For thee shall shine pure light for evermore 
 
 From Truth thy guide. 
 
 WHY, OLD WINTER? 
 
 Why, Old Winter, dost thou linger 
 Clinging to the robe of Spring, 
 
 Touching with thine icy finger 
 Buds that fain were blossoming? 
 
62 Why Cooes the Dove? 
 
 Stormy raonarcb, stern and hoary, 
 Thou hast wielded sway full long; 
 
 Yield to Spring her pristine glory, 
 Wooing winds and wild-bird song. 
 
 A TEIBUTE. 
 
 Over the earth-hidden " Eyan" blow, 
 Winds of the fair south-west; 
 
 Murmur a requiem sad and low . 
 Where he sleeps in dreamless rest. 
 
 Break into blossom, May lilies white, 
 
 Cover his songless breast ; 
 Symbol the soul that has vanished in light 
 
 Beaconed bj^ angels to rest. 
 
 WHY COOES THE DOVE? 
 
 Why cooes the dove so mournfully 
 Aloft the whispering maple-tree? 
 Brings he some tale of grief for me, 
 
 Some tale he fears to tell ? 
 Or comes he from the shore of Peace 
 With token of a soul's release, 
 With pledge that strife shall soon surcease 
 
 And dawning find all well ? 
 
Nature^ s Devotee. 63 
 
 I've listened to his plaintive cry 
 
 Till Death himself seemed strangely nigh, 
 
 And fancied I could hear the sigh 
 
 Of lips that closed for aye. 
 Why comes he thus each morn and eve, 
 This dove that will not cease to grieve, 
 But pours lament without reprieve 
 
 At daw^n and t>-loam of Day ? 
 
 N A T U E E' S D E Y O T E E. 
 
 She dwells in the beautiful realm of Thought, 
 And she is queen of a vast domain ; 
 
 Jewels from every land are brought 
 Her smile to win or favor gain. 
 
 But little she cares for the diamond's flash, 
 The sapphire's gleam, or ruby's glow ; 
 
 Far dearer to her the sweet wild flowers 
 The hand of Nature or wild winds sow. 
 
 You may heap your gifts at her dainty feet; 
 
 She will turn away with bewildered air, 
 And her smile grow faint, or seem less sweet. 
 
 For the cloud thus brought to her features 
 fair. 
 
64 Pines. 
 
 PINES. 
 
 When the All-Fathei* formed the pine 
 
 And fashioned it so fiiir, 
 'Tis thought He breathed a sigh divine 
 
 Upon the circling air. 
 
 Hence every pine that since hath sprun< 
 From out the teeming earth 
 
 Seems echoing the sigh that clung 
 About the first pine's birth. 
 
 Their mg-hs fall on fair Summer's breast 
 
 And on the Winter's blast, 
 And over many a loved one's rest 
 
 Their murmurous shade is cast. 
 
 Their mighty arms like angel-wings 
 
 O'ershadow hill and lea, 
 And to the musing mind they bring 
 
 A love of sytnphon3\ 
 
 Oh, who would give this gift of God 
 
 For else that graces earth. 
 Since sacred seems the very sod 
 
 That gives the pine-tree birth ? 
 
Plaint of the Wanderer. 65 
 
 They stand beside the river's brim, 
 
 Stern watchers of the tide, 
 And chant the same low requiem 
 
 They hymned by Calvary's side. 
 
 PLAINT OF THE WANDEEEE. 
 
 Who shall watch with me, I wonder, 
 When Death's shadows round me creep, 
 
 When the curfew's knell is sounding, 
 When I pass from dreams to sleep? 
 
 What soft hand shall wipe the chill dew 
 From this weary, aching brow. 
 
 When the dismal gloom is deep'ning, 
 When life's sun has sunken low ? 
 
 Wearily I've walked earth's pathway 
 'Mid the careless and the blind, 
 
 Where the cold of heart were many, 
 But how few the true or kind ! 
 
 Wearily I wait the coming 
 
 Of the tide that homeward rolls, 
 
 When the ship of Death shall anchor 
 Waiting for delaying souls. 
 
66 Wintry Memories. 
 
 WINTEE'S HAEP. 
 
 No sweeter music meets the ear 
 Where cadences abound, 
 
 Than the deep murmur of the wind 
 That sobs and sighs around, 
 
 While Winter holds high carnival 
 
 And drapes old Earth in Alpine pall, 
 
 THE SCATTEEED FLOCK. 
 
 Like blossoms gathered spray by spray 
 From off the border's fairest trees, 
 
 Until the rifled branches sway 
 Dismantled in tiie ruthless breeze, 
 
 We see our cherished ones depart 
 
 From hearth, and home, and aching heart. 
 
 W I N T E Y M E M O EI E S. 
 
 How oft our careless words or tone 
 Come ringing back on Memory's ear ! 
 
 When years on years have fleetly gone, 
 And those we talked with long ago 
 In silence sleep beneath the snow. 
 
A Winter Chime. 67 
 
 While thoughts that others deigned to trust 
 
 To us in tender, earnest speech, 
 Arise like angels of the just, 
 
 And soothe us with the lo.ve they teach, 
 When those communed with lono- ac^o 
 ('Neath summer's green and winter's 
 
 snow) 
 Await th' Eternal Mornino-'s u'low. 
 
 A AVINTEE CHIME. 
 
 An empty nest is swaying in the wind, 
 All brimming o'er with fleecy tufts of snow ; 
 
 No birdling's voice the yearning heart remind 
 Of that sweet song-tide heard one spring 
 
 Bleak, bleak, bleak, are the wintry winds 
 
 that blow ! 
 Chill, chill, chill, the whitely-falling snow ! 
 
 The trees that wore such wealth of fragrant 
 bloom 
 
 AVhen Earlh wore lilies on her sunlit breast. 
 Now stand like sentinels above a tomb 
 
 Wherein a cherished queen lies low at rest. 
 
68 Beneath the Snow. 
 
 Bleak, bleak, bleak, are the wintry winds 
 
 that blow ! 
 Chill, chill, chill, the dcnselj'-falling snow! 
 
 BENEATH THE SNOW. 
 
 Beneath the snow in calmest sleep 
 My white-browed darling lies ; 
 
 The pitying stars their vigil keep 
 Above her death-sealed eyes. 
 
 Ah, me! how cold, how white the drift 
 
 Lies o'er my buried dear! 
 The wailing winds the pine-sprays lift, 
 
 And sob like phantoms near. 
 
 G-rief 's night dispenseth ghostly gloom, 
 
 And chilling gloom for aye 
 Hangs heavy round each lost one's tomb 
 
 To mock the joy of day. 
 
 But through the pall-like veil around 
 One long-missed voice I hear: 
 
 " In heaven," it saith, " the lost are found, 
 And joy reigns ever there." 
 
Sleep, 69 
 
 HAUNTED BY A SONG. 
 
 A SONG is sounding on mine ear, 
 
 A song of long ago ; 
 It wakes the echoes far and near, 
 
 vSo pulsing is its flow. 
 
 I hear it in the morning's glow 
 And in the midnight hours ; 
 
 'Tis sw^eetest when the winds are low 
 And bird-song fills the bowers. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 (Written beside a bier.) 
 
 " He gtvcth His beloved sleep," 
 
 We murmur while we gaze on thee ; 
 
 Though loving eyes their tears must weep, 
 We know how great thy gain must be. 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep," 
 And to the weary protfers rest; 
 
 Thus Love and Peace a vigil Ueep, 
 
 While Silence stills the throbbing breast. 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep," 
 
 With tender touch He seals their eyes. 
 
 And while bereft ones sadly weep, 
 Death opes the gates of Paradise. 
 
70 Fledged and Flown. 
 
 FLEDGED AND FLOWN. 
 
 Every bird has fledged and flown 
 
 From the house-door tree ; 
 And the autumn wild winds moan 
 For the silvery voices gone, 
 Misere ! Misere ! 
 
 Every bird has fledged and flown, 
 
 Woe is me ! Woe is me ! 
 Empty hangs the nest and lone 
 In the winds that toss and moan 
 Through the house-door tree. 
 
 When the vernal winds first blew 
 
 Came a redbreast twain, 
 And from spray to spray they flew. 
 Singing every chant they knew 
 In their own sweet strain. 
 
 Oh, what joy the robins brought 
 
 With their tide of song! 
 All within that vine-clad cot 
 Lived as hai3i:)y with their lot 
 As the days were long. 
 
 High amid the fragrant bloom 
 Of the house-door tree 
 
Evening Song. 71 
 
 Built the happy birds a home, 
 Scattering all the evening gloom 
 With their minstrelsy. 
 
 Every bird has fledged and flown 
 
 From the house- door tree ; 
 And the autumn wild winds moan 
 For the silverj- voices gone, 
 
 Woe is me ! Woe is me ! 
 
 EYENIKG SONG. 
 
 Sing, O my heart! the stars are shining, 
 And the young moon gleams from her 
 throne of blue ! 
 Sing, heart, a strain of Love's divining, 
 And some wandering soul may sing with 
 you. 
 
 Perchance the soul of my own lost darling 
 May be near on the wings of this heavenly 
 night, 
 And join in song, like the sweet-voiced star- 
 ling 
 Sings with the lark in his iqjward flight. 
 
72 Old of the Gloom. 
 
 NEVER MORE. 
 
 No voice comes back from the eternal shore 
 To tell us where our dear dej)arted dwell — 
 
 Wc sit alone 
 
 In sackcloth and bemoan, 
 In grief our souls can never more dispel. 
 
 We sit alone 
 
 In sackcloth and bemoan, 
 While words and looks upon our memories 
 rise ; 
 We vex our souls as pagans vex their 
 breasts. 
 With vain lament, with burning tears and 
 sighs. 
 But never more 
 From that eternal shore 
 Comes back a voice our sorrow to dispel. 
 No tender tone of greeting or farewell. 
 
 OUT OF THE GLOOM. 
 
 Out of the anguish of living 
 
 Into the portals of light 
 Spirits are passing ever 
 
 From the gloom of a life-long night. 
 
Looking West. 73 
 
 But who that hath drank of the wormwood, 
 Or who that hath sipped of the gall 
 
 Which Povert}^ gives her children 
 And Sin presents to all, 
 
 Will care Avhen the curtain falleth 
 And they are told the drama's o'er, 
 
 Or shrink from the Death-wide portal 
 That leads to Lethean shore ? 
 
 LOOKING WEST. 
 
 Of all the views the house commands 
 The one that seemeth best 
 
 Is the window draped in sunset gold, 
 The window looking west. 
 
 To linger there at close of day 
 And watch the sun go down 
 
 Behind the cedar hills that fraj^ 
 The borders of the town. 
 
 To watch the gold and crimson light 
 
 Commingle with the blue, 
 Until the purple veil of Night 
 
 Falls o'er the heavenly view. 
 
 7 
 
74 Her Face. 
 
 And as the stars gleam one by one 
 Upon the robe of even, 
 
 To fancy angel-eyes look down 
 From out the arch of heaven. 
 
 MOUNTAIN-LAUEEL. 
 
 If asked to choose our nation's flower, 
 I'd name the mountain-laurel fair, 
 
 Fit emblem of our sovereign power, 
 Fit crown for Liberty to wear. 
 
 Its fluted bells of variant pink 
 Outvie all other blossoms wild ; 
 
 Its deathless green on mount and brink 
 Proclaim the laurel Freedom's child. 
 
 HEE FACE. 
 
 No beauty hath her face, you say — 
 You wonder where my wits have been 
 
 To call her lovely as " the May," 
 And wildering as a sylvan queen. 
 
 No tint of white or crimson rose 
 To her plain features lendeth grace. 
 
 Well, let me just the truth disclose : 
 'Tis soul that beautifies her face. 
 
Tuberoses. 75 
 
 A soul that gleams from lambent eyes, 
 Clear as a fouat where sunlight dips ; 
 
 A smile that wakeneth surprise ; 
 Your gaze seems fixed on angel-lips. 
 
 TUBEEOSES. 
 
 The maple dons his cloth of gold 
 To greet sweet-browed September, 
 
 And restless winds sigh o'er the wold 
 To make the birds remember 
 
 That Summer-tide is on the wing 
 
 And short, dark days are hastening. 
 
 The Tuberose pours from her heart 
 
 A fragrant parting blessing 
 On suns that bade her germ-life start, 
 
 And winds whose fond caressing 
 Sustained her through fierce August heat 
 That she September's smiles might meet. 
 
 O leaves of gold and roses white. 
 
 And all ye crimson glories 
 That crown the Autumn brief and bright 
 
 And waken olden stories. 
 We greet ye with responsive heart, 
 And we shall grieve when ye depart. 
 
76 Sylva, 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 A METEOR flashed across the blue, 
 
 As wistfully one even 
 I watched the lights that glimmered through 
 
 The starry dome of heaven. 
 
 Half startled from a revery, 
 
 I saw it flash and fall : 
 O Death, wilt thou thus suddenly 
 
 Enfold me in thy pall ? 
 
 Without one warning sound or sign 
 
 Wilt thou descend some even. 
 And by the light of Love Divine 
 
 Lead upward into heaven ? 
 
 SYLVA. 
 
 O BIRDS upon the wing 
 Buoyed by the vernal air, 
 
 What longing thoughts ya bring 
 To hearts weighted with care! 
 
 To mount like ye and fly 
 Ere Summer's splendor fade. 
 
 To seek an aye-blue sky 
 'Mid southern grove or glade. 
 
My Mother. 77 
 
 What bliss such lot would be ! 
 
 What then could stay our flight? 
 We'd sing, sweet birds, with ye 
 
 Till da}^ had dimmed in night. 
 
 MY MOTHEE. 
 
 I DREAM of thee, my mother, yet. 
 Though years on years have rolled 
 
 Since tearfully we laid thee down 
 Beneath the mossy mould. 
 
 We laid thee where dark cedars wave 
 
 And pines above thee moan ; 
 We planted roses by thy grave. 
 
 But reared no sculptured stone — 
 A simple cross tells of thy rest, 
 
 A simple cross alone. 
 
 It seemeth fit the cross should mark 
 
 Each mother's place of rest. 
 For she " who bears, and tends, and rears' 
 
 Hath shown its symbol best. 
 
78 To an English Poet. 
 
 A MISSING VOICE. 
 
 Why has our warbler ceased to sing? 
 
 We've listened for his silver song 
 All through the breezy days of Spring 
 
 And all the golden Summer long. 
 
 Our hearts are aching for the note 
 That once vibrated through the air, 
 
 And voiceless seems fair Summer's throat 
 Since Silence broods like chill de?4pair. 
 
 Then sing again! sweet warbler, sing 
 Thy 'trancing cadences of song 
 
 And all the sweetness of tlie Spring 
 
 Shall through the aisles of Memor}^ throm 
 
 TO AN ENGLISH POET. 
 
 Sparkling as refreshing draught 
 From a caystal mountain stream 
 
 Are the jewels of thy thought, 
 Is the music of thy dream. 
 
 Poet of that sea-girt land, 
 
 With Time's snow upon thy brow, 
 Scatter rubies o'er Life's strand, 
 
 Let thy song's deep murmur flow. 
 
A Bondelet. 79 
 
 Wistfully we list again, 
 
 We, divided by the sea, 
 For the cadence of thy strain, 
 
 For thy soul-born melody. 
 
 IMAGINATIOK 
 
 Man need not watch the mountain's crest, 
 Nor gaze upon a glittering lake. 
 
 To rouse Imagination's fires 
 
 Or bid the slumbering nine awake. 
 
 Imagination builds her own 
 
 Proud forests 'neath their arch of blue, 
 And roaming sees such beatitudes 
 
 As only museful spirits view. 
 
 Hath she not walked where mortal steps. 
 However reckless, ne'er have trod. 
 
 And mounting through ethereal space, 
 Knelt lowly at the feet of God ? 
 
 A EONDELET. 
 
 A SHADOW lies across my life, 
 
 The shadow cast by you, 
 Like^mists that rise from deeps below 
 
 To shroud the mountain blue. 
 
80 The Forgotten Tryst, 
 
 I strive to calm this fevered breast, 
 To seek the fair and true, 
 
 But darkly looms that shadow still. 
 The shadow cast b\^ you ! 
 
 THE FOEGOTTEN TEYST. 
 
 He waited in the moonlight 
 
 Where whispering zephyrs played, 
 
 And watched the phantom shadows 
 By fleecy cloudlets made. 
 
 The rippling of the fountain 
 Was mingled with the breeze, 
 
 And startlingly the night-bird's cry 
 Eang ghost-like from the trees. 
 
 The weeping-willow's branches 
 Drooped o'er the fountain fair, 
 
 As if to kiss reflections 
 Coquetting gayly there. 
 
 He waited, — 3'es, he waited 
 
 Where fount and willows w^eep, 
 
 But she for whom he waited 
 Forgot the tryst to keej). 
 
Not for a Mine. 81 
 
 NOT FOR A MINE. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Not for a mine of silver, 
 
 No, not for a mine of gold 
 Would I give the love of one true heart, 
 
 Could love be bought or sold. 
 
 But the true hearts, ah ! the true hearts. 
 
 How wondrous we find ! 
 Love wakes like a sweet spring blossom 
 
 In the young and tender mind. 
 
 And the hearts we thought loved truly 
 
 When April- tide was ours, 
 Look back with coldness only 
 
 On dead Love's faded flowers. 
 
 Not for a mine of silver, 
 
 No, not for a mine of gold 
 Would I give the love of one true heart, 
 
 Could love be bouofht or sold. 
 
82 Changed, 
 
 CHANGED. 
 
 A CANTICLE. 
 
 You say you find no tint of rose 
 Where roses once bloomed briglit. 
 
 And that these eyes no ray disclose 
 Of their once joyous light. 
 
 You gaze upon my faded cheek 
 
 And on my altered brow, 
 And seem to dread to hear me speak, 
 
 So changed you deem me now. 
 
 Then do you fear an altered tone 
 
 More than a faded face ? 
 Or do you think a heart of stone 
 
 May throb 'neath gems and lace? 
 
 You say you thought me loving when 
 
 Down by the sea we met ; 
 Have I, you ask, been taught since then 
 
 My first love to regret ? 
 
 You vow you'd give your hope of heaven 
 
 To call my heart your own ; 
 Nay, then such hope were madly given, — 
 
 Love dies when Faith has flown. 
 
Impromptu Lines. 83 
 
 And if I loved you then, or no, 
 
 I now can scarcely tell ; 
 But had we never met, I know 
 
 I'd deem it just as well. 
 
 IMPEOMPTU LINES. 
 
 WHITTIER AND TENNYSON. 
 
 'Tis strange the bards who sang so long 
 
 Should thus depart with summer-tide,- 
 Should turn from earth's adoring throng. 
 Who thought these deities of song 
 Should ever in their midst abide. 
 
 Our tears are falling hot and fast, — 
 
 Our bitter, unavailing tears; 
 Yet well we know from out the past 
 Shall ring the songs whose notes must last 
 
 Forever through the rolling years. 
 
 October 6, 1892. 
 
84 Crimson Roses, 
 
 FEUILLE-MOETE. 
 
 'Tis in vain we turn back 
 
 To the pathway of childhood ; 
 The hawthorn no longer is blossoming there, 
 And the sweet bloom that brightened 
 
 The oft-rambled wildwood 
 Can never again to our eyes seem as fair 
 
 As the Aprils and Mays 
 
 Of those dear faded days 
 When our laughter rang light as the rose- 
 scented air. 
 
 It were vain to return, 
 
 And 'tis vain to regret, 
 For Memory's white urn 
 
 'Mid the roses is set ; 
 And the pale valley lilies 
 
 That bloom by the door 
 Are tingling a knell 
 
 For a Spring that is o'er. 
 
 CEIMSON EOSES. 
 
 'TwAS only some leaves on the carpet, 
 Some leaflets and nothing more, 
 
 Blown in from the crimson rose-vine 
 That shades the garden door; 
 
Crimson Roses. 85 
 
 Yet tears to my bent eyes started 
 With a grief that few can know, 
 
 When I thought of the hand that gathered 
 The roses one year ago. 
 
 A hand that was dainty and dim^^led, 
 
 The hand of a maiden fair, 
 That gathered and wreathed the roses 
 
 In a crown a queen might w^ear. 
 
 " J am trying to weave a chaplet," 
 
 She said in her girlish way ; 
 "Do you think 'twere a fitting tribute 
 
 In return for a poet's lay ?" 
 
 Her cheek was flushed with fever, 
 And her sweet hands trembled too, 
 
 As she twined the royal flowers 
 Impearled in gleaming dew; 
 
 Her faint, low tones had often 
 
 Awoke the fear before, 
 That the bud we fondly cherished 
 
 Stood near Death's open door. 
 
 So I dashed the tears that glistened, 
 
 And bade the flood recede, 
 Then answered calmly, " Yes, love, 
 
 Such gift were fit indeed." 
 
86 At Last, 
 
 So she clustered rose on roses 
 
 Till the wreath to a crown had grown, 
 Then smiled at the finished emblem 
 
 With a smile like an angel's own. 
 
 To-day the roses are scenting 
 The winds that sweep the door, 
 
 Scattering crimson petals 
 
 O'er pave, and porch, and floor; 
 
 But the rustic seat is vacant, 
 While falls the crimson rain, 
 
 And she who wreathed the rose-crown 
 Will never weave again. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 The birds are chanting 'mong the trees 
 Their vespers to the setting sun ; 
 
 They pour their strains upon the breeze 
 As gayly as when day begun. 
 
 They reck not that the flying hours 
 Shall bring for them an eve at last, 
 
 When they, unheeding song or flowers, 
 Will close their eyes in slumber fast. 
 
Easter Joy, 87 
 
 Will close their eyes no more to ope 
 Upon a summer dawn of light. 
 
 The voices that awake fair Hope 
 Shall be as silent as the night. 
 
 EASTEE JOY. 
 
 He is risen ! He is risen ! 
 
 Need we breathe the oft-told tale, 
 While from shining heights eljsian 
 
 Falls His light o'er earth's dim vale? 
 
 Easter-tide rolls in its splendor. 
 Flooding all the world below ; 
 
 Hearts so lately cold grow tender 
 'Neath the Easter's radiant glow. 
 
 Quickened Earth awakes her blossoms, 
 Virgin lilies burst to bloom, 
 
 Violets from their fragrant bosoms 
 Pour the joy of sweet perfume. 
 
 He is risen ! He is risen ! 
 
 Every warbler on the wing- 
 Echoes back the chant elysian, 
 
 Sings as only joy can sing ! 
 
88 Thou hast Unravelled. 
 
 THOU HAST UNEAYELLED. 
 
 Tiiou hast unravelled the mysteiy, darling, 
 TlioLi who hast passed o'er the mystical 
 way, 
 Taking thy flight like a homeward-bound 
 starling 
 While shadowy twilight enfolded the day. 
 
 With thy brow 'gainst my cheek and my 
 arms clasj^cd aboyit thee, 
 I thought thou wert mine despite of the foe ; 
 E'en then I divined how all sunless without 
 thee 
 Each morning should dawn and the leaden 
 days go. 
 
 The light of a household departed that even; 
 The angels came hastening down from the 
 throne, 
 And smilingly beckoned, and whispered of 
 heaven. 
 Until thy rapt face wore the look of their 
 own. 
 
 Never a whisper of thy voice comes over, 
 Over to ears that are list'ning for thee ; 
 
 Our eyes cannot see nor mortal discover 
 The path that lies over that night-hidden 
 sea. 
 
Thou hast Unravelled. 89 
 
 But thou hast unravelled the mystery, dar- 
 lino-^ 
 Thou who hast passed o'er the mystical 
 way, 
 Taking thy flight like a homeward-bound 
 starling 
 While shadoAvy twilight enfolded the day. 
 
 THE END.