/ Class. BookAiiAn CQFXRIGHT DEPOSm Collected Poems The Author's Separate Books The Old-Fashioned Garden and Other Verses (out of print) The Brandywine Illustrated by Robert Shaw 50 cents Swarthmore Idylls Illustrated by Robert Shaw 50 cents Old Quaker Meeting- Houses 166 Illustrations $^'S^ In Memory of Whittier Illustrated 25 cents Brandywine Days (Essays and Poems of rural flavor) Illustrated from photographs by J. Carroll Hayes $1.50 Molly Pryce : a Quaker Idyll (Frontispiece) . . . . 2.5 cents Roger Mar land: a Quaker Idyll (Frontispiece) . .25 cents Any of the above eent postpaid on receipt of price. THE BIDDLE PRESS Philadelphia Q^r^^ -^tL^S-^jJUL ^\ooL^<^fi<2^ The Collected Poems of yohn Russell Hayes Philadelphia The Biddle Press igi6 The author wishes to thank the editors of the follow- ing periodicals for kind permission to reprint poems first appearing in The Bibelot, The Book Lover, Book News Montlilj, Everybody's Magazine, Friends' Fellowship Papers, Friends' Intelligencer, The Harvard Graduates' Magazine, The Library Journal, Lippincott's Magazine, The Pathfinder, The Philadelphia Ledger and Record, The Poetry Review, The Reader, The Bible Society Record, The West Chester Local News, The Speaker and The Swarthmore Phoenix. For valued help in publishing this volume, the author is sincerely grateful to these friends: — J. M., W. P. B., C. F. J., E. T. B., and to his brother, J. C. H. Copyright 1895, 1898, 1899, 1909, 1910, 1911, 1914, 1915, 1916, By John Russell Hayes m 20 1918 ©CI.A492998 TO MY FRIENDLY READER "7 love all beauteous things, ^»^,„^^ / seek and adore them. \ God hath no better praise. And man in his few short days Is honored for them." — Robert Bridges T TOO, have loved goodness and beauty, and in my verse have sought to tell of this love. Kind hearts, beloved faces, nature in her pastoral moods ; the dignity and unworldliness of old-fashioned Quakerism ; college ideals ; children and their innocent fancies ; the sentiment lingering alike round venerable cathedrals and the tranquil meeting-houses of the Society of Friends ; ocean and clouds, birds and flowers ; the charm of the Brandywine meadows ; the storied scenes of Pennsylvania; home-love and music and the friendship of books — these are the subjects of my unambitious song, in whose quiet lines I have sought to follow Wordsworth's faith, that "We live by admiration, hope and love." If no tragedy, no deep passion, inform my pages, — my paths have been rather those of pleasantness and peace. I have "found the common daylight sweet, and left to heaven the rest." Unsatisfied by the debate and jargon of mod- ern life, I have found solace in the woods and friendly fields ; for " 'T«5 my dream That best on dawn-red hills I seek the Master's face. More nearly find Him by a sunlit stream." J. R. H. Contents To my Friendly Reader: V THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN AND OTHER VERSES {1895) PAGE SWARTHMORE FaIREST I The Old-Fashioned Garden ....2 The Golden Days of Old Ro- mance 10 To BioN II Spenser 11 The Garden of the Hesperides . i 2 In Poet-Land 12 Venice 13 The Makers of Florence 13 The Grave of Shelley 13 The Grave of Keats 14 Switzerland 14 Oxford 15 Ireland 15 An Old-Time Garden 16 A Portrait of Lucretia Mott. . .16 Addison May 16 "The Groves Were God's First Temples" 17 Spring 17 Summer 18 Autumn 18 Winter 19 A May-Day Invitation 19 Whittier's Birthday 20 England 23 PAGE A Dream of Other Days 26 Sweet Spring Is Here 29 In Blossom Time 31 Aurora 32 Crocuses 32 White Violets 33 The Fairies' Sky 33 The Snow-Drop 34 The Rose's Reply 34 The Fairies' Supper 34 The Mushroom Tent 36 Cherry Blossoms 36 The Faery Fleet 37 The Blue-Bell Clock 37 The Fairy Crown 37 Poppies 38 The Rosy Rain 39 Pink Cheeks 39 The Fairies in the Dairies. .. .39 The Death of the Bee 40 Pansies 41 The Quaker-Lady 41 To Mercury 41 To Virgil 42 To Calliope 43 The Bandusian Spring 44 To Horace 44 THE BRANDYWINE {1898) 45 vi Contents SWARTHMORE IDYLLS (1899) swarthmore 55 Happy College Days of Old. . . .59 Anniversary Ode 60 The West House 64 "Beatus Ille" 67 In College Days 70 In Swarthmore Meeting 72 Hope, Trust, Believe ! 73 We Who Dwell in Sight of Thee 74 Titania and Bottom 74 The Asphaltum-Makers 75 To Canon Rawnsley 75 The Grey Olde Manne of Dreames 76 SWARTHMORE IDYLLS (Second Series) Standing a Beacon 78 Swarthmore Forever ! 79 Shadows of a Dream 79 Swarthmore Scenes 80 The Scholar's Ideal 81 The Planting of the Elms 84 William W. Birdsall 87 Farewell 88 On a Portrait of Edgar Allen Brown 89 "Aleck" MacDonnf.ll 91 A Dead Poet 92 Joseph Bilder^ack o.^ Why Should He Die ! 94 Sleep Well, Dear Soul! 95 To William Hyde Appleton . . . .95 In a Copy of "Greek Poets". . . .98 Golden Volumes 99 Swarthmore's Peace-Makers. . .100 "Divine Equality" lor When Pearson Reads loi To Paul M. Pearson 102 Our Chautauqua 104 John Burroughs at .Swarth- more 1 04 Seed-Time and Harvest 106 To the Class of 1905 108 To THE Class of 1907 108 "Lucky Thirteen" no My Classmate's Book no A. Mitchell Palmer, '91 m Of Other Times She Seemeth.iii "Rose Trelawney" 112 The Barrie Recitals 112 On Whittier Field .112 Swarthmore Songs 113 Written in a Copy of "The Halcyon" 114 Around the May-Pole 114 At a Latin Play 116 At an Art Lecture 116 The Old English Pastimes. .. 117 Pierrot and Pierrette ti8 May-Day, 1916 ng The Saga of '16 121 Watching the Stars 123 The College Chimes 125 My Friendly Pine 126 In the Library 127 The Library Dove 127 Fairy Melody 128 When Gabriel Hines Dreams O'er the Keys 1 29 Remembered Music 130 Garber and La Monaca 131 Moszkowski's "Arabesques". . .131 The College Hymns 132 The Lady of the Harp 133 The Gentle Piper 133 Farewell to Gabriel Hines. . . .134 Contents Easter Music 134 With Joy I Remember Thy Music 134 A Sister of the Birds 135 October's Queen 135 Ye Auncient Alumnus and Ye Freshmanne 137 Home 138 Whittier House '. . • 139 Autumn Cheer 140 A Summer-School Memory. ... 140 The Vanished Rose 141 "A Wreath of Wild Flowers". 142 A Juryman's Dreams 142 A Swarthmore Garden 142 Up the Krum 144 The "Woolman Tree" 144 "Little Grey Home in the West" 144 Christmas in Swarthmore. . . . 144 A Swarthmore Christmas Dream 145 Home Scenes at New Year. . . .149 VERSES FROM "BRANDYWINE DAYS" (1910) In Mfadows by the Brandy- wine 151 Coming to the Farm 152 Our Old Village 153 Beside this Twilight Shore.. 154 Garden Song at Twilight 154 Sir Willi.\m Temple 155 The Brandywine at Slumber- VILLE 155 Old Chester County 156 "Dance of Nymphs, — Evening". 157 Among the Golden Wheat 158 Nature's Healing 160 Old Hills My Boyhood Knew.t6i Dream Ships 163 Home Scenes 164 Oxford's Idealist : Walter Pater 165 Virgil of the Eclogues 166 Adown the Brandywine 166 Old Herrick 169 Poetic Silvia 1 70 The Brook 170 Folded Are the Roses 172 "Sweet Themmes ! Runne Softly" 173 "A Sunny D.\y" 1 74 After Harvest 174 "Colin Cloute" 1 76 Country Peace 1 76 Below the Bridge 177 The Susquehanna 179 The Upper Brandywine 179 Enchantment 1 79 Spirit of September 180 Walter Pater 182 At Ced.xrcroft 182 With Lloyd Mifflin's Son- nets 183 Ye Olde Sunne Dial 184 The Gifts of God 184 Autumn Silence 186 Farewell to the Farm 186 IN MEMORY OF WHITTIER (1910) .... 187 VERSES OF QUAKERISM Old Quaker Meeting-Houses (1911) 199 Old Concord Meeting 219 Old Kennett Meeting-House. .221 "A Haunt of Ancient Pe-ice". .224 Old Memories, — New Conse- cration 226 Ercildoun Meeting 228 Contents At Plymouth Meeting 230 Old London Grove Meeting. . . .231 At Quarterly Meeting , . . .233 Spring Meadow Meeting-House.234 Meeting Memories 235 West Chester Meeting-House. 237 John Bright: Hero of Peace. .238 A Portrait of Samuel M. JaNNEY 2jq A Portrait of Martha E. Ty- son 240 The Grave of Lucretia Mott. . .242 John Wilhelm Rowntree 245 Howard M. Jenkins 245 Henry W. Wilbur 246 A River of the Spirit 247 For the Quaker Pageant 248 Friends' Conference Echoes.. 249 David Ferris 25 1 Edith Newlin 252 At a Quaker Grave 252 "Mind the Light" 252 MOLLY PRYCE (1914) 253 ROGER NORLAND {1915) 273 The Grave of Elias Hicks 290 The Birthplace of Whittier. .290 John Comly's Journal 290 OLD CHESTER COUNTY Around the Dear Home-Town. 291 Avoca's Stream 292 Centennial Ode 293 Centennial Hymn 297 Purple Phlox 297 An Old-English Pageant 298 Great Companions 300 The Harvest 302 Winter in Old Chester County 303 A Year Ago 306 JosiAH W. Leeds 307 Home Thoughts 308 Wawassan's Bright Stream... 308 Long Ago in Boyhood 309 The Grave of Bayard Taylor.. 310 Old Chester County's Town- ships 311 The Old Town 313 MacElree's "Shadow Shapes". .313 "Market Gossip" 314 "For Ready and Willing Serv- ice" 314 The Young Hero 31S "Little Friends" 315 Memories 316 Chester County Historical So- ciety Poems : The Indian's Grave 317 Washington and Lafayette AT Brandywine 319 New London Academy 321 In Memory of Read and Taylor 322 Two Chester County Sages. 325 General Anthony Wayne.. 327 The Prayer for Peace 329 To Pennsylvania D. A. R 330 Our Heroic Sires 330 Henry Hayes : Our English Sire 331 At Peace Beside Wawassan. . . .333 Jacob Hayes 340 "Green Lawn Farm" 340 They Slumber in Peace 340 Dr. Isaac I. Hayes 341 Learning and Loyalty 342 High School Memories 344 Old Miner Street 348 Contents LATER VERSES Vespers in Oxford Cathedral. .353 Lichfield Cathedral 353 Ely Cathedral 353 Exeter Cathedral Chimes 353 "Thou, Lincoln, on thy Sov- ereign Hill" 354 Winchester Cathedral 354 Worcester Cathedral 354 Peterborough Cathedral 354 Matins in York Minster 354 Gloucester Cathedral 354 Salisbury Cathedral at Sun- set 355 Canterbury Cathedral 355 In East Lancashire 355 In Huntingdonshire 355 Beside the Ouse 355 St. John's College Garden, Ox- ford 355 Roses and Laurel 356 S. Weir Mitchell 356 Ave Carissime ! 357 Charles Eliot Norton 358 William James 358 "Balm for the Souls of Men". .359 Gentlest and Kindliest 360 Long Junes Ago 362 Frances E. Willard 363 Henrietta Emley Walter 363 Ocean Reveries 364 On Reading a History of Eng- lish Farming 375 American Apples in Bishops- gate 375 Sunset in Venice 375 Alsace 375 Betrayed ! 376 William De Morgan 376 Alfred Noyes' Epic of "Drake" 376 On Reading John Erskine's Poems 376 Sarah Orne Jewett's Letters. 376 The Greek Dancer 376 As Winter Wanes 378 To the South Wind 379 The Return of Spring 380 April 381 April's Here ! 381 Enchanting Gifts 382 The Blackbird 382 Robin, Dear 383 May 383 June 384 July 384 Midsummer 385 August 386 September 386 October 387 Autumn Rain 388 Farewell to October 389 December Nights 390 Christmas Eve 390 The Salvation Army 392 ifuLE-TiDE's Happy Peace 393 December 393 Robert Tyler 394 To A Southern Damsel 394 To George Cabot Lodge 394 To Edward T. Biddle 394 To J. R. S 394 Beside the Fire 395 To J. M 395 To A. J. M 395 A Child's Face 395 A Home 395 Little Leon 396 Child's Slumber Song 396 Child of Melody and Light. . . .397 To a Dreaming Child 398 "Peacherino" 398 Lovely and Lovable Child.... 399 "The Age of Innocence" 399 Heart of Joy 400 Lavendar 400 In the Church 401 Contents At Brandyvvine Manor CHURCn.401 Waste Not Your Hour 402 "Efficiency" 402 Susan B. Anthony 403 In April 403 iHE Summer Moon 403 September by the BRANDYWiNE.403 A World of Silver 403 At Narragansett Pier 404 The Hotel Blenheim 404 Shop-Signs 404 A Lecture on Old French So- ciety 404 "The Land of Heart's Desire". 404 Old Irish Songs 404 After Hearing Old English Songs 40S At a Beethoven Recital 405 After a Chopin Recital 405 Rubinstein's "Sphaeren-Mu- sik" 405 Memories of Home 405 To My Books 405 In Beauty's Quest 406 Odysseus 406 Sappho 407 Old Romance 407 bCHILLER 408 Young Poe Beside the Hudson. 409 At Concord 409 At the Burial of Lord Tenny- son 410 Horace Howard Furness 411 A Well-Loved Author 411 On Reading Woodberry's "Wild Eden" 411 The Sky-Lark of the Poets ..412 To Herbert Bates 414 The Silent Poets 415 To a F'riend 415 At Buck Hill Falls 418 Her Memory 418 Longing for Ireland 419 Saint Patrick 419 Our Ancient Mother 421 Beside the Sea 422 A Sea-Memory 423 The Isle of Dreams 423 "MusA Regina" 424 The Bodleian Library 424 Harvard Library 425 Brown University Library . . .425 Columbia University Library. .425 Amherst College Library ....425 Princeton University Library. 425 Vassar College LiBiiARY 426 Haverford College Library ...426 Bkyn Mawr College Library. . .426 A Library by the Sea 426 The Children's Reading Room. 426 The New Cathedral of St. John the Divine 427 Across the World 427 LuRGAN 428 Grandfather's Farm 428 John N. Russell 430 Across the Years 431 Bergamot 431 Baltimore 431 A Portrait Painter 431 A Quaker Girl's Portrait ....432 Aileen's Portrait 432 The Golden Wedding 433 Consolation 434 "Elm wood" 436 Paganini's Violin 437 When Dorothy Plays 437 At a Performance of "Comus".437 The Viol, the Harp, and the Reedy Bassoon 438 Her Beautiful Singing 438 "The Song of the Shepherd Lehl" 439 Music Manuscripts 439 The Songs of Hawaii 440 Easter Anthems 440 Russian Hymns 441 Toward Greece 441 At Horace's Sabine Farm ....441 By Airship from Sea to Sea. . .441 Contents That is the Life for Me! . . . .444 The Delaware River 445 The Delaware at Cafe May... 446 Airships at Willow Grove ...446 Horace Howard Furness 446 The Land of Penn 447 The Susquehanna 447 The Forks of the Susquehanna.447 The Juniata 447 The Delaware at Penn's Manor 447 Early Dutch Farmers 447 The Early Swedes 448 Conrad Weiser 44^ Count von Zinzendorf 448 The Moravians '. 448 Old Pennsylvania Iron- Masters 448 General Peter Muhlenberg. . .448 Robert Fulton's Birthplace. .449 Joseph Priestley's Grave ....449 "Wheatland" 449 The Penn Statue 449 James Logan's House 449 Old Philadelphia Streets ....450 Lower Cherry Street 450 Old Strawberry Street 450 The Grave of Franklin 450 Independence Hall 450 The Portraits in Independence Hall 451 The Betsy Ross House 451 The Grave of John Morton . . .451 The Grave of James Wilson. . .451 The Philadelphia Cathedral. .451 At Yearly Meeting 452 The Graveyard of Old St. Peter's Church 452 Vespers at Holy Trinity 452 The Church of the Trans- figuration 452 Arch Street M. E. Church... 452 The Old Philadelphia Bar ...453 The Law School 453 A Street Piano in Logan Square 453 John Bartram's Garden 453 The Old Chew Mansion 453 'I HE Morris House 454 Gettysburg 454 The Statue of General Meade. 454 The Peaceful Brandywine ...454 The Old Meeting House on Brandywine Battlefield . .454 Old St. David's Church at Radnor 455 The Grave of "Indian Han- nah" 455 The "Star-Gazer's Stone" ....455 Humphry Marshall's Garden.. 455 General Anthony Wayne 455 Bayard Taylor's Grave ...... .456 West Chester 456 Coatesville 456 At the Birthplace of Ben- jamin West 456 A Woodland near SwARTHMORE.456 Great Pennsylvania 456 Pennsylvania 457 At Penn's Manor 459 Crowned and Sainted 459 Robert Fulton 462 Honor and Homage 465 The Love-Songs of Sidney Fair- fax I. By Severn Sea 467 II. A Child of Ocean 467 III. In Herrick's Garden.. 468 IV. A Southern Girl 468 V. On Breden Hill 469 VI. Golden Dora 469 VII. Marian Marlow 470 VIII. In the Cathedral ....471 IX. Vanished 472 With Shakespeare in War- wickshire 472 Thankfulness 474 Cecily 479 Earth's Fair Divinity 480 The Children's Fishing 481 Epilogue 484 xii The Old-Fashioned Garden and Other Verses DEDICATION VWARTHMORE, fairest! Ah, to thee Must my earliest offerings he, — To thee upon thy grassy hill 'Mid thy meadows sweet and still. With thy charms that dearer grow As the hasting seasons go. In the summer of my youth Drank I at thy founts of truth. Joying in the ample store Thou didst ever freely pour, — Lessons out of Nature's page. Words of scholar and of sage. And the love of poets old Chanting numbers all of gold. Happy years and dreamy-sweet, Happy years, hut all too fleet! Holding these in memory I inscribe my Book to thee. The Old- Fashioned Garden THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN A MONG the meadows of the countryside, From city noise and tumult far away, Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide And birds are warbling all the sunny day, There is a spot which lovingly I prize. For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies. The gray old mansion down beside the lane Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around And scent the air with hay and ripening grain. Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound And close the garden in, or nearly close. For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows. The house is hoary with the mould of years. And crumbling are its ivy-covered walls ; The rain-storms dim it with their misty tears, And sadly o'er its gloom the sunlight falls. Ah, different far the sweet old garden there. For balmy rains and warming suns but make it glow more fair. So bright and lovely is the dear old place. It seems as though the country's very heart Were centered here, and that its antique grace Must ever hold it from the world apart. Immured it lies among the meadows deep. Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep. Fair is each budding thing the garden shows, From spring's frail crocus to the latest bloom Of fading autumn. Every wind that blows Across that glowing tract sips rare perfume From all the tangled blossoms tossing there; — Soft winds, they fain would linger long, nor any farther fare! The Old-Fashiofied Garden The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam; Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge They love to wander from their meadow home, To take what little pleasure here they may Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm mid-day. The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires. And up the arbor's lattices arc rolled The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires ; The tall carnation's breast of faded gold Is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek. The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes ; With golden stars the coreopsis flames ; And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms Dear for the very fragrance of their names, — Poppies and gillyflowers and four-o'clocks, Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks, Harebells and peonies and dragon-head, Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not. Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines. Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines, Foxgloves and marigolds and mignonette. Dahlias and lavender and damask rose. O dear old flowers, ye are blooming yet, — Each year afresh your lovely radiance glows : But where are they who saw your beauty's dawn? Ah, with the flowers of other years they long ago have gone! They long have gone, but ye are still as fair As when the brides of eighty years ago 3 The Old-Fashioned Garden Plucked your soft roses for their waving hair, And blossoms o'er their bridal-veils to strow. Alas, your myrtles on a later day Marked those low mounds where 'neath the willows' shade at last they lay ! Beside the walk the drowsy poppies sway, More deep of hue than is the reddest rose, And dreamy-warm as summer's midmost day. Proud, languorous queens of slumberous repose — Within their little chalices they keep The mystic witcher}^ that brings mild, purple-lidded sleep. Drowse on, soft flowers of quiet afternoons, — The breezes sleep beneath your lulling spell; In dreamy silence all the garden swoons. Save where the lily's aromatic bell Is murmurous with one low-humming bee, As oozy honey-drops are pilfered by that filcher wee. The poets' flower, the pale narcissus, droops Like that lorn youth beside the fountain's brink ; Aslumber are the phlox's purple troops. And every musky rose and spicy pink ; Asleep the snowdrop's tiny milken spheres, And all the fuchsia's little white and crimson chandeliers. A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, A calm asylum from the busy world, Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade. Nor news of 'change and mart each morning whirled Round half the globe ; no noise of party feud Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude. But summer after summer comes and goes. And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair ; May brings the tulip, golden June the rose. And August winds shake down the mellow pear. 'The Old-Fashioned Garaen Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears, — But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing years. Nay, time has served but to enhance its charms, And for a century the folk have blest This glowing isle amid their sea of farms. On which 'tis sweet the tired eyes to rest. O'er all the land its flowery spell is cast, A fragrant chain that links the present with the misty past. And here the daffodils still yield their gold, And hollyhocks display their satin wheels. The soft harebells as in the days of old Ring out their carillon of fairy peals, And dandelion-balls nod o'er the grass And give from out their fluffy store to all the winds that pass. The droning bees still sip ambrosial dew Within the spiral foxglove's purple tents ; Emboldened by the poppy's angry hue, Sweet-williams hold their little parliaments, Discussing in a silken undertone The mullein's insolence for that, from fields plebeian blown. He dares to flaunt his vulgar woollen face Among the garden's aristocracy. Long nurtured in this rare and cloistered place. These gentles hold themselves of high degree, Disdaining as a common, low-born weed Each wilding bloom that traces not his line from ancient seed! O fair the larkspur's slender tufts of blue. And fair the saffron-kirtled columbine ; Fair is the lily from whose luscious dew The elfin-folk distil their honeyed wine. 5 The Old- Fashioned Garaen The flags are fair, and fair the flowers that ope And spread the sweet, old-fashioned redolence of helio- trope. Fair is the sweet-pea's witching little face. And fair the dodder's reels of amber thread ; Fair is the slim brocade of dainty lace The sweet-alyssum weaves along each bed. All, all is fair within the garden's bound ; No sweeter or more lovely spot, I ween, could e'er be found. And here, methinks, might poet-lovers' sighs Chime with their ladies' sweetly winsome talk, Here Astrophel adore his Stella's eyes. And Waller with his Saccharissa walk. Or Herrick frame a flowery verse to please His silken-bodiced Julia here beneath the cherry-trees. Ah, Herrick, what a sunny charm is thine. Rare laureate-singer of the lovely flowers ! Across thy page the rosy garlands twine, And dewy April melts in fragrant showers Of cloudy blossoms, pink and white and red. And Maj'-Day maidens weave a wreath to crown their Poet's head. O sweet old English gardens, he is gone, — Green Devon lanes, ye know his face no more; But long as dew-kissed buds shall wake at dawn And daffodils swaj'^ by the grassy shore. So long will Herrick's floral music sound. And Memory's greenest tendrils climb to wreathe his name around. And here on dreamy August afternoons I love to pore upon his golden book ; And here among the roses that are June's, On some green bench within a bowery nook. The Old-Fashioned Garden Where rosy petal-drift may strew the page, 'Tis sweet to read the pensive numbers of old Persia's sage, Omar Khayyam, the wisest of the wise. Ah, now in balmy Naishapur he sleeps These almost thousand years ; and where he lies His well-loved rose each spring her petals weeps. Of what may be hereafter no man knows, — Then let us live to-day, he cried, as lives the lovely rose! O stately roses, yellow, white, and red. As Omar loved you, so we love to-day. Some roses with the vanished years have sped. And some our mothers' mothers laid away Among their bridal-gowns' soft silken folds, Where each pale petal for their sons a precious memory holds. And some we find among the yellowed leaves Of slender albums, once the parlor's pride. Where faint-traced ivy pattern interweaves The mottoes over which the maiden sighed. O faded roses, did they match your red. Those fair 3'oung cheeks whose color long ago with yours has fled.'' And still doth balmy June bring many a rose To crown the happy garden's loveliness. Against the house the old sweet-brier grows And cheers its sadness with soft, warm caress. As fragrant yet as in the far-off time When that old mansion's fairest mistress taught its shoots to climb. Enveloped in their tufted velvet coats The sweet, poetical moss-roses dream; And petal after petal softly floats From where the tea-rose spreads her fawn and cream, — The Old-Fashioned Garden Like fairy barks on tides of air they flow, And rove adown the garden silently as drifting snow. Near that old rose named from its hundred leaves The lovely bridal-roses sweetly blush ; The climbing rose across the trellis weaves A canopy suffused with tender flush ; The damask roses swing on tiny trees, And here the seven-sisters glow like floral pleiades. Nor lacks there music in this lovely close, — The music of the oriole's soft lute, The gush of cadenced melody that flows And echoes from the blue-bird's idXx^ flute; And here beside the fountain's mossy brink There rings the lilting laughter of the happy bobolink. From forth the branches of the lilac tree The robin-redbreast's bubbling ditties well; — O cherished will his name forever be, For he it was, as olden stories tell. That eased the crown upon the Saviour's head And with the bleeding thorn stained his own breast forever red! And now and then the shy wood-robin comes And from the pear tree pours his liquid notes ; The black-bird plays among the purple plums ; The humming-bird about the garden floats And like a bright elf wings his darting flight, A shimmering, evanescent point of green and golden light. Down in the lily's creamy cup he dips, Then whirrs to where the honeysuckle showers Its luscious essences ; but most he sips From out the deep, red-throated trumpet-flowers ; — Sweet booty there awaits the spoiler's stealth As horn by horn he rifles all their summer-hoarded wealth. T'he Old- Fashioned Garaen The ragged-robins gaze with pleased surprise Upon the jewelled beauty flashing there; The pansies open M'ide their velvet eyes And ponder sweetly on that rover fair, Until the purple Canterbury-bell Chimes out its little curfew tolling them to slumber's spell. O sweet is every rural sight and sound That greets us in the pleasant countryside, — The fields of crimson clover walled around With greenest hedges, fertile valleys wide. Long wooded slopes, and many a grassy hill, And peaceful silver rivers flowing on from mill to mill. Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain In violet-days, when spring opes her green heart ; And sweet the apple trees along the lane Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart ; And sweet the brimming dew that overfills The golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils. Sweet is the fragrance of the fruity vine. And sweet the rustle of the broad-leaved corn; And sweet the lowing of the great-eyed kine Among the milking-sheds at early morn As they await the farmer's red-cheeked girls. While still the spiders' filmy webs are bright with dewy pearls. And sweet the locust's drowsy monotone, And sweet the ring-dove's brooding plaint at eve ; And sweet from far-off meadows newly mown The breath of hay that tempts the bees to leave The corridors of hollyhocks ; and sweet To see the sun-browned reapers in among the ripened wheat. The Golden Days of Old Romance But sweeter far in this old garden close To loiter 'mid the lovely, old-time flowers, To breathe the scent of lavender and rose, And with old poets pass the peaceful hours. Old gardens and old poets, — happy he Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company ! And now is gone the dreamy afternoon, — The sun has sunk below yon western height ; The pallid silver of the harvest-moon Floods all the garden with its soft, weird light. The flowers long since have told their dewy beads. And all is silent save the frogs' small choir in distant meads. THE GOLDEN DAYS OF OLD ROMANCE I LOVE the golden days of old romance That live for us in legend and in story, — The Age of Gold when man was in his glory, The feats of fairies and their moonlight dance. The stately jousts with noble knights a-prance. And lordly loves in castles gray and hoary. And so I turn to some old allegory Of merry England, or of sunny France, Or dreamy Spain ; and all entranced I sit With mystic Arthur at the Table Round, Or visit that dark vale where Roland wound His last sad horn, or thread the purple light Of Spenser's woods, or laugh with him who writ Of old La Mancha's crazed, fantastic knight. 10 Spenser TO BION On his ' Lament for Adonis ' TPHE woe of widowed Cypris and the groan Of that sweet lady drooping o'er the bed Where lay the form of lovely Adon dead, Whose too, too early death she did bemoan For that it left her loverless and lone Amid the tears the Loves lamenting shed, — These dolors have in later poets bred The melancholy music of thy moan, O gentle Bion. On this languid string Young Moschus, mourning thine own parting, pla^'ed; Sweet Spenser, stroking its sad minors, made His moan for Sidney, as for hapless King Great Milton. Last the noble Laureate laid The ' In Memoriam ' as his offering. SPENSER I WENT with Spenser into Faerie Land, And passed through purple forests deep and wide; Down dim, enchanted glades where I espied The lovely hamadryads' sylvan band. Along the marge of many a golden strand We swept in cedarn shallops down the tide; And ever as we fared he magnified The name of Gloriana high and grand. O mighty Dreamer ! great Idealist ! The fields of Phantasie are thy demesne. Sweet is the marriage-music thou dost play, And sweet to hear thee pipe the shepherd's lay ; But sweeter far in summertide to list To the stately measures of thy ' Faerie Queene.' 11 In Poet-Land THE GARDEN OF THE HESPERIDES On a Picture by Sir Frederic Leighton r^ AR on the western borders of the world, Hard by the utmost pale of sunset seas, Where never mortal men have felt the breeze Of those dim regions murmur round the furled And idle sails of vessels tempest-whirled Far from their course, — dwell the Hesperides, Forever languorous laid in poppied ease On beds of amaranth Avith dews empearled. Sweet are their days ; no other care have they Than watching o'er that fruitage fair and golden Which Earth to Hera at her wedding gave. A paradise is theirs, and poets olden Have sung how mortals ever yet essay To reach those Isles of Bliss bevond the wave. IN POET-LAND O WHO will leave sad care and go with me To that enchanted land where Poets dwell — A glorious brotherhood — in some far dell Among the meads of golden Arcady ! There blind old Homer, lord of poesy. And Virgil, his far son, hear Dante tell Of that dread pilgrimage through Heaven and Hell. There Chaucer joys in sunny minstrelsy. And gentle Spenser floats on silver streams Of phantasie ; and ah, what raptures run From Shakespeare's lute that shames the nightingale ! There Milton meditates celestial themes, Keats paints his purple page, and Tennyson Is singing Arthur and the Holy Grail. 12 The Grave of Shelley VENICE nPHEY told me thou wert fallen to decay, Old Venice, and hadst lost thine ancient pride ; But as upon thy silent streets I glide And mark the stately piles that line the way, And all th}^ spires and domes in dim array Soft mirrored in the Adriatic's tide, — I cannot think thy glory all has died. Nay ! in the calmness of thy later day Thou hast the mellow bloom of ripened age; Gone is thy youth, yet thou art still as fair As any dove that haunts thy holy square. Like Ariadne's was thy heritage, — A lonely queen beside the silver sea. Sad but forever beautiful to be ! THE MAKERS OF FLORENCE T TROD the streets of that fair Tuscan town And saw the men that Florence called her own ; In pictured effigy and sculptured stone Repose those peerless sons of old renown. Far-thoughted Galileo there looks down. And Michael Angelo, severe and lone, W^ith that same sleeping strength that he has shown In his own ' Moses.' And I marked the frown Of him who traversed Hell and Paradise ; And, near the stone whereon great Dante dreamed, Calm Brunelleschi's upward-gazing eyes Fixt rapturous upon his glorious dome; And last, San Marco's Monk whose lightnings beamed Like some pure star in that dark night of Rome ! THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY 'T'HE cypress throws across the yellowed stone Its darkness gathered from the countless years ; The sad, wan flowers drop their pallid tears, '^nd by the moon the night-owl makes her moan. 13 Switzerland And yet no narrow tomb claims him its own, For where the riotous sea-wind uprears The foaming billows 'neath the starry spheres, Forever are his deathless ashes blown. O Heart of Hearts, bright Ariel of the dawn ! The most ethereal of poetic race ! Like young Actaeon saw he face to face Divinest Beauty with her veil withdrawn ; — Was it for this he passed from earth so young And left so soon that glorious lyre unstrung? THE GRAVE OF KEATS X-JERE lies young Adonais, stricken low All in the dewy morning of his days. Upon his sleep the soft moon bends her gaze. As on the Latmian shepherd's long ago. And for her own loved Poet pours her woe. Here no dark cypress-tree its shadow sways. But through the grass the lowly ivy strays And tender violets in sorrow grow. Above his earthly bed we stand and weep. And yet we know his spirit never dies, Sweeter than all the songs he ever sung. Soothed in the languor of eternal sleep. Like his beloved Endymion he lies, Forever beautiful, forever young ! SWITZERLAND T SAW thine orchards as they lay aglow With April's bloom ; I saw thy lower vales Roll their green waves high as the fields where fails All verdure, 'neath the icy winds that blow Across those wastes of everlasting snow. I stood among thy lofty forest dales And saw the peaceful lake, the mirrored sails, And all the little universe below. 14 h^eland Emblem of Freedom, Switzerland, art thou ! Thy air, thy soil, thy mountains, all are free; Wild-free thy streams that from the high cliff's brow Leap joyous down to meet the southern sea. Before thy Tell's beloved name we bow And hail thee perfect type of Liberty ! OXFORD "lyY/" HO loveth not the hundred-towered town By which the Isis' lingering waters flow, — Those mediaeval streets where silent go The pensive scholars clad in cap and gown; Green gardens whose deep quietude can drown All worldly thought ; the carven fanes where blow The rapturous organs, and whose dim panes glow With blazoned saints and kings of far renown ! A cit}' of enchantment thou dost seem. Rare Oxford, and thy sweet and tranquil charm Comes like the soothing of an old-world dream To cheer our restless days, and to disarm The blinded ones who scorn fair Learning's fame And rudely seek to mar her ancient name. IRELAND T^HY memory, green Erin, haunteth me Since first I stood upon Killarney's shore. Or saw from Limerick's spires the Shannon pour Its turbid waters toward the western sea ; And in my fancy's hour I turn to thee To muse upon thy never-failing store Of ancient myth and legendary lore Enshrining every glade and rock and tree. Across thy lonely bogs the Banshee moans, At eve the fiddle cries in mystic tones. And elfin-folk dance on the moon-lit green. Thy scenes I love, but chiefly Mulla's dell. Where Spenser, rapt in rich enchantment's spell, Saw his great vision of the * Faerie Queene.' IS Addiso?i May AN OLD-TIME GARDEN C\ FOR a garden of the olden time Where none but long-familiar flowers grow, Where pebbled paths go winding to and fro, And hone3'^suckles over arbors climb ! There would I have sweet mignonette and thyme, With hollyhocks and dahlias all arow, The hyacinth inscribed with words of woe, The small blue-bell that beats a dainty chime For elfin ears ; and daffodillies, too. The sleepy poppy, and the marigold, The peony with petals manifold, And ragged-robins, pink and white and blue. All these and more I'd have, and back of all A thousand roses on a mossy wall ! A PORTRAIT OF LUCRETIA MOTT I LOOK on that serene and saintly face And mark the placid beauty pictured there ; In that calm countenance no weight of care Nor darkness of distress could e'er efface Or overshade the sweet, old-fashioned grace. She seems an angel sent to do and dare, A gentle martyr fortified to bear Truth's sorest trials. Yet here is no sad trace Of her life's battles ; from those tranquil eyes There beams a perfect peace. O noble soul, What do not Truth and Freedom owe to thee ! Thy name we love, thy memory we prize ; And round thy brow we see the aureole That crowned thy life of sweet philanthropy. ADDISON MAY A LAS, that fairest flowers must fall at last ! Alas, that earth should lose such men as he. And we be reft of one whose courtesy Made glad the very children as he passed ! 16 spring In finest mould his gentle soul was cast, Learning and wisdom his in large degree ; His da3's were spent in calm serenity Communing with the great ones of the Past. Farewell, rare friend ! All empty is thy place, And e'er shall be ; yet we who stay behind True comfort take as reverently we scan Thy blameless life, that fine and courtly grace Of thine, which, wedded to a noble mind. Made rich ' the grand old name of gentleman.' " THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES " 'T'HE groves were God's first temples, and to-day, Should man yet worship there, were he unwise? The gray old woods whose mighty trunks uprise In silent majesty, where wildings sway Their fragrant bells and scent the air with May ; The fields whose flowery beauty open lies Beneath the glory of the summer skies : — These have been nature's simple shrines for aye, These are the temples of the living God. And so for dome the over-arching blue I'll take, for floor the soft and verdant sod. For aisles the trees in stately avenue, — While myriad choirs of birds in hymns of bliss Fill all the heart of this vast edifice. SPRING V\7ELC0ME, thrice welcome to thee, lovely Spring, Sweet time of mellow rains and gentle dew ! Like Flora comest thou, with retinue Of every tender plant and leafy thing. At thy approach the world is wakening. And tree and shrub and grass their life renew ; The meads are starred with floAvers of fairest hue, And orchards wide their blossomed fragrance fling. 17 Autumn Emblem of budding innocence thou art, Sweet, gentle, virgin season of the year; A note of love awakes in every heart When earth enrobes herself in thy rich green. Then come, sweet youths and maidens all, come near. And weave a flowery crown for this fair Queen ! SUMMER C WEET, languorous days of perfect calm and peace And drowsy somnolence, we love you well: Fields, woods, and gardens own your lulling spell, And nature from her labors finds surcease. On high slow drifts the soft cloud's billowy fleece, Within the lily's golden-dusty cell The bees are murmuring, the ring-doves tell Their evening sorrow, and the farm's increase Wafts from the bursting mows its odors sweet. The sheep-bells tinkle faintly on the hills, And where the vales are swooning in the heat Upon his droning lute the locust shrills. O balmy Summer, dear thy soft repose As is the fragrance of thy sweetest rose ! AUTUMN "y IS golden Autumn, and a mellow haze Envelops all the dreamy countryside; Soon o'er the world will creep a crimson tide Of fairy fire and set the woods ablaze With sullen splendor. By the dusty ways The golden-rod is drooping, and beside The wall the grapes are swelling in their pride Of purple lusciousness. The droAvsy days Are almost silent, save where orchard trees Are dropping down their ripe and ruddy store. Or where the farmer beats the threshing-floor With rhythmic flail. Sweet nature's symbols these. That mark the evening of the dying year And prelude the approach of winter drear. 18 A May -Day Invitation WINTER V[ OW earth Avithin the arms of Winter old Is softly slumbering, and deep and warm The mantle lies that shields her tender form From bitter blast and storm and numbing cold. Upland and meadow, sombre wood and wold, All silent lie beneath the frost-king's charm; O'er every frozen stream and sleeping farm The mage's spell is laid. Like ruddy gold Low swings the sun in waning afternoon Down towards the world's blue edge ; then comes the moon And silvers all the land with fairy light. Within, the hearth glows warm, and 'tis the time Of fireside joys, when gentle hearts are bright And beat as sweetly as the sleigh-bells' chime, A MAY-DAY INVITATION {To C. F. J.) ^OME, let us leave the busy town And to the country hasten down, — We'll go this very day ! The hills and dales are deckt with green, On every bush the buds are seen, And all the countryside is sweet with May, What pleasure can the city yield When every grove and verdant field Is drest in spring array.'* Or who would wish a dusty street When he can rest his weary feet In meadows odorous with flowery May.'' The robin plumes his ruddy breast. And to his mate upon the nest He sings a roundelay; And all' the golden afternoon The blue-bird pipes his happy tune And flits among the fragrant fields of May. 19 W hit tier s Birthday The violets empearled with dew Reflect the heaven's perfect blue, The tulips softly sway ; The primrose haunts the woodland hills, And golden-hearted daffodils Dance gaily in the balmy winds of May. The orchards are a lovely sight, — The trees embowered in pink and white, Each like a great bouquet ; And wide they spread their spicy scent Till all the air is redolent, And O, we wish that it were always May ! The city bindeth men with care, — Engaged in this and that affair They wear their lives away ; But in the country's leafy lanes Simplicity securely reigns, — Care sorteth not with happy-hearted May. Then leave thy desk and come along, We'll go and hear the robin's song, — Let's haste without delay ! We'll drink a draught of morning dew. And wandering the meadows through We'll see the country girls bring in the May. WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY T^EAR Friend, we come to yield anew ^^^ The reverence we owe thy name, And celebrate with fresh acclaim Our Quaker Poet, strong and true. For though there needs no day of praise For him who held with all his sect That love and honor and respect Belong alike to all our days, — 20 Whittier s Birthday Yet do wc love in special wise To celebrate his natpl day, And, pausing in our onward way, Look back awhile with reverent eyes Upon his long and noble life, A life as blameless and serene As yet the world has ever seen, — Yet one that had its doubts and strife. Its martyrdom to sternest duty In days when men were weak with fear, A life that grew from year to 3^ear Nearer the type of godly beauty. Lowly his birth, his fortunes low, His kin a plain and simple folk; The weight of toil and labor's yoke He learned from early years to know. And yet there blossomed in his heart A passion native-born and strong, That made him love the poet's song And practise it with homely art. A ' barefoot boy ' he oft would climb. In lonely mood, his favorite height. And, gazing o'er the hills, recite The songs of Burns, or set to rhyme His thoughts of fields and woods below, The grassy meads and joyous brooks. The flowery banks and sylvan nooks, And the blue river's peaceful flow. And as he strengthened day by day His touch upon the lyric string. The world was glad to hear him sing. This nightingale in Quaker gray. But when there swept across the land The ebb and flow of Freedom's tide. The tuneful harp was laid aside, And Whittier stood hand in hand 21 Whittier s Birthday With those great comrades true and brave Who led the van of that crusade Which cleansed the sullied land and made A freeman of the shackled slave. 'Twas then he shone upon our sight A second Milton among men, The poet scourging with his pen The enemies of truth and right. And still like that great Puritan — When peace succeeded iron war, He donned his singing robes once more. And, newly heartened by the span Of those dark years, he sang with tone So full of hope, so large and free, It made the mourning nation see That o'er the hills the sun still shone. He sang in songs of many keys, — He sang of home and sweet content. And through his verses came the scent Of flowers, and sounds of birds and bees. He sang of duty, faith, and love. He sang the brotherhood of man. And ever shorter made the span That parts us from the life above. The life above, — ah, it is thine, Dear Heart, for, ever through the years, Through all thy human hopes and fears, There gleamed a spirit half divine, — A spirit that in all its moods Of joy and grief obeyed the Light, That read the laAVS of God aright And followed the Beatitudes. His creed, — and who shall name his creed.? — If so we may those feelings call 22 England That were too wide foi* ritual, That asked no priest to intercede With service born of man's device, — But rested in the faith content That God is good, that reverent And upright living is the price Of joy beyond. So while he stood Within the faith his fathers held. His great and loving heart out-welled Towards all the human brotherhood. gentle Friend, serene and strong, O Poet, sweet and tender-true. Thy work was such as martyrs do. Thy life one grand and noble song! ENGLAND {To C. F. J. and M. C. J.) nPHE day is fair, the breeze is free. The ship has crossed the bar. And you are fleeting o'er the sea To lands that lie afar. My fancy to old England turns. As o'er the deep you fare, And memory the picture brings Of all that waits you there. 1 see the velvet meadows walled With hedges deep and green. The lordly forest trees that mark The nobleman's demesne ; The gray old church and Norman tower Embosomed deep in trees. The fields aflame with poppy-heads "Where flit the drowsy bees ; The stately minster's Gothic pile, The noble heritage Bequeathed us by the living faith That stirred the Middle Age; 23 England Old gardens and old village inns With all their old-time charm, And ancient coaching-roads that wind By ancient garth and farm. By Cam's and Isis' banks I see The hoary college towns, Where cloistered scholars pace the walks In mediaeval gowns ; Where silver-chiming vesper bells Peal from a score of spires. And glorious anthems soar on high . From snowy-vested choirs ; Where old libraries, oaken-ceiled And dim with Learning's haze, Entice the traveller to stay And dream away his days. And over all that storied land. By every burgh and mere. Are spots that poets' lines or lives Have made forever dear. Westmoreland's peaks majestic are. And fair each lake and fell. But doubled is their beauty now That Wordsworth here did dwell. His great heart was in harmony With nature's graver moods, And in his song he showed the soul Of these sweet solitudes. And now he sleeps in Grasmere vale, The Botha's bank beside, But still his calm, sweet voice is heard As is the Botha's tide. The level moors of Lincolnshire Recall a later name. The peerless laureate who sang Of Celtic Arthur's fame. 24 England Across these downs he wandered oft, By beck and lonely dune ; He loved their sombre beauty well, — They set his heart atune. And ever in the after years These boyhood scenes were dear, And through his every song there floats Some breath of Lincolnshire. In ancient Stratford's holy fane Immortal Shakespeare sleeps, And placid Avon by his grave Her silent vigil keeps. His native county's name will aye With his own name entwine; His fancy drew no fairer scenes. Green Warwickshire, than thine. Thy peaceful fields and silver streams Upon his page we find; Thy woods are like the Arcady Where dwelt sweet Rosalind. As in the rural lanes you roam Of olden Devonshire, The echoes of the golden harp Of Herrick you may hear. Beside these brooks he loved to pipe In summer's dreamy hours, And watch the hock-cart coming in Engarlanded with flowers. Along these leafy lanes he trudged To wassail and to wake. Or w^here the rosy country girls Swung through the barley-break. Old Devon's flowery meads and dales Can never withered be, 26 A Dream of Other Days For Herrick shed on them the dew Of immortality ! And so o'er all that ancient land, From Cornwall to the Tweed, Her poets' names are ever green. And to this day, indeed, Along the Canterbury road With Chaucer we may ride. Or pace the placid Ouse's bank By pensive Cowper's side; In stately Penshurst's summer woods With courtly Sidney stray. Or muse beneath the church-yard elms With meditative Gray. Fair are the fields of sunny France, And fair is Italy, But dearest is the love we bear. Sweet English land, to thee. Thy Saxon blood we share, and all Thine ancient memories ; To thee with filial love we look Across the orient seas. We love thine old ancestral worth Throughout the ages long. But most we love thee for thy wealth Of glorious English Song! A DREAM OF OTHER DAYS T FELL asleep upon a summer's day As on a shady woodland bank I lay. And as I slept there came to me a dream Of days of eldest time. The land did seem ' Lovely and happy with a strange delight ; All round were floAvery fields and regions bright, Enchanted groves, and brooks that danced in glee Down ferny slopes to meet the silver sea 26 A Dream of Other Days Far in the west. There spiced zephyrs played, And birds of wondrous plumage charmed the ear in every glade. And in that lovely land there dwelt a race Of godlike youths and maidens ; every face Was glowing with a comeliness divine. There moved the beings of Olympic line, Tall gods and goddesses, among the bloom Of dim Hesperian trees that spread a gloom Of purple shade around; great heroes, too, And all the sylvan folk that Hellas knew, — Dryads and fauns and nymphs in beauty's glory. And every fair familiar form that lives in ancient story. Divine Apollo sat within the shade Among his flocks, and on twin pipes he played Such strains as held his fleecy audience rapt ; The trees bent low to hear, the fountain lapt Its marge in joy, and all the air was thrilled. And then I heard the distance faintly filled By Orpheus, as in echo to his sire. Where, to the weeping of his plaintive lyre, He strayed slow-footed down the grassy lea. And ever sadly moaned, 'Eurydice ! Eurydice 1* Across the silver tides of that far sea Young Jason, dauntless prince of Thessaly, Fared in his questing of the Golden Fleece. With him were ranged the chiefs of early Greece, Castor and Pollux, mighty Heracles, Theseus, and Meleager, and with these Full many another; while the Argo broke The virgin billows with her sacred oak, The comrades smiting with the ashen oar Those wondering seas whose waters ne'er had seen a ship before. 27 A Dream of Other Days Beside a woodland fountain's turfy shore I saw a youth who, ever bending o'er The watery mirror, seemed with his sweet grace To lend a two-fold beauty to the place. Ah, foolish boy, will never maiden prize A look of love from those soft violet ej'^es? In Hellas there are girlish charms as fair As is the picture which thou watchest there; — Shall it be said Narcissus took no bride. But ever loved an imaged shape and in his folly died? And there the great Odysseus did I see, Recounting to the fair Penelope And to the Grecian heroes gathered round. The tales of all the wonders he had found In that far voyage of his, — the Lotus-land, Of Circe's spells which men may not withstand Save by advice divine, the Sun-god's isle. And of the Sirens with their luring wile; — And long and loud those goodly heroes laughed To hear how Polyphemus was outdone by human craft ! Of Scylla and Charybdis all the tale He told to them, and every face was pale O'er that untoward hap ; and then he turned And pictured all he saw when he sojourned In that PhcTacian realm, where summer knows Not any ceasing and where ceaseless grows The peerless fruitage by the palace wall. And when Odysseus had related all, — * O come, my comrades, come ! ' I heard him cry, ' We'll sail unto the Earthly Paradise ere yet we die ! * Two beings there whose beauty none ma}' tell Went hand in hand among the asphodel, Cupid and Psyche, an immortal pair; Of godlike presence he, and she as fair 28 Sweet Spring is Here As Cvtherea's self. O gentle bride, patient pilgrim-soul so sorely tried ! — Hasting with tireless step through regions dread, O'er mountains wild and down among the dead, — Till Love divine to crown thy Faith was given, And through thy earthly trials thou found'st eternal joy in heaven! When night came down and spread its perfect peace Upon that dreamland picture of old Greece, 1 cast my eyes along a mountain side, And there within a sacred cave espied A beauteous shepherd youth who lay aswoon In slumberous repose. Low swung the moon, And Luna leaning from her silver car Just touched his drowsy lips, then sped afar Across the starry heights, — while from that kiss Endymion sleeping smiled as conscious of immortal bliss. When now at length the soft moon veiled her light Behind the Avails of Latmos' snowy height. And rosy Dawn proclaimed another day, — My lovely vision faded all away. Goddess and nymph and hero ; — but to me Was left the fragrance of their memory, A dower sweet ; yet with it sad regret At thought that human kind may never yet Again, as in the glorious days of old. Commune with the divinities of that fair Age of Gold. SWEET SPRING IS HERE QWEET spring is here, and o'er the earth ^ A verdant garb is seen. As drenched in balm of April rains The fields put on their green. The apple-orchards, all transformed, Are wrapt in clouds of bloom, 29 Sweet Spring is Here And here the robin loves to swing and breathe the rare perfume. The dandelions by thousands gleam, And every little one Seems, with its round of golden rays. Like to a fairy sun. The tulips burn with crimson flame Along each narrow bed, — Like dainty elfin lamps they glow, and light the lawn with red. The violets uplift their heads And star the grass with blue, The daffodils hold up their cups To catch the morning dew. The small Ma^^-apple spreads abroad Its leafy little tent, And with the jasmine's balmy breath the vale is redolent. Beside the sylvan banks unseen Shy Quaker-ladies blow, And on the hill the blood-root spreads Her drifts of vernal snow. From oak-tree roots the primrose runs. And paints with paly gold The carpeting of withered leaves that clothes the sombre wold. Where is the dear hepatica With its sweet baby face.^* There, in the shadow of the wood, It peeps with modest grace. And near it is that child of spring. The pale anemone, Wliile in the mossy dell the fern uprears her tiny tree. Down by the pond 'tis like a camp Of mimic state, I ween, 30 /;/ B/ossoPi-Time For all the tender willows stand Pavilioned o'er with green. Wild honeysuckles pour their scent Upon the woodland breeze, And tempt from far-off pasture fields the golden-belted bees. The crocuses and hyacinths. Sweet infants of the year. Show dainty faces dimmed at dawn With many a dewy tear. The hedges of japonica Have donned their spring attire, And border all the grassy lawn with walls of flowery fire. The orchards, lanes, and meadows all Are odorous with May, And every happy little bird Is carolling his lay. The hills and valleys, woods and streams Are smiling far and near. And all the world is filled with joy because sweet Spring is here. IN BLOSSOM-TIME T N blossom-time the orchard trees. Aroused by April's balmy breeze, In loveliness are glowing; All blushing with their rosy bloom, They lade the winds with faint perfume That over them are blowing. I watched them in their dawning fair, I watch them as they fill the air With petals earthward snowing; And as I see their branches thinned And stript by every passing wind, I mourn at that quick going. 31 Crocuses FLOWERS AND FAIRIES TO Dorothy Sydney Martha Margaret Isabella Dorothea Beatrice Waldo those little lovers of the FLOWERS AND FAIRIES these VEBSICLES I GIVE AURORA W HEN the rising sun is tinting All the sky with opal hue, Comes the sweet Aurora tripping For her morning draught of dew. There she quaffs the rose's nectar, And the morning-glory's wine; Hyacinthine honey sips she, Vowing it a drink divine. And the lovely flowers regretful As they see her go away, Sighing forth their gentle sorrow. Breathe a fragrance all the day. CROCUSES "p'RAIL children of the early spring, We love you well; Ye seem to tell By your rathe blossoming, That time of leaf and bud and fruit is coming. 32 The Fairy Sky First-born are ye of all the flowers, Ye gentle ones ; Sweet April runs Her course of dewy hours Heart-happy that she saw your early coming. Close on late snows 3'our blooms are seen, Pale vernal things; The robin sings, The grass grows rain^^-green. And all the world awakens at your coming. When golden June scents all the air With her sweet rose, And lovely glows Each bed, we'll still declare 'Tis not more dear than was your springtime coming ! WHITE VIOLETS A BAND of sweet blue violets. All on an April day. Went down into a sylvan dell At hide-and-seek to play. But while they played a bat flew by, Which gave them such a fright That every little countenance Was changed to milky white ! THE FAIRY SKY A BOVE a glassy woodland pool Queen Mab her body bent. And saw her face, a lovely moon. In that small firmament. And for the stars the spangles all That on her robe did shine Made such a twinkling there, I vow Was ne'er a sky so fine ! 33 The Fairies' Supper THE SNOW-DROP 'y HE snow-drop, pearly white of hue, Each morning sheds a fragrant dew, Which httle goblins come and get And use to bait their beetle-net. THE ROSE'S REPLY T SAID unto a lovely rose That in my garden grew, * When chilly Autumn comes around, Sweet rose, what will you do ? ' Said she, ' When Autumn breezes blow I'll rain my petals down, And on them little brookside elves Will sail to Fairy Town.' THE FAIRIES' SUPPER A^JHEN fairy-folk sit down to sup Each has for plate a buttercup, And for mug a tiny cell Of the delicate blue-bell Filled with dew-drops of the rose Gathered when her buds unclose. I ween it is a witching sight To see each bonny little sprite Seated at the mushroom board All with toothsome dainties stored. Here are plates of cricket meat Dressed with sauce of clover sweet. Appetizing little pies Made of wings of bottle-flies ; Omelet of emmet's eggs. Fricassee of beetles' legs. Liver of the bumble-bee. And ragout of chickadee ; 34 The Fairies' Supper Barbecue of lady-birds, And nut-shells filled with creamy curds Pilfered while the dairy-girl Gossiped with the farmer's churl. The chalice of a daffodil Is their great bowl, which they fill With syrup of the wild strawberries Much esteemed by all the fairies. Here are gnats' wings, and by these Many little loaves of cheese Made of daisies' golden eyes, — Tadpole tongues of smallest size, Tiny seed-cakes with their tops Gemmed with honeysuckle drops, Salad made of violets blue Moistened o'er with April dew, And the roe of small brook-fishes Served on pink rose-petal dishes. Strips of candied gad-fly's wing ; — And many another dainty thing Only to be named aright By those who have the fairy sight. While these wee folk feast away They are cheered by music gay, For behind the soft sweet-fern. Where the fire-fly lanterns burn, Is the band of players hid. There the green-robed katydid Tweedles on his violin Elfin-music high and thin; The cricket blows his dulcet flute, And the locust on his lute Strums a droning monotone. And silvery melodies are blown On the little lily horns ; While on shells of small acorns 35 Cherry Blossoms Stretched across with skin of plum Little drummers briskly drum, Pigwiggin deftly keeping time With his little hare-bell chime. All the fairies shout with glee At the dainty minstrelsy ; And the supper being ended, Each sylph by an elf attended, The}^ pace among the mossy glades Listening to the serenades And sonatas soft and Ioav, Till the stars begin to glow, — When at Oberon's command The tiny company disband. To ply the tasks with merry cheer Set them by their sovereign dear. THE MUSHROOM TENT "V\7HEN showers make the woods all wet The tiny wood-folk run and get Beneath a mushroom's sheltering eaves, And there on beds of violet leaves They sleep secure till cease of rain Sends them forth to play again. I CHERRY BLOSSOMS RAMBLED in an orchard old Where gentle winds were blowing. And saw the blooming cherry trees Their petals downward snowing. ' O stay, sweet blossoms ! ' cried I then, ' Withhold 3^our wasteful showers ; — Why will ye scatter thus and fade, Ye dainty cherry-flowers? As when in some fond dream we see That die which most we cherish, 36 The Fairy Crown So when we love 3'ou best, alas, Ye flutter down and perish ! ' THE FAERY FLEET T SAT beside a forest pool, And there I chanced to see Come sweeping o'er the tiny tide A fleet from Faerie. The ships were shells of hazel-nuts That grow in greenwood dales ; Rose-petals on pine-needle masts Did serve them for their sails. The tiny navy moved in state Before a zeph}^' light, And as it swept along, I trow. It was a winsome sight ! But when the little admiral Did through his glass spy me. He turned and with his tiny fleet Fled far o'er that small sea ! THE BLUE-BELL CLOCK T^HE blue-bell hourly rings her chime To let the fairies know the time. She rings it all the long night through From set of sun till death of dew ; She rings it through the livelong day, — And every little elf and fay Prepares his meals and feeds his flock By this same dainty little clock. THE FAIRY CROWN T MET three fays within a wood As I was walking there. Who wove a coronal of fern Commixed with maidenhair. 37 Poppu les ' What make ye here, sweet maids,' I cried, * With this your dainty craft? ' Whereat the fairest of the three Looked up and sweetly laughed, And said, ' This leafy crown we weave To set upon the head Of our dear Queen, who at dew-fall With Oberon will wed.' POPPIES C\ PERFECT flowers of sweet midsummer da3's, The season's emblems 3'e, As nodding lazily Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, And soothe the tired gazer's sense With lulling surges of your softest somnolence. Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed With tender ruby glow. Not any flowers that blow Can match the glory of your gleaming red ; Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue Before j^e lit your fires no garden ever knew. Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, And bright the velvet vest On the nasturtium's breast; Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage. And bright the coreopsis' eye; — But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie. O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well ; Your glorious crimson tide The mossy walk beside Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell; And walking there we gladly bless Your queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness. 88 The Fairies in the Dairies THE ROSY RAIN P IGWIGGIN once a-napping lay Pavilioned in the shade Of a rose-tree, whose petals fell And him all overlaid. But when he woke and found himself Deep in the rosy rain, He got him up and scampered off From where he late had lain. PINK CHEEKS I N the starlight kindly fairies Gathering the elder-berries Make of them an ink, Which in cups of crocus steeping Bear they where sweet maids are sleeping And paint their cheeks all pink ! THE FAIRIES IN THE DAIRIES T N the night-time come the fairies Breaking into farmers' dairies, Each one with a lantern bright Of a glow-worm's shining light. First they spread a golden gleam O'er the milk and make it cream, Giving it a taste more fine Than their own most dainty wine. Then they wrap the curded milk In filters fine of cobweb silk ; — This they take and quickly squeeze Into loaves of gilt-edge cheese, Which they skilfully dispose Down the dairy-bench in rows. Next, with neither noise nor clutter, Fashion they the golden butter, 39 The Death of the Bee In a trice by magic power Making that which costs an hour Of weary work and many a turn To the milk-maid with her churn. Then having moulded it in presses, They lay it on soft water-cresses, And sprinkle it with sweetened dew Gathered from the violets blue. When their work is deftly done Ere the rising of the sun. To the garden out they go Where the dainty pansies grow. Here they hold their sprightly dance In and out among the plants, Footing featly to the tune Of the locust's small bassoon And Pigwiggin's purling whistle Whittled from a spike of thistle. Accompanied by pipers three On their oat-straw pipes so wee. When morning 'gins to light the sky. To their woodland homes they hie ; In their rose-leaf beds they creep And soon are sunk in balmy sleep. Each little head upon a pillow Of a downy pussy-willow. A THE DEATH OF THE BEE LITTLE bee in search of sweets Flew in a lily's bell. And revelled in the lusciousness Of that soft honeyed cell. But as he sipped the nectary, O'ercome with rich perfume, He fainted unto death and lay For aye embalmed in bloom ! 40 To Mercu?y PANSIES gWEET baby faces do I see Along the garden beds, With pretty caps of velveteen Upon their daint}' heads. Some purple are and some are blue, And some are golden yellow, With tiny neckerchief of green For ever}^ little fellow. The children of the garden they, So gladsome and so merry, And every one is tended by A loving little fairy. THE QUAKER-LADY 'l\/'ITHIN a dewy woodland dell I spied a Quaker-lady; Her home was on a mossy bank Where all was cool and shady. And as I saw her sitting there So sweetly and demurely, I said, 'There's peace within thy heart. Dear Quaker-lady, surely ! ' TO MERCURY (Horace, I., 10) Q SUASIVE son of Atlas' line. Dear, artful Mercury, 'twas thine To teach the fathers of the race A smoother speech, a gentler grace. Thou messenger of mighty Jove And all the gods that dwell above, To thee I sing, O subtle sire Alike of thieves and of the lyre! 41 To Virgil Apollo, once, reft of his quiver, With threatening mandates made thee shiver; Yet angry as he was, he laughed At thy ox-stealing, infant craft. Rich Priam, aided by thy wile. The proud Atridas did beguile; Thessalian watch-fires burned in vain. Unharmed he crossed the hostile plain. All righteous souls are borne along To realms of bliss, an airy throng. Led by that golden rod of thine, O loved of all the race divine, Sweet Mercury ! W TO VIRGIL (Horace, I., 24) HY checked or hidden need our sorrows be For one so fondly loved .f* Melpomene, God-gifted mistress of the moving lyre And melting voice, my melancholy strains inspire! And does our dear Quintilius repose In death's enduring sleep.'' Ah, when shall those Twin sisters Faith and Justice, Truth severe. And Modesty another find that is his peer ! Bewept of all the noble was his end. But chiefest wept of thee, his fondest friend. My Virgil. Yet thy prayers, alas, are vain That ask the gods to lend Quintilius again. What though thy music's magic far excel That Orphean lute which held the trees in spell, — Yet never, never can the Ijfe be made To stir again the pulses of that empty shade, 42 To Calliope Which Mercury, relentless of our doom, Drives on before him to the realms of gloom. Hard fate indeed! But what we cannot cure Is better borne if we but patientl}^ endure. TO CALLIOPE (Horace, III., 4) A LENGTHENED strain. Calliope, Melodious queen, descend and sing, With plaintive pipe or shrilling voice. If so it please, or on Phcjebean string! Hear ye, or am I made the sport Of raptures sweet.'* I seem to hear. And stray through hallowed groves, the seat Of playful winds and pleasant waters clear. In childhood's hour, when tired with play I dreaming lay on Voltur's steep. Far from my home, the storied doves Embowered my bed with leaves, a verdant heap. A thing of wonder 'twas to all Who habit Acherontia's tops. Or have their homes in loamy meads Of low Forentum or 'mid Bantine copse — How, safe from bears and vipers fell, A god-protected child I lay And fearless slept, while I was strewn With gathered myrtle and with sacred bay. Yours, O ye Muses, yours I am. If now the Sabine heights I scale, Or if I jo}' in Tibur's slopes, Or Baiae's strand, or cool Praeneste's vale. Because I love your founts and choirs Philippi's rout destroyed not me, — Nor tree accursed, nor beetling rocks Of Palinurus in the stormy sea. » « 4|t « 43 To Horace THE BANDUSIAN SPRING (Horace, HI., 13) r\ FOUNT that dost the glass outshme, May flagons wreathed with flowers be thine ! To-morrow I shall give to thee A kid, whose forehead swelling free In vain foretokens war and love. Child of the flocks that frisk and play, — • His budding life shall ebb away, To color like the rosy wine Thy surface cool and crystalline. Fierce, burning Sirius knows thee not; The plough-worn oxen seek the spot Where thy sweet water flecked with foam Refreshes all the race that roam. I'll rank thy name With founts of fame. While singing of the ilex tall That overhangs thy waterfall, Bandusian Spring! TO HORACE One dreamy April day I roved from Rome To seek thy sylvan home On hills green with the olive and the vine By that loved farjn of thine. Thy little valley beautiful and wild. Thy fountain undefled, — All as in thy immortal song did seem. still with joy I dream In recollection of the happy hours When. from thy verses' flowers 1 drank the honey of thy golden balm And sweet poetic calm. 44 The Brandywine Dedicated to Carolien Hayes Beneath whose gentle smile the hoy first learned To love the viusic of the tranquil Stream That winds among our dear ancestral fields, Refiecting in its heart the willows old. The green hill-pastures and the peaceful clouds. "I lie as lies yon placid Brandywine Holding the hills and heavens in my heart For contemplation." — Sidney Lanier D EAR Stream of Beauty, — famed from olden time, Renowned in annals of our early days ; Stream by whose banks the ancient Indians dwelt, And on thy waters plied their swift canoes, And in thy woodlands tracked the fleeting deer; — Wawassan called by those red foresters, Or Susqueco, as other legends say: Stream on whose shores our fathers fought and fell, Immortally remembered with the name Of Washington, — and Wayne, our county's pride, — And glorious Lafayette, — and many more, Whose memories romantic shall not die, Forever in our grateful hearts enshrined: The Brandy wine Dear Stream of Beauty, — ^loved of poets all ; Dear to our Taylor in his ardent youth; The joyous theme of Read and Everhart; And sung by him from out the southern land, Lanier, the lover of all loveliness : Dear Stream of Beauty, — flowing gently down Among the windings of my native hills, Gathering from all thy tributary brooks A richer force, and bearing from far heights Eternal tidings to the hoary sea: — Thee would I celebrate. O fill my page With thy soft music, and vouchsafe to grant, In measurement however small, the power To picture with a true and loving hand Thy visionary beauty calm and sweet ! A song of gratitude is mine, for since In boyhood's hour I rambled on thy banks And bathed or angled in thy peaceful pools. My love has been for thee; and later daj^s Have but enhanced the joy thy presence gave. Youth's golden years and seasons of delight. Its happy fantasies and dreamings high. Were brighter yet for thy companionship ; Thy rocks and shadowy groves, thy daisied fields. Deep pastoral solitudes and placid vales. And all the voices of thy hundred hills, Did speak in memorable accents, rich With messages from Nature's inner heart. Among thy sunny meadows first I breathed The joyousness, the passion that delights In all the tranquil loveliness and charm Of field and dell, of tree and stream and sky. Blue misty hill and dreamy woodland soft. Life-giving sunshine and the fragrant rain. The dew-drops twinkling on the grass and leaves, 46 The Brandy wine The billowy clouds, — soft islands of the air, — Morn's tender radiance, the hushed repose Of forest sanctuaries, and the songs Of warbling birds, wild Nature's choristers ; May's vernal freshness exquisitely fair, The sunny summer-tide of poppied ease, The gorgeous autumn's melancholy grace, And all the beauty of the rural world. How many happy hearts have thus been led To close communion with earth's lovely forms. Beloved Brandywine, and who would not Record with grateful voice the debt of joy. Of pure unfading joy and rapture high, Whose first awakening he owes to thee ! Born of the distant hills and northern woods. And wandering wide throughout a fertile land, Bringer art thou of richest fruitfulness. Abundant harvests and the laden bough. Full-handed plenty follows all thy course, And thou art blessed by'thankful multitudes Who love thy placid beauty well, and hold In fond regard thy ever-winding stream. Each quiet little gulf and gleaming bay, From those high crystal springs that give thee birth To thy last reach in Delaware's far fields. For whether hastening with murmurous song Down pebble-fretted slopes, or lingering In tranquil majesty along thy deeps, A kindly influence is ever thine. No fairer meadows or more fertile farms Are known than those thy quiet currents lave. Thy mellow acres yield their rich increase Of clover, corn, and gently waving wheat ; Sleek-coated cattle graze upon thy meads. The sweetest flowers cluster by thy banks And waft their incense from a thousand vales. 47 The Brandy wine The old farmsteads upon thy grassy slopes Are homes of a contented people, proud To till the acres which their fathers held Ere that red day on Birmingham's high hills. Here old-time faith and manners are not dead; Calm da3's and nights fill out the tranquil year ; Simplicity hath here her dwelling-place, And all is pastoral happiness and peace. Far from hot pavements and the vexing cares Of crowded marts thy quiet waters flow, — By silent groves and soft id3'llic glades, By upland slopes where wild strawberries grow. And meadows green with spicy peppermint ; By banks where bloom the cowslips named for thee, And fields of crimson clover where the bees Are gleaning fragrant harvests all the day : Now loitering many a cool and shady mile By woodland aisles and sylvan corridors. Where moss and tangled fern clothe all thy banks With softest green, and little' fairy groves Of dainty maidenhair sway in the breeze ; Now drifting quietly in sheltered pools And fords where mild-eyed cattle seek the shade ; Now issuing forth into the gleaming day And rollicking Avith silver laughter down In foamy waterfalls, across whose breast The tiny rainbow bend its jewelled bars. Then winding forth again thou dost caress The whispering reeds that line thy small lagoons, And water-grasses whose long amber arms Wave ceaselessly along thy currents clear. And oft thy forceful waters are restrained And sent along the full, rush-margined race. To turn the mossy, ever-dripping wheel Of some loud-droning mill among the trees. 48 The Brandy wine What pleasure, pausing here, to peer within The olden chambers dim with dusty meal, — To see the portly sacks of new-threshed wheat, And yellow corn that almost bursts the bins. And hear the mill-wheels grumbling o'er their task Of grinding grain for all the countryside ! Beneath the arch of many an ancient bridge Thy waters move with eddying swirl, untouched By languors of the dusty road above. In stately march thou sweepest past the fields Where ruddy farmers ply their harvest toil, Mixing the music of the whetted scythe With thy soft murmurs, piling up the rows Of dry, sweet-smelling hay, which thence is drawn In creaking wagons to the generous mows Of old stone barns, — upon whose mossy roofs The crimson-footed pigeons sit and croon In sober companies ; now wheeling down In white-winged circles to the yard below, To pick the scattered grains of wheat and oats ; Now settling on the eaves with stately pride To show the beauty of their burnished necks. High overhead the snowy cloud-land floats. And in the mirror of thy lucent depths Repeats the beauty of its mystic forms, Its pearly mountains and its creamy capes, And islands drifting through the azure seas. How sweet I found it oft on summer days To launch my boat, and on thy placid tide To drift as do the clouds, without a care And full of peace as they. O hour of dreams. Of dreams and soft imaginings and fond Reflections, — fantasies without a name ! Or waking from my revery, 'twas joy To send the boat along with eager stroke, 49 The Brandy wine Rousing thy surface into sparkling rings That eddied toward the shore with rhythmic dance. Anon I loved to pause with dripping oar, And peering into thy transparent deeps, To mark the timid fish that hovered there, — The silver-sided chub, the dusky bass, And little sunfish with their golden scales. Now winnowing the water with clear gills, Now darting with a flash of purple fin Far into watery shades and silent homes Of willow roots beneath the sedgy bank, Or shadowy chambers in the sunless rocks. In drowsy afternoons oft have I heard The tiny insect voices by thy shores, — The lazy chorus of the katydids, The faint, small murmur of the busy gnats That dance in fretful clouds above the sands That border on thy shallows, and the keen. Sweet chirrings of the sleepy locust-kind. Those happy idlers of midsummer days. There would I muse till misty evening brought The clear nocturnal croakings of the frogs Sheltered beneath thy overhanging banks. Or perched upon green lily-pads afloat In star-lit waters of thy waveless coves. The tranquil evening hour beside thy stream, — What peace and pensive solitude then reign ! The herds have left the fields, the harvest-teams Long since have gone with their last fragrant loads ; Soft vapors o'er the meadows sleep, and all Is rest and quietude, save where the dove, In some cool covert hid from human eye, Grieveth and grieveth all the darkling eve. Ah, gentle mourner, what soft pain is thine. What tender melancholy stirs thy breast? 50 The Brandy wine Perchance some old romantic sorrow lies About thy heart, or memory of wrong Done to thy kind long since in some green vale Of dim Thessalian woods. Thy pensive note No elegy can match, and thy sweet woe Makes memorable the sacred twilight hour. An ever-varj'ing poetry is thine, O gentle Brandywine ; songs light or grave, As fanc3''s changeful ear interprets them. Thy crystal-chiming waters sing to me. Yet not thy voices only do I hear, Soft and mellifluous ever though they be; For blending with their harmony the sound Of Old World rivers comes across the years, And pleasant revery bears me to the banks Of Derwent sweet, whose music filled the heart Of Wordsworth while as yet a little child ; Or silver Duddon, offspring of the clouds ; Or honest Walton's peaceful river Lea; Or that slow-winding stream, the languid Ouse, Well-loved of him who sang of country joys In calm reflective verse; or yet again To old Dean-Bourne, where by the plashy brink Grew Herrick's daffodils whose loveliness He made immortal. Yea, and farther yet My musings carry me, and echoes faint Of reedy-marged Ilissus do I hear Murmuring of nymphs and river-deities. And all the glory of the violet hills That lie around Athena's marble town. Athena! ah, the name is here unknown; Unheard Cephissus and Ilissus here; Thy woodlands are unhauntcd by the nymphs. No hamadryads whisper 'mid the leaves Of thy tall trees ; nor docs the sportive crew Of satyrs range with Pan thy vernal fields. 51 The Brandy wine No far-descended echoes wake thy hills Of that poetic life whose perfect joy Made fair unto all time Aegean isle, Idalian fount, and Heliconian vale, And liveth now but in the faded grace Of carven Attic frieze or Grecian urn. Nor does the nightingale, lorn Philomel, Among the shadows of thy moonlit glades, Pour out her old ancestral threnody For Itylus through all the summer night. Nay, — yet thy thickets have their own sweet bird, The poet-bird that keeps his lonely state In sylvan cloisters far from eye of man, — The dear wood-robin ! Underneath green roofs Of forest solitudes what joy to hear The liquid fluting of this minstrel rare Thrilling the beechen shades with rapturous song! Now fading, — now returning, — comes his voice. In purling cadence clear as is the plash Of sweet-toned rills o'er pebbles smooth and cool. Streams of romance and beauty have I known, — The lordly Shannon rolling down his tides Far in the west of green Hibernia's isle ; The tranquil Thames that dreams beside the grey And storied walls of Oxford's ancient town, And passes on through England's loveliest meads By many a hamlet quaint and flower}^ garth; The "wandering Po" that waters Lombardy; And Rhone's imperial river, icy-pure. Bearing a largess from high Alpine fields To pour into the lap of the Mid-Sea. Yet still with happy heart to thee I turn, Beloved Stream, that nourished first my joy In rural beauty and idyllic scenes, And solitude, that teacher calm and wise. 52 The Brandy wine Well may fair Chester County's children bless Thy tranquil flood that from far northern hills Brings fruitfulness to these wide meads and vales, And fills the fields with verdure rich and deep. The soul and centre thou of every tract And fertile township where thy currents flow; Each bubbling waterfall, each amber pool. Each tributary runnel dimpling down From folded hills, confirms thy gentle power. Thy peaceful charm and sweet tranquillity. Unfading is the loveliness that clings Round each familiar scene along thy course: — The upland fields of fertile Honeybrook ; The willowed banks of pastoral Fallowfield; The silent wooded vales of dear Newlin, Home of arbutus and primeval pine. And its old hillsides where my fathers wrought For generations long gone by ; thy shores In green Pocopson, haunt of fishermen; And pleasant Bradford rich with waving corn; And those wide hills of storied Birmingham, Where Lafayette, exemplar bright and pure Of old noblesse and ancient chivalry, Spared not to shed his blood in our high cause. And linked his name and Liberty's for aye ! — Such beauties and such memories still cling Around thy valleys and thy verdant glades, Rich pasture-lands and silent, virgin woods. Historic hills and loved ancestral farms, — From those high crystal springs that give thee birth To thy last reach in Delaware's far fields. Forever fair, O Brandywine, art thou, Forever fair in thine unceasing flow ! — A type and symbol unto restless man Of calm contentment, and devotion high 63 The Brandy wine To duty's bidding, — with unceasing flow Fulfilling through the years thy destiny. The sun in stately majesty doth rise, Across wide heaven journeys all the day, Fades in the crimson west and disappears ; The sickle moon swims high above the woods And sheds her radiance o'er the dreaming hills, While that lone eremite the evening star Comes loitering across the azure fields. Each hath his season, each his time of rest: But thou unresting art; majestic sun And sickle moon and lonely evening star In turn are mirrored in thy lucent breast. While day and night thou movest on thy way, Forever fair in thine unceasing flow ! Then blessings on thy heaven-given power To cheer the heart of man with lofty joy. With joy and sweet content and deepest peace, — Dear Stream of Beauty, — flowing gently down Among the windings of my native hills, Gathering from all thy tributary brooks A richer force, and bearing from far heights Eternal tidings to the hoary sea! 54 Swarthmore Idylls Series I Dedicated to William Hyde Appleton Duci docto et dilecto These Swarthmore walls that rise toward heaven's blue, Etched with memorial green, the ages long Will in the dust lay low. But human hearts Pure, sweet and strong, are walls invisible. Growing more deep and broad in years that touch The granite to decay — foundation sure For building of the Architect Divine! — Elizabeth Powell Bond SWARTHMORE /^ RAY College, on thy green and silent hill, Beside thy groves of beech and shadowy spruce, O'erlooking many a mile of peaceful field. Deep, dreamy wood and river-meadow fair, — Thy children love thee well, and he not least Who offers now this slender meed of song. In thee, Swarthmore, are centered noblest hopes ; — Not Avithout spiritual light they planned And built, those Quakers of the olden school, Here in the sweet and wholesome countryside, Swarthmore Free from the city's tumult and its stain, — Erecting here by Penn's primeval woods An edifice to learning dedicate, To science and the high humanities. And beauteous arts that nourish mind and soul ; Their fair foundation gifting with the name Of that old House in ancient Lancashire Where Fox, the high-souled Founder of his sect. Oft sought retirement from the world's loud noise And steeled his godly heart for fresh crusades. — And not a few with pilgrim feet have fared From this new Swarthmore in the western world To that old home and cradle of their faith; And on these walls, "etched with memorial green," An English ivy grows, fair living link Binding our younger Swarthmore to the old. Here in the sweet and wholesome countryside, Free from the city's tumult and its stain, The youth who pays allegiance unto her, Our Mother Loved, grows in his loyalty As weeks and months go by, and all her peace And tranquil beauty fill his finer moods. Moulding his consciousness by slow degrees. Here, pondering the poetries of old, The records and the lore of ages gone. He in a measure heritor becomes Of ancient men and good, of Socrates, Of Virgil, and of Luther, and the sweet Assisan, and of many a sage who taught. Or bard who sang in accents high, the great Imperishable and universal truths. Fair is the landscape sloping from thy walls. Gray Swarthmore, to the distant river-meads : Fair in its springtime mantle soft and green. When Krum winds slow by banks of violets ; 56 Swarthmore Fair in the autumn when the dreamy mists Their glamour lend unto the ripened year; Yea, fair in lean midwinter's sombre days When all is wrapt in silence weird and white, Hamlet and hill and stream and far-off farm, And yonder low-eaved West House quaint and old. Fair are thy western woods where sinks the sun In glory tender and ineffable, — Tall western woods where all the summer long Stillness prevails and shady solitude. In stormy twilights when the year is old The swaying trees a mournful music make Along those steep wood-slopes ; and warmly housed, The cheery student-mates with twofold joy Converse, or muse, or find a fresh delight In books, those high companions of the soul. Each season hath its pleasures, its rewards For keen devotions and for studious days ; Each season finds the Swarthmore landscape fair With beauty and sweet peacefulness, of power To soften and make glad the graver hours ; But fairest in the young and tremulous days When April whitens those old cherry trees And wraps the campus all in verdure soft, And the dear meadow-lark in dewy grass Pours out his clear, pellucid notes of joy; While students in the dreamy afternoons Read pastoral poets 'neath the bowering trees, Or old romances out of Spenser's page. Musing in revery, as Arnold mused In Oxford's academic solitudes. Arnold, — a cherished name in Swarthmore shades ! And once among us came that seer august, Lingered beneath our trees, and in our halls Lifted his sweet, sad voice, bequeathing fair Hellenic echoes that can never die. 57 Swarthmore • — Wordsworthian music fills this master's page; And while in college days are sown the seeds Of friendships true and sweet, his idylls twain Beloved shall be, and sympathetic youth Shall grieve with him for Thyrsis lost from earth. As turns some traveler in a distant land And dreams of his far home across the seas. So we thy children, Swarthmore, dream of thee When we have gone from out thy sheltering arms To cope with sterner life. Dear memories rise In those more pensive hours that haunt us all. When by the ingleside on winter nights Or in some tender sunset by the sea The heart is warmed, — dear memories arise Of the loved Quaker college, once the home And happy sanctuary of our youth. In those more pensive hours old Swarthmore days, Fair with the glamour years and distance give, Rise up to cheer the meditative heart: — The old remembered hours ; the faces dear Of class-mates, friends and teachers ; and the scene We loved to contemplate in those far days, — The peaceful townships sloping to the south. With fields and farms and nestling villages. And ever-beauteous woodlands fading far Into the misty edges of the sky; — A hundred recollections like to these Make glad those winter evenings by the fire Or tender summer sunsets by the sea. To these calm precincts age can never come, Save as the ivy comes on yonder walls To clothe with fadeless green: — ^here Youth abides, Here bright Enthusiasm hath her home, And Faith and clear-eyed Hope are sisters here! — Then, Swarthmore, we thy daughters and thy sons 68 Happy College Days of Old Still turn to thee and feel the rosy touch Of youthful days, the glamour and the glow Of golden years and memorable hours. Mother Revered, still be thy message given With amplest hand ; still be thy children led Along the pui'e and consecrated paths With Beauty for their talisman and guide; Not that "mere beauty" which some men condemn And others fear, but Beauty which is one With truth and power and widest perfectness, Beauty admitting them to fellowship With all of pure and high and holiest In nature and in spiritual realms, — Beauty that wakes to life the harmony Which Shakespeare says is in immortal souls ! HAPPY COLLEGE DAYS OF OLD Q HAPPY college days of old, And have ye gone forever. So rich in memories untold And joys that wither never! Ah, fair and fadeless were the flowers That bloomed for us in those dear hours ! O days that never knew a care, O days of youth and glory, That led by magic paths and fair Through summer-lands of story ! Across the years your echoes flow. Ye golden days of long ago. Now over life's wide fields we roam With little time for dreaming. Yet visions of our college home Within our hearts are gleaming. O sweet and unforgotten years. We see you through our misty tears ! 59 Anniversary Oae O comrades scattered far and wide, By forest or by river, By mountain-slope or ocean-tide, — One bond shall bind us ever ; Old Swarthmore days shall dearer grow As o'er the lengthening hills we go. Those happy days we yet may see; They live in letters golden Upon the scrolls of memory In records sweet and olden. Forever beautiful are they, And we shall cherish them for aye ! ANNIVERSARY ODE FOR THE TWENTY-FIFTH COMMENCEMENT OF SWARTHMORE COLLEGE 1897 ^OT thine, O Swarthmore, is the ripeness yet Which long, slow centuries beget ; Not thine the glory which gray Oxford knows. Nor that old seat by Cam's untroubled tide. About their pensive shades abide An old-world stateliness and deep repose Born of a thousand years of tranquil peace. Renowned are they, and fraught With beauty from the ages brought. — Such guerdon, Swarthmore, as the daj^s increase. Thy children wish for thee ! But now our song must be Of youth, and all the promise golden Which in the visions of bright youth is holden. Green is the ivy on thy walls. And green the slopes whereon thy shadow falls ; All that the charmed eye may see. Pasture and dale and far-off dreamy tree, 60 Anniversary Ode In vernal loveliness but speak of thee: For thou art yet in thy sweet prime, Still in the rosy east thy sun doth climb. With verdant coronal th}'^ brows are bound, Gathered where April first Her fragile fetters burst And strewed with starr}'' bloom the greenwood ground. Full of the morning's joy I see thee stand, Like some fair, new-crowned Queen within a peaceful land ! Thy young and happy heart, I know. Is oft aglow With all that most endears Unto the old gray world youth's dewy years, — Fond hopes and aspirations high. Enduring faith that lets no stormy sky Obscure the steady stars whose certain shining Thou knowest well ; Enduring faith whose gladness no dark spell Of sad repining Hath power to change or charm away; — Preserving fadeless ever and alway Pandora's one last precious gift to man. That dower from the age Promethean The heart of noble youth inspiring With loftiest desiring, — E'en this young band, hopeful, elate, Who stand to-day within thy gate. O tell me of the dreams, young Queen of hope. That make more tender yet thy tender eyes, Here where unclouded skies Bend lovingly above the slope Of thy dear hill, While June's sweet days of silence fill Meadow and tremulous glade And cloistered aisles of sylvan shade, 61 Anniversary Ode Wide fields of rippling wheat And purple clover fragrant-sweet, — With all the mid-year's primal loveliness ; Here where with glance serene Thou gazest o'er the soft idyllic scene, To where the gleaming river's mild caress Enfolds the sleeping woods With reedy reach and watery solitudes. Ah, tell me, doth thy dreaming gaze Find in that landscape's sweep. Yon river, and the far Atlantic deep. Shadows and images of ancient da3's? Doth some new-old Rhine-hoard, By fairy fingers stored. Lie hidden in the depths of that fair stream. Filling the pauses of thy dream With echoes of the Middle Age remote? Or doth the wave-tossed boat Of lorn Ulysses plying By spectral islands far outlying, Sweep o'er the tides of yonder misty sea. Fresh-fleeing from the Sirens' witchery? Yea ; for I think the present doth not all Thy phantasy enthrall; Nor doth hard-featured Fact Bind thee with metes and measurements exact. In man's blind striving for the strange and new He hath but little left, 'tis true, Of the old pristine glory Of myth and magic story: The golden harmonies of ancient years Fall on insensate ears ; Still farther from the old Parnassian shrine Our weary way doth lead ; Small time have we to heed 62 Amiiversary Ode The faint, sad voice of oracles divine, Whose hollow echoes weep Through high Dodona's grove or by lone Delphi's steep! Yet while fair Learning's temples still endure Man shall not wholly yield unto the lure Of pelf. The voice of wisdom shall With pleadings musical Call him from dusty ways of care. Into the still and tranquil air Of truths eternal, — teaching him God's word Breathed by the waving wood, the joyous bird, The tiny roving bee, — Present in cloud and rock and tree, And in the pure and perfect grace Of simple nature's heaven-reflecting face. In Wisdom's sanctuaries, too. Communion shall he hold With those high masters of the days of old. The wise, the beautiful, the true, — Who, voicing thoughts sublime In stately utterance or rolling rhyme. Still to the human soul must be Bearers of light and immortality ! — Swarthmore, for thee it is a laurelled day. The brightest day in all thine annals clear ; From many a distant town and rural way Come those who hold thee dear, — Founder and friend and patron ; and thine own Devoted children, full of warm acclaim For thy beloved name. Full of high hope that thine may be, Mother Revered, a not inglorious destiny ! Wisely and well the seed was sown ; O wisely be the gleaning done, and well ! 63 The West House Be not unheeded or unheard the spell Of memoried names, nor of the memoried faces From whose still station on thy walls A sweet and silent consecration falls. Ah, dearer yet shall grow the dear old places Thine earlier children knew; Another line shall rise of tender hearts and true, And 'neath the murmurous music of thy trees Shall learn of larger truth, Nourishing their beauteous years of youth With wider faiths, sweeter philanthropies. Ideals loftier far than we may know. So shall thy peaceful mission grow ; So shall the ripening hour Bring on the fair and perfect flower, — Till down long vistas of illustrious years Thy sons shall gaze with noble pride, Thy daughters by their side Bless thee with happy tears ; — While thou dost calmly face the Future vast. Still cherishing thy spirit's steadfast flame. Still cherishing an old ancestral name August with memories of thine own sweet Past ! THE WEST HOUSE (birthplace of benjamin west, p. b. a.) C\ ANCIENT House, what memories are gleaming. What recollections of the vanished hours. While through the silent summer thou art dreaming Enfolded by thy trees and meadow-flowers? What visions of old days May cheer thy lonely heart, Seen through the hallowed haze Where thou dost muse apart.'' 64 The West House Peaceful and calm, — of our unrest and worry Thou heedless art ; our fevers touch not thee ; Thou sharest not our age's heat and hurry, Secure in thy serene tranquillity. Not all the troublous schemes The weary century knows Can mar thy quiet dreams Or break thy calm repose. Dear fragrant June is smiling in her glory, Filled with the radiance of youth is she ; From out the quiet of thy shadows hoary Thou watchcst o'er her beauty tenderly. To thy gray walls she cleaves With childish, shy caress. And bowers thine ancient eaves With leafy loveliness. The perfume of her sweet old-fashioned roses Awakes in thee a thought of other years, And revery o'er those phantom days discloses The faded hours that bring regretful tears. Far voices call to thee In a remembered tongue From that old century When thou, gray House, wert young ! Perchance thou dreamest of departed faces, Colonial dwellers by the woodlands tall, Grave Quaker yeomen, dames of antique graces. And soft-eyed children best beloved of all. Full often did they pass Or linger at thy door, Blithe lad and ruddy lass. In those far years of yore. They long have gone from earth, but thou art keeping In thine old heart their memory yet clear, 65 The West House While through the generations they are sleeping Forgot of all save thee for many a year; Forgot of all save thee The place of their repose, Where wandering ivies be And tangled briar-rose. But best and brightest of the memories olden That fill thy mellow age with quiet joy, — O best and brightest are the memories golden That cluster round one Heaven-gifted boy! Though that far mother-clime Claim his maturity. Yet all his boyhood's prime Belongs, old House, to thee. He loved the silence of these woodland alleys. He loved the colors of this peaceful sky, He loved these sleeping hills and grassy valleys ; Their tranquil beauty pleased his artist eye. For many a summer hour Delighted would he pore On each dear native flower Beside his father's door. With happy heart he gazed upon the splendor Of regal autumn in the crimson woods ; With happy heart he saw the beauty tender Of budding life in vernal solitudes. His artist soul was thrilled With visions of delight^ His waking fancy filled With dreams and longings bright. And when at last he stood at manhood's portal And passed forever from these meadows dear, Perchance his visions of a fame immortal Were not unmingled with regret sincere. 66 '^Beatus I lie' Wherever he might roam In lands beyond the sea, Still would his childhood's home Not unremembered be. And now among the mighty he is lying Where Wren's cathedral dreams 'mid London's roar ; Companioned with a company undying His is a name to live forevermore ! Hard by Lud's ancient gate Where England's life-tide sweeps, Entombed with England's great The Quaker Painter sleeps. And thee, old House, that slumberest serenely. We cherish as the Painter's boyhood home ; With tender care yon College j^oung and queenly Doth shadow thee with her protecting dome. In academic shades The Artist's fame shall last; Here Glory never fades. Nor reverence for the Past! So, ancient House, rare memories are gleaming. Sweet recollections of the vanished hours. While through the silent summer thou art dreaming Enfolded by thy trees and meadow-flowers. Bright visions of old days Still cheer thy lonely heart Seen through the hallowed haze Where thou dost muse apart ! "BEATUS ILLE" r\ BLEST the peace that falls In solitudes serene. Where ivied college walls Rise o'er the tranquil green ; And blest the ardent youth 67 ''Beaius Ille^ Who climbs the hills of Truth And basks awhile in Wisdom's wide demesne ! The noises of the world His musings may not mar, Nor darkling smoke upcurled From clangorous marts afar; While fragrant and more dear He finds each golden year Upon the leaves of Youth's white calendar. Here may he converse hold With men of mighty name, , The deathless ones of old And seers of starry fame; View Plato's page divine, And ponder at the shrine Whence Homer's sons have born the sacred flame. From old primeval tales The honey he may seize. Dream in Arcadian vales Or 'neath Sicilian trees ; Hear Dido's plaint forlorn, Or Roland's thunderous horn Resounding through the misty centuries ! With measures musical The minstrels of old time Shall hold him willing thrall To golden-hearted rhyme; Shakespeare's eternal scroll ■ Enchant his deepest soul. And Milton move with harmony sublime. The annals of the earth. Antiquity's gray streams. Shall give his fancy birth And touch his heart to dreams ; 68 '-^Beatus I lie' The glories of the vast Immeasurable Past Fill all his vision with undying gleams ! Nature, the genial nurse, His guiding-star shall be; Through all the universe Her radiance ma}'^ he see ; And she will bid him hear With spiritual ear The music of her endless symphony. Nor shall he miss the flowers That grow his way along. Speeding the sunny hours With merriment and song ; Or training heart and eye In emulation high On happy meads where friendly rivals throng. So day by golden day More luminous and bright Shall glow the steadfast ray That sets his soul alight: With Peace and Purity His comradeship shall be. And Faith that leads him on from height to height. Then when Life summons him. With bounding hope he hears. And yet his eyes are dim With honorable tears, As with reluctant feet He leaves these precincts sweet. This sanctuary of his vernal years. O blest the peace that falls In cloistered shades serene. Where ivied college walls 69 In College Days Rise o'er the silent green ; And happy is the youth Who climbs the hills of Truth And basks awhile in Wisdom's fair demesne ! IN COLLEGE DAYS (Read at a Dinner of the SwartJimore Cluh) I N COLLEGE days,— Ah, what a spell. Dear words, doth in your music dwell, As recollection bears us back Along our springtime's golden track. When life was young and youth was sweet. And time flew by with winged feet; When Hope reached forth her kindly hand. And all the world was like a wonderland ! In college days, — The glowing life. The healthful games, the friendly strife. The pluck that made our rivals yield Full oftentimes on track and field. When heartened by our sisters fair We raised the Garnet high in air. And oh ! the balmy month of May, When we sat at close of day Underneath the college trees Chanting all the olden glees. Or strolled where windeth yonder stream Peacefully as in a dream. Here we watched the purple dawn Lighting all the sloping lawn. Touching with its tender red The far-off river's silver thread. Here we watched the leafy spring Wake to life each tender thing, 70 In College Days Saw the rains of April spill From crocus-cup and daffodil ; Through the dreamy autumn-tide Roamed across the countryside, Where the purple vapor fills All the morning's misty hills, While the fruits were waxing mellow And the corn-fields waning yellow. Winter's beauty charmed us, too, With its riot winds that blew — Sounding through the swaying trees Wild, majestic symphonies. 'Twas then we saw the pane embossed With the magic of the frost, Watched the soft snow drifting down Hiding all the landscape brown; And, shod with steel, went fleeting o'er The sleeping Krum's smooth, icy floor. And thus we found each season dear That rounded out the sweet and lingering year. In college days, — What precious hours We spent in gentle Wisdom's bowers ! — Nourishing our eager youth With lofty messages of truth. Pondering the rote and rule Of each philosophic school, IMusing much upon the vast Epic story of the Past, And seeking for the primal cause Of nature's universal laws. But best of all, — O sweet and long Our sojourn with the sons of song! — Faring o'er the storied sea In gra}' Homer's company, 71 In Swarthmore Meeting Listening to the epic lay Sung in Rome's imperial day, Chaucer's warblings sweet as rains In old England's April lanes, Spenser's golden-cadenced line, Milton's melody divine, And the many-voiced string Of him whom all men hail as Poet-King. In college days, — Ah, comrades, when Come those golden hours again? Come they e'er, save through the haze Of our dreams of yesterdays, — Recollections sweet and old On the inmost heart enrolled? — When the j oys of life shall pall And the shadows round us fall. When our vessels' sails are furled From our voyaging down the world, — Looking back through smiles and tears On the unforgotten years. None more joyous shall we see Than the years that used to be In college days ! IN SWARTHMORE MEETING nn HOUGH Swarthmore's children wander wide, In memory they cherish still The quiet Meeting-house beside The grove on Swarthmore's peaceful hill. In this still home of quietude The worldly spirit fades away; To sober thought we frame our mood Here on each tranquil Sabbath day. 72 Hope^ Tf^usty Believe^ No ritual these precincts know, Unless it be when yonder trees Responding to soft winds that blow Chant forth their leafy litanies. And though no organ shake the air, No hymns uplift melodious words. Yet wandering breezes hither bear The anthems of the happy birds. And here in musings deep and true Communing silently apart, We dedicate ourselves aneAV And feel a quickening of the heart. O rich the many offerings brought And yielded on the listening air, The poet's pure immortal thought, The sage's precept large and fair ! And rich the messages of truth From riper souls among us here. Sweet words that calm the doubts of youth And point the path of duty clear. What seeds of good those words may be In this retired and holy time, Amid so fair a company In life's receptive, ardent prime! Though Swarthmore's children wander wide, In memory they cherish still The quiet Meeting-house beside The grove on Swarthmore's peaceful hill. HOPE, TRUST, BELIEVE! {After an Address hy Lyman Abbott, 1899) 1-J OPE, trust, believe ! Look not with doubting eyes, Nor muse on wasted or on fruitless days ; 73 Titania and Bottom Take courage new, and fix the steadfast gaze On sunny mountain peaks and the pure skies, In whose unsullied depths all glory lies. Like high-souled pilgrims let no forest's maze Entangle your sure feet, no valley's haze Bedim your vision of the far-off prize. O valiant hearts and young, the rosy dawn Is yours to-day, and yours life's beauty vernal ; Nor shall their primal radiance be withdrawn, If in sweet consecration you receive And cherish as a talisman eternal, The message of that morn, "Hope, trust, believe !" WE WHO DWELL IN SIGHT OF THEE 1_IAPPY are we who dwell in sight of thee, Dear Swarthmore, — with thy stately domes that rise Serene as the encircling summer skies, Thy storied ivies and each memoried tree. Thy green that fades into the far-off lea. Those woods that golden autumn glorifies, And yon deep western vale where softly dies The winter sun in lingering majesty! Thy joyous children we, for whom the years Are bounteous of the things that perish not, — Friendships, sweet ministries, and true content. Close linked together by the sentiment Of love for thee, we share our joys and tears. Nor ask the Father for a happier lot. TITANIA AND BOTTOM {Shahespeare Evejiing, 1898) "117 HAT charm and beauty in that sylvan scene ! We were forgetful of the world a space The while we marked the spiritual grace Of airy elves around their winsome Queen, 74 To Can 072 Rawnsley There in the dim, deep, moonlit forest green ; And but for Bottom with his monstrous face, — Earth's one intrusion on that fairy place, — It were a dream, harmonious and serene. Shakespearian beauty and Shakespearian wit In this immortal comedy combine, — A pageant fair of mirth and melody, Wherein the Bard with wondrous hand hath knit, In link on link of fragrant poesy. The union of the earthly and divine ! THE ASPHALTUM-MAKERS {Renewing the college walk, 1898) V\7HEN the pale sun had sunk behind the wood And deeping shadows crept across the snow, I watched the wearied laborers come and go As each his own appointed task pursued. How strangely in that twilight solitude Each common, unpoetic thing did show, — The rusty furnace with its lurid glow. The barrows and the piles of fagots rude. The dark pitch-mounds ! — Upon them one and all The hand of sentiment had laid its spell. And as I heard the mellow evening bell In soft and measured cadence rise and fall, I mused on Fancy's power to glorify The lowliest objects that around us lie! TO CANON RAWNSLEY {After his Address on Wordsworth's Message, 1899) nPHOU gav'st us golden words that golden day, — Thou spiritual scion of the Seer Who made the English lakes forever dear, The English mountains memorable for aye. 75 The 'Grey Olde Manne of Dreames We seemed to hear from lonely summits gray, From fell and murmurous tarn and tranquil mere, Echoes of that great Voice serene and clear Whose message is a solace and a stay ! The world hath need of calming words like those In this her troubled hour of haste and heat ; Childlike in their simplicity, and sweet, They come with consolation and repose. In grateful memory, then, we cherish thee, — ■ Apostle of Wordsworth's deep tranquillity! THE GREY OLDE MANNE OF DREAMES SENEX. DISCIPULUS. Senex. Discipulus. Senex. r\ WALY, waly hy the Brigge That s pannes the sleepie Krumme! And waly by the woodsyde Roches Where Profs did never come! Now, Senex, saye, what can thee ayle, And why thy mournfulle Cry, Whenas the Lil3^e's on the Lea, The Larke ymounted hye? Why onlye dost thou moane Alone Upon the mossie Stone? Ah, Gossyp, never canst thou knowe What carefulle Carke is myne, Who for the Da3^es that are no moe Do pityfullie pyne. And syttinge all alone Do moane Upon the mossie Stone ! Alacke ! acrosse my drowzie Dreame Doth portlie Pennell passe. Who solde his frostie Lollypoppe At Pennies five a Glasse. 76 The Grey Olde Manne of Dreames O manye an Afternoone Of June I've scene him wielde his Spoone ! And that kinde Soule of Jammcs and Tartes, O Ray-Chell, where is she, Who tooke us in when sore Exams Did presse unpleasauntlie? — Within whose Doores we stayde And made Our Meales on Marmalade. waly hy the Laundrie Walle Where Pennell wont to he! And waly, waly hy the Doore Of Ray-CheU's Nurserie! Where once the Tubbe-race drewe the Crowde Of Youthe to K rum 712 e his Bankes, With loftie Mien disdainfulhe The Inne-folke pace in Rankes. Uncouthe the Race they dubbe With Tubbe,— Ah, Gossyp, there's the Rubbe ! And nevermoe are hearde in Halle Those jocunde Feres, perdie, Who plyde at golden Sette of Sunne Their merrie Minstrelsie: Gone is the mellowe Flute, And mute The softlie-stricken Lute! waly for the doughfie Deedes On Krumme his glassie Streame! And waly for the Musicke softe That sette myne Hearte adreame! O Dicke and Davie, do ye muse Upon those Daj'es of Yore, 77 Standing a Beacon When ye and lytel Joe and I Were happie Comrades foure? Like Phantom-formes, alas, Ye passe Acrosse my Meraorie's glasse ! Ah, woe and welladaye ! my Voyce Is all unhearde, meseems, And by the Younkers am I highte The Grey Olde Manne of Dreames. Loe, fade away I muste. Where Duste Doth lie, and Mothe and Ruste ! SWARTHMORE IDYLLS SERIES 11 STANDING A BEACON UNTO THY CHILDREN C WARTHMORE the fair, Ivied and grej^. Peaceful and steadfast. Crowning the slopes of thy green-shaded hill; Looking o'er lowland and farmland and woodland To the glimmering river 'mid meadows afar; Hope of thy Founders, — Strong souls and true ; ' Dear to thy daughter and loved of thy sons ; Sacred to Science, The Muses and Art; Ever through sunlight and moonlight and mist, In j^ellowing autumn and young-hearted spring, Standing a beacon Unto thy children. Lighting the pathway to noble endeavor. To beautiful deeds and inviolate faith ! 78 Shadows of a Dream SWARTHMORE FOREVER! (Air: "0 Alte Burschen-herrlichkeit") SWARTHMORE, Swarthmore, every son and daugh- O ter loves thy glory ; We sound thy fame, beloved name, in cheer and song and story ! With courage high and honor clear No name of all is half so dear As Alma Mater ever, O Swarthmore forever! O Swarthmore, Swarthmore, strong the links of love that fondly bind us ; At thy dear side, O true and tried, thou shalt forever find us. On field and track, in class and hall We answer gladly to the call Of Alma Mater ever, O Swarthmore forever ! O Swarthmore, Swarthmore, through the years that sun- der and that sever, We'll cling to thee in memory forever and forever. Through year of sunshine and of storm Our loyal hearts shall still beat warm For Alma Mater ever, O Swarthmore forever ! SHADOWS OF A DREAM Q MEMORY, bring back the days Those first sweet college days of old, When autumn crimsoned all the ways And fringed the woodland's edge with gold, And under orchard boughs were rolled The ruddy fruit for "Tom" and me, In those far days of joy untold When happy college lads were we. Bring back the silver'd autumn eves Beneath the dreamy harvest moon, 79 Swa?^thmore Scenes When 'mid the red and 3'enow leaves We listened to the Avinsome tune Of mandolins or mellow croon Of songs that still must sweeter be When out of years that went too soon They sound again for "Tom" and me. The red and j^ellow cherry leaves Are drifting down across my dream, And for an hour my heart it grieves While musing on the gloAv and gleam Of those lost days that only seem Like phantoms that can never be More than the shadows of a dream Of vanished joys for "Tom" and me. SWARTHMORE SCENES T^EAR Swarthmore Scenes, we see you in our dreaming In pensive twilight hours when all is still ; We see again the tranquil river's gleaming, The sunset's gold beyond the wooded hill. Once more the snowy cherry-bloom is falling Where violets with vernal dews are sweet ; Once more the meadow-lark is softly calling Across the acres of the April wheat. Once more along the frozen Krum is ringing The joy of many a wintry afternoon; Once more across the campus comes the singing Of sweet old songs in eves of fragrant June. In silence still the old West House is sleeping. Ringed round in March with English daffodils ; And over all the College dome is keeping High watch across the well-remembered hills. Lost days and dear arise in recollection As on these Swarthmore Scenes we fondly gaze ; Old memory is stirred, and old affection Enchants with visions of those vanished days. 80 The Scholar s Ideal THE SCHOLAR'S IDEAL (Read before the Society of the Phi Beta Kappa, Swarthmore College, May 6th, 190 Jf.) I 1_I0MER, chanting of immortal battles, Sounding still across immortal years; Virgil, the august, the melancholy, Virgil, mournful over human tears; Plato, whose sublime and pure abstractions Mould men's deeper thought unto this hour ; Pindar, pouring his tumultuous measures ; Cicero, that voice of golden power; Sophocles, with godlike calm surveying Life through most serene of human eyes ; Horace, kindly pagan, wreathed with roses, Horace, still the wisest of the wise ; Moschus, singing those last songs of Hellas In soft meadows by Sicilian seas : — Poets and philosophers and dreamers, — Comrades mine, do ye not cherish these? Cherish and remember with affection Like great friendships that must honored be, Or like rich and melancholy music Echoing through the halls of memory ! II What must be the scholar's great ideal, What must be the scholar's guiding star. Teaching him aright to spend the treasure Brought to him from down the ages far? This, I think, — to coin in living service All the garnered gold of happy years. Spending freely for his yearning brothers, For his sisters worn with wistful tears. Let him turn great Plato's love of Beauty, Plato's love of Harmony Divine, 81 The Scholar s Ideal Into gracious courtesy and friendship, Into loving-kindness sweet and fine ; Challenging the shallow slaves of fashion With his life of ordered days serene, Days of fruitful joys and noble pleasures 'Mid their selfish joys and pleasures mean. He who holds a privileged communion Daily with the masters of the soul. Surely he can set before his vision Naught but some superb and splendid goal. He, I think, wherever life may lead him, Still must cherish a divine unrest. Still must hold inviolate the vision. Still inviolate the starry quest. What availeth Burke's impassioned pleading. What availeth Milton's heavenl}' song. If they stir him not to gird his armor 'Gainst the hydra-headed beasts of wrong ! In the sweet and wondrous songs of Shelley He must find an uplift toward the light. Find a splendid ardor of renewal In the paeans of that spirit bright. Mystery and Beauty must enthrall him While he sails on Wonder's chartless seas. Mystery and Beauty keep his spirit Open to the eternal harmonies. Let him greatly venture with Columbus, Turn his keel toward islands fair and far. Seek Utopias on strange horizons, New Republics 'neath the sunset star. Let him dream with mighty Alexander Of fresh conquests here beneath the blue. Praying not to Ares but Athena For a godly strength and courage true. Let him brave again with Galileo Superstition's hate and jailor's bar, 82 The Scholar s Ideal Until wakened Truth and Right shall beacon From the heavens like star on flaming star. Not with fevered impulse let him labor, Not with scattered aims that wear and waste ; Nay, the forest and the sea must teach him God's slow purpose, Heaven's great unhaste. Happy if he stir to high endeavor Here and there a band of ardent youth, Knighting them with some fine consecration Hero-hearts and champions of Truth; Leading them against the baleful dragons That infest our highway's, — Fraud and Hate, Pride and Greed, Hypocrisy and Cunning, Threatening still the fabric of the state. 'Gainst those subtle and insidious monsters He must long and tireless warfare wage. Even as Luther hurled a hot defiance At the mightiest Evil of his age. They will greatly strive, those young crusaders, Strong of heart and eloquent of tongue. Greatly strive until the People welcome That Equality which Shelley sung ; Welcome Tennesson's World-Federation \\niich the nations have awaited long. Welcome Brotherhood whose golden advent Thrills the pulse of Markham's ringing song Bearing helpfulness and holy friendship To the world's unhapp}' and untaught. To the blinded and the broken-hearted Bearing still the light of noblest thought. This must be the scholar's great ideal This must be the scholar's guiding star, Teaching him aright to spend the treasure Brought to him from down the ages far. 83 T'he Planting of the Kims III Golden years thou gavest. Alma Mater; Golden lore we garnered in thy halls, I would dedicate to Truth and Beauty All I dreamed beside thy pensive walls, Dreamed of godly men and holy sages, Dreamed of poets filled with fire divine, Martyrs dying that God's truth might prosper, Heroes splendid in the battle-line. that I might tell in woven measures All thy blessings to thy yearning child, — But my lips have naught but broken music And my numbers falter strange and wild. Yet if word of mine might be remembered Still untrodden 'neath oblivion's feet, 1 would say unto my glad young brothers. To my sisters great of heart and sweet: — Every noble dream, O cherish, cherish! Fix your fervent eyes on some high goal; Keep inviolate and still unvanquished Your eternal hunger of the soul. Leave a memory that cannot perish With the flowing and forgetful years ; Leave a memory that men shall honor While they bless your names through happy tears. "Be ye perfect even as your Father," — Surely 'tis a heartening command ! Shape your days and deeds, O Svvarthmore's children, After that ideal sweet and grand. THE PLANTING OF THE ELMS (Read at the dedication of the William Penn Elms, Swarthmore College Campus, October, 1909) T N memory of great and godly Penn, In autumn's peaceful hours we dedicate 84 The Plantmg of the Kims These elms, of lineage noble and renowned, Unto the peace beloved of Penn. With drifts Of red and gold hath pensive autumn strewn Our peaceful campus ; soft autumnal mists Have wrapt our fields and woods in magic dream, Making more beautiful these college slopes Already beautiful with sentiment And love and long affection. Many a heart Musing upon the fading loveliness Of Swarthmore's campus in these autumn hours. Is touched with love and pathos infinite, For here of yore we worked and played and dreamed. Nourishing here our golden years of youth With great ideals and with noble books Of sages and of poets. Many a heart, New to these slopes, brightly anticipates Long golden years of work and play and dreams. So with these elms we dedicate, — they seem Symbols of Swarthmore's children old and new; Henceforward, with our brotherhood of oaks And sisterhood of elms and sycamores. They join their lot, they add their power and charm, Even as our college comrades newly come Have brought their gifts of hope and youthful joy. O kindly 3'outhful hearts, and youthful trees, — Musing on what the years may hold for you Of noble growth and noble power, I hear A note of sadness 'mid the harmony, Of grief for one of Swarthmore's dearest sons* Whom God hath called of late from us his friends And comrades in our little college world. He loved the throngs of eager 3'outh that fill Our studious bowers, and it was his joy To lead them like a kindly elder brother To love of those high things he loved so well. *Professor Ferris W. Price of the Class of '74 85 The Planting of the Rims The planting of these trees would have made glad Our gentle friend ; in them he would have seen Promise and forward-looking hope ; he loved Each graceful plant and every memoried tree On these green slopes and in our woodlands deep, — None knew them better ; it was his delight To wander far among the fields and groves In search of pale, shy wood-flowers, and he knew Each haunt and sanctuary of the flowers. His nature was all kindliness and love And sanity, virile with sterling worth And lofty sense of honor, — yea, he walked Among us like a Roman of old time. Simple of soul, with quiet dignity, Unvexed, serene ; long years of fellowship With the great Romans whom he loved, had breathed Into his soul the wisdom sweet of Horace, — The pathos and the rich humanity Of pensive Virgil, — Cicero's deep calm ; O truly Horace sang of such as he, "Integer vitae, scelerisque purus!" And now we mourn to think that nevermore Our friend shall pass beneath our Swarthmore oaks, Shall wander in our woodlands nevermore Searching for wild arbutus, nevermore Shall cheer us with his radiant hopefulness And gracious friendship. His dear name shall blend With every fine tradition of our halls And studious bowers. — Let these youthful elms, So strong, so graceful, speak to us of him. The ever-youthful, gracious, fine, serene, — Nor lose, amid their April flush and bloom. Some recollection of this autumn hour Of wistful charm and elegiac peace, — The fruitful, perfect peace beloved of Penn, The Quaker peace for which we strive and pray. 86 William W, Birdsall WILLIAM W. BIRDSALL President of Swarthmore College, 1898-1902 (Died, 1909) "\A/^E knew thee tenderest of men. We knew thee brave and true, We felt the sterling strength of soul Thy calm eyes shining through ; At times thy deeper self we saw. Unto itself a governing law. No rightful cause or piteous need Appealed to thee in vain ; Thy sympathy knew no confines, Thy knightliness no stain. A spirit generous and benign Made noble every act of thine. If steep and thorny were the way Not thine to stop and ask. Borne onward by a prayer-sought Power Through every sorest task. An old-time Quaker did we see Walking our modern ways in thee. And now, beyond the stars, thy help Is given as of yore; Thy great soul finds its noble work On that untroubled shore. We see thee climb the heavenly hill Patient and self-forgetful still. O may we meet thee yet again In far-off golden years, W^hen Time hath touched all hearts to rest And washed away all tears, — Take once again thy friendly hand And walk with thee the heavenly land ! 87 Farewell FAREWELL {In Memory of Gerrit E. H. Weaver, of the Class of '8'2) nPHOSE who aright his spirit knew, Esteemed him gentle, modest, true; Content to follow quiet ways, No seeker after noisy praise. His work, his books, his well-tried friends, His country walks, — these were the ends That served to make the days complete, The passing seasons full and sweet. How oft he fled the surging crowd To find in field and tree and cloud Such friendship as can only be , In their august simplicity; — For still his heart, as of a child, Would call him to the woodlands wild. Well could he read with subtle ken Secrets denied to careless men ; Oft was he earliest to spy The haunt of pale arbutus shy; He loved to hear in leafy June The dear wood-robin's silver tune. Or mark October's tides of gold Across our waving woodlands rolled. Yes, well he loved through all the year The country ways and country cheer; And every Swarthmore field and hill His heart with happiness could fill. Gerrit, no more we'll share with thee Quaint persiflage and drollery ; Silenced forever is the joy That flowed from one still half a boy. No more with thee we'll search the bowers For loveliest of forest flowers; 88 A Portrait of E, A, Brown No more we'll greet thee in the halls Beneath these memory-haunted walls. Old friend, — ours yet, — though ours no more, I see thee on some grander shore, AVorking in some nobler sphere, With ampler vision strong and clear; Following thy dreams perchance Amid serener circumstance, And easily victorious O'er problems that yet baffle us. Farewell, old comrade, teacher, friend; Early, too early, was thy end! Farewell, — thy College grieves for thee. Stainless in love and loyalty. Farewell, — for thee Swarthmore hath tears, Her son, so faithful through the years. ON A PORTRAIT OF EDGAR ALLEN BROWN {In Swarthmore College Library) I SEE thee, friend of far-off golden days. As first I saw thee in our college halls, — The slender boy, so pensive and refined. Modest and quiet, with thy kindly eyes Dreaming of unseen things, thy wistful look Desiring friendship for thy lonely heart. Old years return, old memories awake With gazing on this likeness, and old books We loved together, speak their old-time charm. Few understood, perhaps, thy inner self. Nor knew what tender depth of friendliness Lay hidden there; thy classmates were content To leave the shy recluse to his own dreams. Yet not without a silent liking, too. For thy rare sweetness and thy wistful ways 89 A Portrait of E. A, Brown That found the solace of companionship With two or three, but most of all witli books. To thee the deatliless authors spoke with power And charm and music; many a happy da}'^ Have well-loved autliors ministered to thee Through hour on golden hour; their sweets were known To thee from deep perusal at still dawn, And through long afternoons and winter nights. Yea, thou wert one who found in noble books Of dreamer and of poet food for all The generous aspirations of the soul. Ah me, couldst thou have lived, friend of old days, What joy had been for thee in these deep nooks Among these precious volumes, what delight To read and meditate in alcoves calm Beneath these oaken roofs that seem to bring Some memory of old-world Oxford here ! But thou hast long been sleeping quietly On some far silent hill, beneath soft boughs That gently droop above thee, lulled by winds Of springtime, soothed with balmy fragrances Of stray wild-roses, and thy mortal form Mingles with earth. Only thy picture here, And these thy books, gift of thy generous heart, Remain to tell to students of to-day How sweet a presence once we knew in thee. Thou sleepest peacefully, friend of old davs, Lulled by soft winds and wild-wood fragrances, Forever free from care, forever young. And we who move along the track of years Through storm and sunshine, see thee youthful still, The light of ageless boyhood in thy face. Thy kind eyes tender with young hopes and griefs, — For hope and grief were thine, emotions strong That sweeten and ennoble youthful hearts. 90 '^ Aleck"" MacDo?i7iell This pictured face of thine with its fine charm Shall serve our Swarthmorc youth in years to come As tranquil beacon toward the higher light, The sweeter, holier ways; for if there come Temptations to soul-starving pedantry, Or empty rivalry for empty fame. Or foolish luxury — thy portrait calm Will seem to speak for truth, for kindliness. For old-time Quaker virtues, for the fruit Of Swarthmore's finer sowing. I rejoice That every generation of glad youth That throngs our halls, yields hearts akin to thine. And faces in whose boyish innocence And girlhood loveliness there seem to brood The sign and seal of noble character. Telling of homes where kindly culture reigns And sterling faith and simple steadfastness. They are the anchors of our greatest hope, The noblest heritage Swarthmore can give. Thus muse I here beside thy precious books. Beneath these oaken roofs, where pictured clear I see thee, friend of far-off golden days,* As first I saw thee in our college halls — The slender boy, so pensive and refined, Modest and quiet, with thy kindly eyes Dreaming of unseen things, thy wistful look Desiring friendship for thy lonely heart. "ALECK" MACDONNELL {The Genial College Watchman) P^AR more than unto some of higher state The name of gentleman belonged to you. Old friend, whose memory we shall ne'er forget. So warm of heart, so kind, so friendly-true ! *1886-88. Edgar Allen Brown was a member of the Class of '90, but died before graduation 91 A Dead Poet A DEAD POET {E. Neidin Williams, Class of 1893) (On Nature's highway he was a Passionate Pilgrim, truly; and his keen impressions he wove into delicate verse-forms. The sincerity and the truth and sanity of his character cannot perish from the remembrance of his friends.) THHE tender loveliness of young spring skies, The gush and purl of pebbled streams, The sacred solitude of lofty woods Enwrapped in vernal dreams, Faint, sweet earth-odors rising from the fields. The primal fragrance of the year — Alas, these now must come unheralded Of one who held them dear ! For nevermore by "greening meadow-land," By wood-walk cool or lonely hill. In reverie will our young Thyrsis stray With poet-heart a-thrill. No more in hidden, far-off forest dells For April's first flowers will he seek. Nor thread the groves of "sunlit sassafras" By Swarthmore's winding creek. Again the pale hepaticas come forth, And Quaker-ladies star the mold ; But he, our lost and loved one, cometh not To greet them as of old. For as with those shy, tender things he loved, Blossoms and buds of fragile bloom, Windflower, veronica and violet. His was an early doom. 92 yoseph Bilderhack Softly the beautiful spirit winged its way Like music fading in tlie night; He fell asleep amid our mortal shade To wake in the great light. And in the plash of April's silvery rains That blur the vale with misty tears, I seemed to hear the young Spring make lament For his unfinished years. What mystery, what beaut}^, now is his In shining realms, we may not know ; But this we know, — his days were blameless, pure As that enshrouding snow Swept by the winds whose sombre requiem Deep in our grieving hearts shall ring And mar, like some untimely winter blast, The jo3'fulness of spring. JOSEPH BILDERBACK (0/ the Class of '02. Died, November, 1900. "Pure as the spirit of the music which he evoked, a helpful acquaint- ance, a noble friend, 'Joe' Bilderback will be held in tender affection while memory lasts.") V\7HEN sorrowful November's hues were blended With lingering red and gold. His life of young and happy hope was ended, His earthly years were told. Not fearful went he down to death, nor sadly, But with a courage high ; He knew to walk the daily pathway gladly. So did he know to die. The melody he loved to make is broken, No more it thrills the ear ; But in our memories it lives, a token Of his bright spirit clear. 93 Why Should He Die! When winds are grieving in the woodlands haunted, And soft rains drop their tears, I hear a melancholy requiem chanted For his unfinished j^ears. WHY SHOULD HE DIE! C O large of spirit and of hope so high, Why should Roy Ogden die! Why must he leave us thus and take away Some sunlight from our day ! Truly there seemed some blessing from the sun In him, our genial one; A buoyant cheer and emanation warm Of youth's eternal charm. Of youth's eternal courage, glory, joy; — So rich of soul Avas Roy. What pathos, that in April, when the earth Woke to its glad rebirth. We bore our kindly comrade to his sleep Amid green silence deep ! — It is no little comfort that the dome Of his loved college home Looks intimately doAvn on the calm rest Of one of Swarthmore's best; No little comfort that he lies below June's flowers, December's snow Here within hearing of the college bell Whose call he loved so well. He deeply loved these Swarthmore woods and fields ! My friendly memory yields Bright pictures of him roaming by our stream, Wrapt in a quiet dream ; Or on the breezy track ; or with his books Amid the sunny nooks Of class-rooms, patiently pursuing truth With the glad zeal of 3^outh. 94 To IV i Hi am Hyde Applet on No generous enterprise of thought or deed But found him in the lead, Kindly and helpful, making bright the way Alike in work or play. — High-hearted friend, Swarthmore not soon shall see Another like to thee ! Alas, to our deep sorrow, not again He walks the ways of men Cheering us with his smile so wondrous bright His eyes so fraught with light. But in dear memory he lives to-day. And shall live there for aye. Our Roy, victorious, loving, fine of soul, Has won the heavenly goal! SLEEP WELL, DEAR SOUL! (At the Grave of Roy Ogden, Class of 19 14-) CLEEP well, dear soul, sleep well; and, airs of April, Breathe softly round his rest by this green hill Where loving comrades deckt his grave at twilight With evergreen and wreaths of daffodil, — With daffodil and evergreen, in token Of his bright spirit proof against defeat. O he shall live in loving recollection Like to some fadeless flower fresh and sweet ! God's acre keeps his dust ; and here forever His lettered stone to coming times shall tell The simple legend of the love we bore him Who whisper low: Sleep well, dear soul, sleep well! TO WILLIAM HYDE APPLETON f^LD friends, old hooks — how true the adage seems. As I recall to-day in happy dreams Those memorable mornings spent with thee In realms of old romance and poesy, 95 To W^illiam Hyde Applet on In "Room B's" genial sunshine, or beside Thy West House hearth in winter's snowy tide ! Kindly and freely didst thou share thy lore Brought from thy sojourn by old Hellas' shore; With thee for guide I heard grey Homer speak Across the ages in sonorous Greek; I watched Achilles drive with thunderous shout The fearful Trojans in tumultuous rout, And saw the blind old harper leading home His hero-hearts across the Mid-Sea foam. And when in pensive mood we did unroll The melancholy Tuscan's epic scroll. Thy sympathetic teaching made the room Seem sombre for the nonce, like to the gloom 'Mid which the Roman laureate was led By Dante through the regions of the dead. But mellow were the hours and sunny-warm. When yielding to the Vaterland's old charm We read the ballads of the haunted Rhine And Schiller's songs and Heine's lyric line, Or wandered pleasantly the roads to Rome Where youthful Goethe's soul first found its home. — Old friends, old books, ah, those were cherished hours, Gleaning with thee the poets' golden flowers ! Thy Shakespeare Readings live in memory yet ; Those happy evenings who can e'er forget, When friends foregathered, a delighted band. To walk with thee in an enchanted land ! Then were we borne to Elsinore again To muse and sorrow with the pensive Dane ; We trod with valiant "Hal" the fields of France, And yearned o'er tender Viola's romance, Thrilled with the terrors of Macbeth's dark crime, And mourned Cordelia dead in her sweet prime. 96 To Willi am Hyde Applet on Not vainl}^ liadst thou seen the mighty Booth And charming Kemble in thy years of 3'outh, And basked in old tradition's light which they Still kept aglow from a remoter day, When Siddons ruled the stage a glorious queen And all men marvelled at the powers of Kean. — Those far-off days lived once again for me, Authentic in thy kindly sympathy ; Yea, back through Garrick, Betterton I dreamed, E'en to old Bui'bage whom our Shakespeare deemed Worthy each noblest, each heroic part. And round that regal presence shaped his art. happy, happy evenings when we quaffed Full deep of Falstaff's Avit, or helpless laughed At grave Malvolio's glory brought so low ! But none so dear to me as Prospero, At once the gentlest and most stately soul In all of Shakespeare's marvellous bead-roll ; How wistful could his wondrous story be. Interpreted so feelingly by thee ! ■ — Old friends, old books, — yea, dearer do they seem, Linked with the golden hours of which I dream. And coming down the great poetic line. What joys like unto these were richly mine! 1 hear thee oft in memory rehearse The majesty of Milton's epic verse That blows across the world a trumpet blast, Melodious, glorious from the mighty Past. With thee I ponder Pope's delightful page, Where centers all the brilliance of his age, — Keen-thoughted Pope so oftentimes who hit On deepest truth with charming sense and wit, And with harmonious and resounding rime Made Homer into English for all time. Goldsmith and wistful Gray once more I see Made welcome in the sunshine of "Room B" ; 97 In a Copy of ^^ Greek Poets'' And Cowper, tender-hearted, genial, mild ; And Byron, melancholy's gifted child. Through each and all, as taught to us by thee, Some lesson ran of life and destiny. Some kindliness, some beauty, some delight. To fortify against Time's ruthless night ; Some solace, some harmonious message clear That sounded to the spirit's finer ear. Among my well-loved books whose friendly charm Seems doubly dear beside the wood-fire warm, Musing in pleasant revery to-night, I — one of many student-friends — indite These lines to thee whom we in honor hold, Our cherished friend and guide from days of old, Whose Swarthmore teachings thus may reckoned be, — Through beauty and truth he set the spirit free. WRITTEN IN A COPY OF DR. APPLETON'S "GREEK POETS" ^F O more at statel}?^ courts of kings Does Homer strike his epic lyre ; No more the mighty victor-fields Are thrilled with Pindar's lyric fire. Sicilian shepherds pipe no more Beneath the old idyllic trees ; The marble theaters are mute That hailed the verse of Sophocles. By oaken grove and poppied lea The ancient deities are dead, The woodland fanes in ruins lie, The sister Muses long have fled. But in this book of noble verse I still can hear the songs of yore, And live again those golden years Beside the far Homeric shore; 98 Golden Volumes Still in this garden roam with him, The kindly friend from days of old, Who gleaned for us Hellenic flowers Through glad and sunny da^'s untold. GOLDEN VOLUMES {Read at the presentation of Professor Applet on's pri- vate library to Swarthmore College Library, by the Phi Beta Kappa Society) l_f OW may I tell of these volumes whose charm I have loved so long, These golden volumes of wisdom, these beautiful books of song, — How tell of the long sweet mornings, the never-forgotten eves. When lost in a land of enchantment I turned their splendid leaves And followed our friend and teacher who loves them true and well As he led through the happy meadows where the blessed Muses dwell ! Milton and Keats and Wordsworth in wonderful verse have told The joys of the wise book-lover who travels the realms of gold; They have sung in matchless music of the pleasure true and pure Awaiting the glad disciples who follow still the lure And the charm of books where poet and seer and scholar and sage Have spoken noble wisdom and truth to every age. "Old books are best !"— Ah, truly, from out the memoried years They bring us their freight of affection and music and wistful tears ; 99 Swart hmore s Peace-makers They tell as with golden voices of the wisdom sweet and old Bequeathed by the deathless dreamers and poets with hearts of gold ; And to him who loves their music and seeks to share their lore They give unrivaled riches that perisli nevermore. Systems arise and vanish, and mortals have their day, — 'Tis only the wise old masters of song who have come to stay ; 'Tis only the seer and scholar and sage whose thoughts endure Embalmed forever and ever in volumes good and pure, — O Swarthmore's sons and daughters, may you love and cherish long These books of our friend and teacher who gave us the love of song! SWARTHMORE'S PEACE-MAKERS W. 1. H. '*CTILL in thy right hand carry gentle peace;" So Shakespeare urged in warlike years of old: God speed our friend who helps that cry become A trumpet-blast across the sad earth rolled, — A trumpet-blast of mighty harmony. Calling the hostile lands their strife to cease With contrite hearts, and bidding each true soul — "Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace!" B. F. B. W^HAT is Swarthraore doing for Peace, How helping to make war-madness cease? Through him, her envoy, she reaches out And helps to quiet the warring lands, Helps to silence the battle-shout. Over the ocean she reaches hands 100 When Pearson Reads To calm and pacify and heal, Making the wcarj nations feel How there is a merciful law, above Their savage code of blood and might, — The law of jtistice. The law of right. The law of brotherly love. "DIVINE EQUALITY" {To H. C. H.) ** T^LDEST of things, divine Equality!" •'—* Great Shelley sang it in his fervent youth. And with his wondrous vision half divine Beyond old error saw the shining truth. He saw the truth, and sang to sons of men. Not chidingly, because he knew them blind. Not stern of heart, too noble he for that. But tenderly, with accents heavenly kind. Divine Equality — were it but ours. As balm for all our hurts it might suffice, Call heaven back unto the wistful world And make this earth another paradise. Another paradise where Love should rule And noble Justice guard the noble state, And man and woman walk the ways of life As God ordaineth, equal mate by mate. Yea, equal mate by mate, God's perfect way — So as the Poet dreamed, O may it be. And earth behold as in some golden age "Eldest of things, divine Equality!" WHEN PEARSON READS Ay\7HEN Pearson reads, — I seem to hear Old-fashioned talk and country cheer; 101 To Paul M, Pearson Among green fields and running broolcs I seem to read from Rile^^'s books; And Riley's kindly people walk Before my eyes and quaintly talk — When Pearson reads. When Pearson reads, — I seem to hear Old southern songs that echo clear, And o'er me murmur soft and far The tender lyrics of Dunbar. In wistful dreams I seem to see The darkies dance in merry glee — When Pearson reads. When Pearson reads, — I seem to know The inner heart of Edgar Poe ; The pathos of his tragic years ; The pity of it that moves to tears. I seem to walk that wondrous shore Where dwells the shade of lost Lenore — • When Pearson reads. Old memories of vanished years, Old recollections dimmed with tears. Old joys and griefs that had their part In life's best hours, surge round the heart- When Pearson reads. TO PAUL M. PEARSON F ROM out thy "Speaker" on a festal night I read to friends such songs as brought the light Of tender memories to every face, And touched with poetry's resistless grace Deep sympathies that have their roots in years Of human happiness and human tears. And on a tranquil, dreamy afternoon. While through the sunset peered the pallid moon, 102 To Paul M, Pearson I read unto a ring of children dear Old fairy tales and fancies quaint and queer, With dainty songs of love and elfin lore, Whereof thy "Speaker" hath such goodly store. And now this evening by the hearth-fire's light. While early springtime yearns across the night For April hours when sweet field-larks shall sing And emerald meadows with their music ring, — I turn thy leaves and rove again with thee Amid the charms of thy anthology, Finding full many a favorite loved of old And more endeared by memory's fairy gold. Old friend, what recollections seem to wake As through thy volumes my glad way I take, — Bright recollections of old times afar When by thy window watching many a star Climb the blue heavens, I listened with delight While thou didst charm away the drowsy night With poetry's enchanting, rich appeal; O glamour of the midnight with its seal Of mystery that made that music seem As beautiful as some remembered dream ! O mellow voice whose kindly sympathy Illumed alike both mirth and tragedy. Giving new charm to olden songs and lays Beloved by me since childhood's magic days ! — Such genial thoughts, old friend of mine, arise As I review with memory-gladdened e^^es This ample row of books, and rove with thee The pleasant paths of thy anthology, — Thy treasure-house of pages that rehearse In touching story and melodious verse The sentiment, the pity, and the cheer That make this life so wonderful, so dear ; Such, Paul, the memories that come to-night Beside m}^ hearth-fire's softly-glowing light. 103 yohn Burroughs at Swart hmore OUR CHAUTAUQUA i^Set to inusic hy Gabriel L. Hines) r^HAUTAUQUA has come like a wonderful friend, She has wakened our hearts with the magic of youth, She has cheered us with charm of her music and song. She has touched us with beauty and truth. Chorus : Chautauqua, Chautauqua, we love thy kindly name; Chautauqua, Chautauqua, we glory in thy fame. We give thee honor, love and praise For old Chautauqua's "Seven Joyous Days." Chautauqua has let in the light of the dawn, She has banished beliefs that were useless and old ; And glad with the glory of Truth in our hearts. We move toward the fair Age of Gold. Chorus Chautauqua, thy spirit shall live in our hearts. Thy truth and thy beauty remembered shall be. With joy and with gladness we give evermore Our faith and affection to thee! Chorus JOHN BURROUGHS AT SWARTHMORE l-I E strayed along our woodland ways. That goldenest of golden days. When all the hills were wrapt in dream. And on our slow and tranquil stream, — Yellow, and red of heart, and brown, October's leaves were edd^ang down. He hearkened to the wood-bird's call. He watched the waters plash and fall, And heard the plaintive crows that flew In wavering flight against the blue, He plucked the gypsy florets sweet That clustered lowly at his feet ; 104 yohn Burroughs at Swart hmore And tapped upon the squirrel's door, A sharer of his sylvan lore. Adown the leafy forest path, Strewn with autunnial aftermath — Where poplars rained their faery gold, And musky odors of the mould Were mingled with the breath of weeds And thistles dropped their silver seeds — He led us on our idle walk And cheered the way with happy talk, Oft broken while he paused to see Some well known sign of plant and tree. By right of common brotherhood He hailed the wildings of the wood; He seemed familiar friend of each — Spice-bush, and oak, and bending beech : The tiniest bloom, the hemlock tall — His genial love included all. And when we left the placid Krum And to the college halls were come, The eager youth about him stood To hear him talk of field and wood And glean from his delightful words Fresh tidings of our homeland birds. He thought our campus wholly fair, Enwreathed in vague and misty air. And praised our widespread pastoral view Fading afar in smoky blue To where the river's silver rim Washes the meadows soft and dim. And in his quaint and kindly speech I thought we somehow seemed to reach Neai'er his wholesome sympathy With rock and flower and forest tree. 105 Seed-Time and Harvest For me the memory cannot fade Of rambling down our wildwood glade — When leaves fell soft as elfin snows — With Walton's brother and Thoreau's. October, 1902 SEED-TIME AND HARVEST {To the Graduating Class, 1898) TN these imperial hours While musical whispers fill the air Blown from odorous banks of flowers, From clover-meadows and billowing wheat-lands fair ; While the young, untroubled, innnaculate year Is glad in her radiant prime, I turn from the vernal greenness clear To muse on the distant harvest-time And the mellow harvest-gold. When the summer is waxing old. And over dreaming garden and field No sound is heard but the locust's drowsy tune, And the great white motionless clouds are asleep in the sky. And the earth at peace shall lie, — Ah, then shall the promise of virginal June In woodland and ripening orchard be revealed! From the laden trees shall pour The mellow fruits and nuts in their glossy coats ; And every breeze that floats From the old gray barn with its open door, Fragrant breaths from the heaping mows shall bring. The happy countryside will ring With the joys of the harvest-home; And up to heaven's dome Shall praises ascend to the bountiful Giver of all, For the ffolden midsummer grain and the fruits of the fall. 106 Seed-Ttme and Harvest Thus natux-e's genial and generous growth is fulfilled, And the blossoms of spring prepare For autumn's perfect fruitage fair, As the all-wise Maker has willed In His one great law each creature obeys and knows, His law that governs the mighty oak and the delicate rose. In this image of bud and blossom and new-sown field Ripening slowly to harvest's plenteous yield, High-hearted youth may behold the type And symbol of man's long striving Ere yet for God's rewards he is ripe, Ere yet at the glorious goal arriving He receives life's highest guerdon and crowning meed. O brothers and sisters ours, through vernal days Well and patiently have ye sown the seed ; Now with a noble hope 3^e gaze O'er many a fertile meadow and pleasant lea. And dream of your summer's strenuous hours And the far-off harvest-home to be. O what have ye gained in these shady bowers That nourished your fervent youth; What gifts has the Mother Revered of us all Bestowed on her latest progeny? Has she bidden 3^ou take to your hearts calm Truth, And Honor, with clear unwavering eyes, And their sister. Faith, that ever points to the skies? Has she opened wide the magical door Whence ye looked on ancient and godlike men ; Inscribed for you with immortal pen Socratic wisdom, Shakesperian lore? Has she made you responsive, emotional. Touching your souls with a music fine. Attuning 3'our ears to the harmony Of Nature's rolling cadences divine? Has she given a courage pure that can never 107 To the Class of igoy Suffer ignoble counsel or sordid aim, So leading jou to love forever Righteousness, Reverence, Beauty, and Peace, and Fame, And to seek for these with endless, high endeavor? Whether your fields of life be far or near, By native valley or hill, or beyond the seas, Give freely, O generous hearts, of your best ! Enrich the world with your gifts of courage and cheer; Uplift the world with your tender ministries, Untiring in noble deed and exalted quest. These be the words that shall guide you aright — Words of the leader* whose coming we honor to-night — To feel, to know, and to do! O cherish and follow that maxim your lifetime through; Feel, know, and do, and your harvest-home shall be Beautiful, perfect, and free! TO THE CLASS OF 1905 V^OU of the star-bright hopes. You of the faith elate. Soon to pass forever Forth from Swarthmore's gate, — Yours be achievement splendid In the golden years to be. And ever in storm and sunshine God keep you whole and free! TO THE CLASS OF 1907 QTILL come they, true lads and lasses. As the years and the seasons renew; Yet some of our gladness passes. Friends of Nineteen-Seven, with 3'^ou. Though you vanish like sunlight on water, Yet your memory shall live with us long ■^President Birdsall 108 To the Class of igoy Who cheered us, each son and fair daughter, With friendship, with dream and with song. With friendship a'nd dream from these portals You pass on the river of life Far echoing with names of immortals Who triumphed o'er trouble and strife. O still as 3'^ou fare on that river And float on the far-winding stream. You will love and remember forever Old friendship and music and dream. At Swarthmore they never can perish — Our visions of light and of truth — Their charm and their beauty we cherish In this home of perpetual youth. Of our work we are seldom aweary, Nor oft does the pathway seem long. Where the days are made blithsome and cheery With friendship, with dream and with song. The light and the lore of the ages, They live for us still through the years ; Still live the old minstrels' great pages. Still speak the great prophets and seers. How beauteous is Learning, here blended With magical memories that seem To make all our college years splendid With friendship and music and dream ! O friends, the old earth is adorning Herself with the mantle of June, Aglow with the ichor of morning Once more is her spirit atunc ; For earth growing weary and olden Wakes to hope and to hunger supreme, She needs youthfnl hearts that are golden With friendship and mtisic and dream. 109 My Classmate s Book And you who go forth on the morrow, Courageous and cheerful and strong, Will banish the earth's ancient sorrow With your friendship, your dream and your song. Still they come to us, true lads and lasses, As the years and the seasons renew. Yet some of our gladness passes, Friends of Nineteen-Seven, with you. "LUCKY THIRTEEN" (Acknowledgment of the Dedication of their "Halcyon'') «T UCKY Thirteen," believe me, is a Class Of many a merry lad and bonnie lass, — Of dramatists and dreamers, altruists. Musicians, orators, and humorists, Actors and athletes, poets and play-boys. Who soothe our sorrows and increase our joys; All warm of heart, all fond of harmless fun; But quitters, thugs or cowards, not a one; Cousins of yours and mine, firm friends and true, Fitted to plan high deeds and put them through. * * * Honored am I, whose else forgotten name The "Halcyon" shall illumine with its fame; "Non omnis moriar" (as Horace said) While Nineteen-Thirteen keeps me from the dead. Then gratitude unto this kindly Class Of many a lively lad and bonnie lass ! MY CLASSMATE'S BOOK* T TPON my shelf of volumes well beloved. My Walton and my Wordsworth and my Lamb ; And kind Jane Austen and her later kin — Singers and sages, dreamers, kindly wits, And wise interpreters of life, I place — * "European Beginnings of American History' 110 Of Other Times She Seemeth By Pater and by Goldsmith, Burke and Yeats, And near quaint Herrick, for his country charm — My classmate's comely and delightful book, Because it seems so consonant with these ; And in its eloquence subdued, its peace. Its seemly flow and harmony, I find A blend of Hellas and of Holicong. A. MITCHELL PALMER, '91 (Candidate for the U. S. Senatorship) \^I7ITH his pure manhood and integrity He comes like some fresh breeze to sweep away The mists and cankers of corruption foul. And bring the dawning of a better day. From Plato and from Sophocles he drew His inspiration for that higher way. Here in these old and well-loved Swarthmore halls In his young manhood's dear and golden day. God haste the hour, now or another year, When Palmer and his kind shall crush for aye, With pure strength of their noble statesmanship, The "politics" of Penrose and of Quay ! OF OTHER TIMES SHE SEEMETH /^F other times and other tastes she seemeth. As though she stept from some old folio's page, A spirit come from Shakespeare's ancient England To charm our prosy age. Sister of jocund shepherd-girls idyllic Who chant their roundelays in Spenser's page. She streweth meadow-flowers from ancient England Across our prosy age. O may she keep her happy heart and spirit, — Happy and blithe as if from Herrick's page, — Refreshing still with breath of ancient England Our grey and prosy age ! Ill On Whit tier Field "ROSE TRELAWNEY" LJOW may I tell the beauty and the charm Of that sweet girl most gentle and refined, Whose simple goodness conquered every foe ; — How warm of heart she seemed, how loyal and kind! THE BARRIE RECITALS ''Veter Pan" ^O delicate and whimsical her power, So tenderly she drew the merry elf, — I almost fancied in that happy hour That we were seeing Peter Pan himself! "The Little Minister" 'T'HE beauty of that hour I shall remember Like fragrance of some splendid garden flower, Its sun and shade like summer and December, Its gipsy charm and wit and fairy power. ON WHITTIER FIELD (After an atJiletic victorij, November, 1899) TPHE valiant and the beautiful were there. On that proud night around the festal fire, Chanting triumphal songs, a joyous choir Of forms fantastic in the ruddy glare. And when that gracious group of damsels fair To draw the massy wain did all conspire, Methought young vestals round some sacred pyre Paced in the dim and mystic Roman air ! Enchantment seemed above the field to hang And hold us with its glamour-laden spell. While through the shadows rang our rosy glee, — A scene whose weird romance shall with us dwell Long as the glory of the victory Of those high-hearted youths whose deeds we sang. 112 Swart hmore Songs SWARTHMORE SONGS V\7HAT mcmoried delight belongs To all my thought of Swarthmore Songs, To all my thought that ycarncth so For college years of long ago ! O, Swarthmore Songs, you hold a spell Beyond the reach of words to tell ! When the cares of life o'ertaJce us. Mingling fast our locks with gray. Should our dearest hope betray us. False fortunes fall away, — Then we banish care and sadness As we turn our memories o'er. And recall the hours of gladness 'Neath the garnet of Swarthmore. "The Garnet" calls me far away To blossom-time in virgin May, Or drowsy nights in early June When mandolins beneath the moon Were throbbing soft in measured beat To songs melodious and sweet, To songs that make old days arise And live again for loving eyes And loving hearts whose memories flow From out the golden Long Ago ! Staunch and gray thou stand'st before us On the campus fair. Thy high spirit guarding o'er us Who thy blessings share. Thee we praise with songs of gladness. Name thy glories o'er; Hail to thee, oh Alma Mater! Hail, all hail, Swarthmore! 113 Around the May -Pole O "Alma Mater," thine's a spell Beyond the reach of words to tell; — Its kindly cadence bears us back On Memory's remotest track ; Its magic music touches tears Of loyal longing for the years Of youth, — the years we live once more When sound the Songs of old Swarthmore ! O Swarthmore Songs, you bear us back On Memory's enchanted track, For in your music lies a spell Beyond the reach of words to tell ! WRITTEN IN A COPY OF "THE HALCYON" LJOW may I hope this page shall be Worthy, gentle friend, of thee ! Could I but capture the song of birds. Or breathe a rapture of wonderful words, — Then might I not despair, Then might my lines declare The charm of this "lass with the delicate air." Foam of the flower and scent of the sea Have given their joy, their joy, to thee, Bonnie girl. May sunlight and laughter and song Live in thy happy heart for long, Gentle friend! AROUND THE MAY-POLE {In Somerville Hall, 1906) T T was a merry, merry sight ! Across the soft and dreamy night, Amid the music and the light I see them dancing yet — 114 Around the May -Pole The peasant people, quaint and small, The fairies and the gypsies all, The gentles leading down the hall The centuricd Minuet. Four handsome lads in silver coats, With filmy fichu at their throats. To Mozart's old melodious notes. With stately step and slow. Led out four damsels fair of face, Whose old-time dress and antique grace Brought for an hour into that place The charm of Long Ago. The Spanish girls in gipsy red, By gallant bandileros led. In airy mazes spun and sped While music rose and fell; And ever in the dream^^ dance, With rhythmic swaying and advance. Like pictures out of old romance They held us by their spell. And O the jolly jolly tars. Rollicking through the hornpipe's bars— In truth they were the comic stars Of all the merry crew! And how harmonious and sweet The music flowed, as lithe and fleet. The peasant girls with twinkling feet Around the May-pole flew ! And who in words could e'er portray The handsome lads and lasses gay Who danced in wholly charming way The quaint A^arsovienne ; Like gentlefolk of high degree They seemed — that courtly company — 115 At an Art h,ecture O who may tell when we shall see Such charm and grace again! Too soon, too soon it fades from sight, The pageantry and music bright ; And out across the moonlit night It vanishes away. But Beauty cannot die, I deem, And oft in memory 'twill seem To haunt us like a golden dream — That magic night of May ! AT A LATIN PLAY C\ H, strange indeed it is to hear From living voices sweet and young. In plangent cadences and clear, The accents of that ancient tongue Which poets wrought to harmony Sonorous, splendid, rich, and grave. Long ere across the Northern sea Our Saxon sires their war-keels drave ! And that old pleasant Plautine fun, — How quaint and far away it seems, Like droll and merry fables spun By hearth-fires in forgotten dreams ! Ah, "Plaudite!'' comes all too soon: Farewell, young friends, we part for home ; But musing 'neath the wintry moon My yearning heart still dreams of Rome. AT AN ART LECTURE (M. N. C, '07) CHE made us love the artists of her love, With eager voice melodious and low Showing how vivid and how vital still The painted dreams of men of long ago. 116 The Old English Pastimes THE OLD ENGLISH PASTIMES {May-Day, 1909) * O vision delightful, — The viarching of morrisers over the scene. The romping of villagers over the green, O vision delightful! T) RIGHT with an ancient charm and long-lost joy, These old-world pastimes, — bringing to our day. Our sombre day of thought and anxious care. Some childhood echo from the far-off years, Of harvest songs and rustic revelry Among green lanes and ever-fragrant fields In that Old England of our wistful love. How blithesome and honnie! rippling and wavering music, still play; O rustic folk; dance through the long holiday, — So blithesome and bonnie! See, round and round the village how they go. In soft young springtime hours ; when daffodils Begin to peer, and every orchard-bough Is green with tender foliage ; see them swing With rhythmic footing down the country lanes, Where merle and mellow-throated mavis chant Beside old ivied walls and mossy gates, — Warble and chant the April hours away. exquisite measures. Stepped out to the piping of jocund old airs Like echoes of wakes and of old country fairs. What exquisite measures! The Springtime in Old England woke again And shepherds fluted soft arcadian airs For girls who danced the haves and rustic rounds And sang their rondels down the woodland lawns ; 117 Pierrot and Pierrette While morriscrs with dick of boots, and beat Of rhythmic clubs', and tinkle of small bells, Lent antique charm and color to the scene. — A picture out of Hcrrick seemed it all, Sweet with old half-forgotten memories Of Devon lanes and apple-orchards white And bowering groves where merry youth did roam, While flowery Maytime followed in their steps. O moment of sorrow. As dancers and morrisers vanish away. And the cloxvn and the hobby-horse cease their blithe play,— O moment of sorrow! PIERROT AND PIERRETTE {The Somervillc Play, 1916) T^EAR Pierrette and Pierrot Came from out of the long ago To teach fond folk to-day That Home can heal our every woe And Love all grief allay. What did I see as the blithe Pierrot Danced in the candle-light.^ Some old city of long ago -Where harlequin hid his heart of woe And flamed like a spirit bright ; Some old city whose minster-towers Soared high over the Square Where harlequin scattered his fancy's flowers And romped through the golden languid hours, Enchanting the idlers there. Dulcet voice and delicate air Rhythmic motions wondrous fair ; Sleepy song to a sleepy tune. Drowsy-sweet as a rose in June; 118 May Day, igi6 A face of light and a heart of woe; And dear with the charm of the Long Ago — All these I saw in Pierrot. What grief I felt for the fair Pierrette As she lighted the ruddy fire And saw the table duly set For her careless lover ! Poor Pierrette — Her warm heart's dear desire Was to win the love of the blithe Pierrot, And her little heart was heavy with woe As she drooped by the ruddy fire. O dreamy-dear with her fairy grace. Her winsome ways and child-sweet face — What grief she should suffer so ! But lovers' moods are not for aye; And at last there comes the sunny day When Pierrot no more shall roam. The light-heart lad so foolish-fond! — He knows at last love's rosy bond And finds his heaven at home. Dear "Maker of Dreams," this happy ending Was of thine own beneficent sending! It happened all so long ago ; But Pierrette and Pierrot Came back again to-day To teach us in their idyl old That round us lies life's dearest gold And Love can every grief allay. MAY DAY, 1916 /^N May Da}' morn a gentle Lady spoke to us of Chaucer, In that old century of his so dim and far away ; And in the rapture of her words I barkened to the little birds 119 May Day, ipi6 And dreamed of wandering in Kent to welcome in the May,— With Chaucer, with Chaucer among the Kentish meadows. To zvander and wonder and welcome in the May! And then at noon to Wilmington I traveled on the trolley, — A paradise of fields and blooming orchards all the way, — And there at Quarterly Meeting, among the quiet Quakers, I fear my thoughts were wandering and very far away, With Chaucer, with Chaucer, at singing of the morning lark, A-setting out from Southwark to welcome in the May: — For recollection bore me back to May-Day once at Oxford When by the drowsy silver Thames I rambled all the day, Among the yellow daffodils on Berkshire's green and golden hills. And mused on Chaucer's England so dim and far away, — When Chaucer, Dan Chaucer crossed o^er that stream at London And wandered in the fields of Kent to welcome in the May. And then in waning golden afternoon I hastened home again By woodland and violet-bank and blossomed apple- spray. To see our girls a-gathering upon our Swarthmore campus With music and with merriment to welcome in the May. In truth it was a witching scene ! With ribbons and with garlands gay And baskets filled Avith flowers of May, They circled 'round the green; And then with wreath of red and blue. Their symbol of devotion true. They crowned their winsome Queen. 120 The Saga of Sixteen And as I watched them dancing there In that poetic evening air, Those damsels delicate and fair, — Their passing pageantry of joy, immortal seemed to me; Such loveliness can never die, But must in recollection He, And through all coming years its beauty shall remem- bered be ! ***** O, friends, who saw that charming scene. Do you not sigh for meadows green And long to roam with Chaucer to welcome in the May, — With Chaucer, with Chaucer, among his flowerij meadows. To wander and wonder and welcome in the May! THE SAGA OF 'SIXTEEN {A Toast for Commencement Day, 1916) I sing of '16 in my Saga! I sing and I say It will seem lorn and lonely when you have all wandered away. T^EAR "1916," we shall surely miss you! We saw your cousins and your kinsmen kiss you; We saw you going through your graduation Firm and courageous with no hesitation. We saw the leader of the College bless you, (Although we saw no holy priest confess you.) Our genial Dr. T r has addressed you And with his wisdom duly has impressed you. O, he's a blend of Socrates and Burroughs ; He's reaped a lot of comfort from life's furrows. If you can look on life with eyes as sunny. You'll glean like him large store of golden honey. O, "1916," we shall miss you badly! We'll have to face the next semester sadly. 121 The Saga of Sixteen No more, no more, we'll stop and look and listen, While '16's maidens on the campus glisten. Ah me, we shall miss you, '16's, miss you all and each one, With your wit and your beauty, your music and inno- cent fun. O, many's the moment of pleasure you've given to me In the years you've sojourned in the shelter of Swarth- more's roof-tree! — I was fond of your Phoenix, and found it both faithful and fair; It mingled the gay and the grave with a sympathy rare. The Faculty followed its hints and were helped to a cure Of more than one ill by its judgments so sound and so sure. Your Halcyon held me for many a memoried time, In love with its legends, its art, and its jocular rime; — I verily valued your Volume (excepting indeed Two pages of prose by the pen that's inscribing this screed.) / sing of '16 in my Saga! I sing and I say It will look lorn and lonesome when you have all wan- dered away. 1 was charmed with your music, your songs and your carolling clear, often and often I'll hear it in memory's ear ! 1 was charmed with your Library "silence" while duly you read ' As over our books bent each eager and beautiful head. I was charmed with your acting in many a heart-stirring play, — And most by the drama you gave on that golden June day When Falstaff, the fat and the farcical, gladdened us so With his pomp and his pride and his boundless ambition laid low! « * * 122 Watching the Stars O, "1916," we shall see you in College no more, And onl}' as ghosts will you pace o'er the Library floor ! You will seek your "own people" wherever those dear ones may be By farmstead or village or far by the murmuring sea. All me, we shall miss you, '16's, miss you all and each one. With your wit and your beauty, your music and inno- cent fun! / sing of '16 in my Saga! I sing and I say We'll not see your equals for many a wearisome day. WATCHING THE STARS (Read at the dedication of the Sproul Observatory, the gift of Williayn Cameron Sproul, '91; June, 1911) I "1^7 HAT noble joy to watch the stars. To scan the moon's vast mountains, ages old. Great Saturn and mysterious Mars, And Venus flaming through the sunset's gold! What noble happiness to view Uncharted constellations strange and new. And meteors trailing golden fire Beneath Orion and the lordly Lyre ; To watch the wondrous Pleiad sisters seven. And pallid nebulae that swim In silver silence cold and dim. And comets hurtling through the heights of heaven ! — And O Avhat noble privilege to teach That old august Chaldean lore, And follow the illimitable reach Of systems far beyond Time's farthest shore. Where the Almighty hath empcarled The fields of space with world on wandering world I 123 Jf^ ate king the Stars II And tlien from these supernal dreams, how sAveet, Returning to this well-loved scene, To find the daisies tossing round our feet, And ramble 'mid the shadows green Of these embowering trees ! Such contrasts gather 'round this dome, — Opening on boundless stellar mysteries, And nestling 'mid the verdant foam Of these dear woodlands and familiar hills, Whose beauty our affection fills — So near, so near are heaven and home. Ill Here, many a lustrous, tingling night. Through long uncounted hours. The watcher of the stars shall scan the sky. Heart-simple as the child that hunts for flowers In meadows warm and bright — Beholding through the giant glass The heavenly pilgrims in procession pass — The mighty planets robed around with light Of their attendant moons. Like sultans moving to their rest In drowsy silken noons Far in the slumbrous silence of the west. Unending constellations shall he see In stately pageantry Of purple splendor, streaming on through space Celestially and with celestial grace. — How can we dream of base or low Here learning God's great chart to know ; How can our souls dwell but upon the heights, Pondering the heavens through majestic nights! IV Now, to the donor and his classmates here, Ours be thanksgiving full and deep. 124 i The College Chimes May he — may they — in recollection keep, Through year on rolling year, Our loving gratitude. O may they be — This kindly Swarthmore class — Enshrined in friendliest memory, 'Till this great dome and heaven-searching glass In far, far distant years, to nothingness shall pass. THE COLLEGE CHIMES {To Swarthmore College, the bells and clock in this tower were presented hy Morris Lewis Clothier, betokening his love and loyalty, and commemorating the Twentieth Anniversary of the graduation of the Class of '90.) T ONG may these mighty bells peal forth. Long throw their voices on the air. And celebrate through far-off years The Class whose noble name they bear; Long may they mark the rolling hours With mellow music, wild and sweet. And solemn harmonies that surge O'er college hill and village street ! I love their solemn harmonies, Their pensive and pathetic notes ; I love the golden carillon That from the belfry grandly floats. I love to think how grey old men And little children pause to hear These sweetly-chiming bells that make Our Swarthmore campus yet more dear. No war-alarums may they ring, But only tranquil songs of peace. And messages of brotherhood O'er fields where blessings never cease. No navies may they hail but those That calmly sail the summer blue, 125 My Friendly Pine The vast cloud-fleets that float on liigh And fade like phantoms from the view. Soft will their mellow echoes fall Among the bookish aisles below, Soft will they toll the precious hours For eager hearts that come and go. Soft will they sound for him who reads And weighs the words of ancient sage, And softly blend their harmonies With every well-loved poet's page. Long may they pour their pensive notes, Their mellow music wild and sweet, Their solemn harmonies that surge O'er college hill and village street ; Through sun and storm, through joy and woe, Long may they peal across the air. In token of the loyalty Of Swarthmore's son whose name they bear ! MY FRIENDLY PINE (Beside the Library) T LOVE to watch the snow-flakes softly sifting Among the branches of my friendly Pine, When purple twilight wanders by the windows, And memories waver past in mystic line. then the dark green branches seem to whisper And wave to me with myriad little hands That lead the heart away to wander dreaming Among the far-off golden summer lands. 1 love to hear the gales of deep December AVail through its branches with unresting roar, When high o'er-head the wild white geese are hasting To happier homes upon some balmy shore; And in the scented sunsets of green April 126 The Library Dove I listen to the croon of calm content That floats from out the old Pine's drowsy branches Whose breath with odors wild is redolent. Pine-tree with thy softly-swaying branches Above the purple twilight's ghostly snow, Singing and sighing to me through my window When zephyrs murmur or Avhen wild winds blow: — 1 love thee for thy fragrance and thy beauty, Unfailing and all-faithful comrade mine. Through golden morns and noons and purple twilights, Most musical and dreamy-hearted Pine ! IN THE LIBRARY /^NE morning last week, When the soft rain pattered and dripped, I raised a library window, And all of a sudden the dry and dusty air Was flooded with wet sweet wind That breathed from the beautiful pine whose arms Shadow the eastern wall with fragrant green. A reader, strolling in, Asked for a copy of Hedda Gabler, And pored over pages of morbid talk About sick souls and scandal And sorrowful things, — and heard not at all The wet wind chanting, chanting Its song in the boughs of the beautiful fragrant pine. THE LIBRARY DOVE Columba, O Columba, come again. And murmur softly at my window-pane! /^NE day a dove in at our window flew, A comely dove with neck of iris hue. He seemed bewildered, far from home, and lost, As if on some wild wind he had been tossed, 127 Fairy Melody Then in the after-lull had drifted down And sought a refuge in our friendly town; — I know not, — but for weeks he lingered near, And every day I heard his murmur clear And soft as music from a fairy flute Or far-heard throb of mandolin or lute, So gently would he murmur. He was tame, And every morning to the window came To eat the oats and corn I scattered there; Then would he croon, and preen his feathers fair And entertain me with his murmur sweet. While sideways on the sill with dainty feet He stepped, with air most solemn and sedate And head aslant, as pondering the fate That kept folks bound to books through such long hours While all outdoors was bright with sun and flowers ! At last, in late October, off he flew. Alas, the lovely creature never knew How much I miss my little fair^^ friend. And how I hope a kindly fate will send This darling dove some day again to cheer Our dusty hours with murmured music clear. Columha, with your lovely Latin name. Come back again as long ago you came. And croon your pensive songs upon the sill; Tap on the window with your little bill And tell us how the sunshine and the flowers Rebuke us for our long and bookish hours. Columha, Columha, come again. And mtirmur gently at my window-pane. W FAIRY MELODY HEN Phebe Lukens sings. How softly on the ear 128 1 Whefi Gabriel Htnes D?^ earns O'er Keys There falls a fairy melody Most delicate and dear; And far among the meadows In twilight's purple shadows I sec the nodding daisies dance, — ■ When Phebe Lukens sings ! Among the hills I hear The low and tender tune Of little silver-singing streams At drowsy end of June, And blackbirds warbling over The honey-hearted clover, And winds ablow in orchard boughs, When Phebe Lukens sings. The happy, happy days of old, The summer days of childhood's gold, Come back to me In memory, When Phebe Lukens sings. WHEN GABRIEL HINES DREAMS O'ER THE KEYS Y^I^HEN Gabriel Hines dreams o'er the keys, I hear the songs of birds and bees ; I see the leaves of autumn red and yellow Drift softly down the melancholy air, In drowsy twilights when the moon is mellow And fairy voices seem to greet us there. My heart is touched by memories golden; I sail on peaceful summer seas Of recollections sweet and olden, Of memories and visions golden, — When Gabriel Hines is dreaming o'er the keys. When he is dreaming o'er the keys With those immortal Rhapsodies, — 129 Remembered Music I see Hungarian girls among the mountains Rejoicing in their happy holiday; 1 see them romping 'round tlie forest fountains Or through the greenwood fading far away. Old songs and hallads they are singing Beneath the ancient forest trees; I hear their girlish laughter ringing, I hear their happy, happy singing — When Gabriel Hines is dreaming o'er the keys. When he is dreaming o'er the keys, I muse on heavenly mysteries. — I hear the roll of organs, and the thunder Of yearning hymns adown cathedral aisles ; I hear the flutes of shepherds piping under White-blossomed trees by covmtry lanes and stiles. — O Music, like a lordly river Of bright and beauteous harmonies, Let me recall the charm forever Of memories flowing like a river — When Gabriel Hines is dreaming o'er the keys. REMEMBERED MUSIC (To E. R. S.) HENE'ER I hear a harp of golden tone, W Or mark the plaintive moan Of ring-doves, or at rosy end of dark Hear the first morning lark, — Then I recall the cadence dreamy-low And soft adagio Of thy calm music, as I heard thee plaj^ At twilight of a dream-remembered day. Chopin and Schumann in their tenderest mood, And dear MacDowell musing in the wood, — These, these I heard thee play At drowsy close of da3^ 130 I Moszkowskr s "Arabesques' When o'er a hill I hear a bird-song sweet Fading in soft retreat, Or watch low waves upon the ocean shore Falling with faint-heard roar And foam of tumbling froth, — in Memory's ear Murmur for me the clear And fluty notes I heard thee gently play At drowsy close of day. At twilight of that dream-remembered day. GARBER AND LA MONACA {In their College Recital) VV/^ITH sunny faces bright and gay They put their hearts into their play And poured forth airy round on round Of shimmering and lovely sound. They seemed a quaint, unworldly pair Delighting us with music there, And blithe and glad as if the earth Were just a place for joy and mirth, A place where blooms eternal Spring — So magical their music's ring! MOSZKOWSKI'S "ARABESQUES" {To H. E. B.) T IKE mother-song recalled in dreams, Like airs of childhood's day. Those sweetly meditative notes Seemed floating forth on memory's streams, That hour I heard 3^ou play. They flowed and flamed like golden motes. That in the drowsy noon-tide beams ^\Tiirl in their fairy dance Adown the velvet air. 131 T/je CoIIcve Hymns O, (lid Mos/kowski drjiw from old roninnce Those lovely cjidoiu'os you played me there, — AVhile the iinheediiiir crowd Gossiped with murmur loud! THE COLLEGE HYMNS l-I()\V often have thev warmed and cheered, — The hynms by memory endeared, Poured forth upon the air By those loved voices there ! Brightrst niul hrst of the sons of thr morning, 7)ttiprt alb? iFlouirra, — 5il|at>r pnbrarpa (JIirBp, tlipap ar^ mytiP: (0 makf tljrm \\}^m\ THE GIFTS OF GOD I SAW a woman pale with care Beside the way; Wistful of face she wandered there This autumn day. Her thin hands held blue asters blent With goldenrod. And so I knew that she had spent An hour with God Among the fields ; that she had come With weary feet Fleeing her poor and narrow home To walk the sweet Uncrowded, pure, clean country ways. And for an hour Find respite from unresting days. With bird and flower. Alas ! how many souls like thine, Unhappy thralls, 184 The Gifts of God Do poverty and need confine In city walls ! Ah, not for them night's mystery And odorous dark, Nor the enchanted piping free Of dawn's first lark ; For them no image deep and soft In tranquil stream. Of great cloud-islands far aloft That drift and dream. The chiming frog, the wood-thrush sweet. The sad rain-crow. The harvest songs among the wheat. They may not know. They may not look day after day On falling leaf. As pensive Autumn pines awa}' In golden grief. Nay, these poor souls all closely pent 'Mid dust and heat Of dark and grimy tenement And sordid street. Must count one day 'mid orchard slopes And by calm streams Fulfilment of their fondest hopes And cherished dreams. But we who share each day and hour These gifts of God — River and wood and cloud and flower And emerald sod — Do we by reverence aright Make these our own? 185 Farewell to the Farm Or, CHri'lcss, sliiil, \\w\\\ from our si^ht Willi licurLs of stone? AUTUMN SILENCE \I0 souiul is lu'urd ; ^ri-cii Nrwliii's fii'lds arc still; No inoro >vo hrar llu> wood dove's pensive cry; Without »i twitter now the swallows lly. Silent the dreanjy woods above the mill; Silent the drowsy nir of Shnnherville ; Silent I he sii;hls that meet llu' nuisin^ eye. One lonely hu/./.ard elinihint;' the elear sky And ^reat eloud shadows moving- up I he hill. No sound is heard: Ihc slerpy Brandy wine Scarce whispers as it la|)s its la/.y reeds Or drifts where yon lale-lini;erin^' daisies shine. 'I'he air is spiced with smoke of burning' weeds, And o'er the fields where feetl the peaceful kino Slow sail the thistle's filmy silver seeds. FAKKWKl.L ro TlIE FARM I SAID fart'well unto our pi-nsivo Str»>ani, And I he old farmstead wrapl in aulunui's dream; l''art\vi'II unto Ihc vil!ai;i> and I he mill And dark mill iMe(> llml winds below llu> hill; l*'arewell unto Ihi' callle feediiii;- slow WhiM'c hoarv willows stand in silent row; l''ar»\vcll to kindly neij;hbors, and farfwi'll To thirst' old fields 1 lon<>; have lovt-d so well; Farewi'll, lach hauni amonu^ lh(>se hillsitles dear, - God ffrunt I come to vou another v«'ar! 186 fn Memory of IVhittier Dedicated to ChAUI.KS 1'kANCIS JlCNIClNS AWHILE Whittier lived among us on this earth A saintl}' man walked our familiar ways, And, like the saints of olden time, prevailed By force of simple goodness; he was one Who followed righteousness unwaveringly, Who fought the good fight in his manly prime, Who dreamed his dreams, and in high melodies Chanted his dreams and poured forth his great soul. How often in reflective hours I love To ])onder on his precious verse, and muse On his victorious and nohle life ! Where shall we look to find a poet brother liike him in fine simplicity, so meek. So all unworldly, save among the hills And dreaming lakes of the old mother-land, — Who but great Wordsworth heard the spirit's voice And sang its message in like melodies As WHiittier? Who but our Quaker seer Knew Nature's inmost heart as Wordsworth knew? — In Memory of W^ hit tier A lover of the meadows and the woods. And mountains, and of all that we behold From this green earth . . . well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense. The anchor of his purest thoughts, the nurse The guide, the guardian of his heart, and soul Of all his moral being. Think not the poet, calm in outward mien, Is not profoundly moved by loveliness ; Beauty and goodness feed "that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude" ; and oft In common things unseen by thoughtless men. In quiet stream or cloud or wayside flower, The poet finds beatitude and joy. So was it with our tranquil Quaker bard, — He loved all beauty on this lovely earth. Cherished and mused on it, till it became Part of his dreamful mind, and so in time Was made the theme of his delightful song. He loved the laughing eyes of children dear. The charm of kind and winsome womanhood Where beauty is the mark of heavenly grace. The fine benignity of gray old men Crowned with deep peacefulness ; he loved the stars. The tranquil clouds that swim the heavenly seas. The wandering moon, and sunset's smouldering fires. Melodious brooks he loved, and rivers blue. And lordly lakes that shimmer 'neath the sun; And through it all he saw God manifest, Speaking through nature's myriad loveliness. And with his worship of the living God As manifest in cloud and stream and flower And songs of joyous birds, he blent his love Of peaceful hours of waiting on the Lord In quiet meeting-hour ; — O deeply wise. To find the Father in the holy haunts 188 In Memory of Whit tier Of ancient sea and wood, and equally Beneath the roof in the still house of prayer ! — Dream not, O friend, because I seek This quiet shelter tzvice a week, I better deem its pine-laid floor Than breezy hill or sea-sung shore; Invisible and silent stands The temple never made xvith hands. Unheard the voices still and small Of its unseen confessional. He needs no special place of prayer Whose hearing ear is everywhere. And then the poet tells the equal joy Of silent worship with his fellow-men Upon the ancient benches 'mid the calm, — And so I find it well to come For deeper rest to this still room. For here the habit of the soul Feels less the outer world's control; And from the silence multiplied By these still forms on either side The world that time and sense have known Falls off and leaves us God alone. ^OR less I love our Poet when he sings The homely, quaint old-fashioned country life, The golden summers when he roved and dreamed A happy barefoot boy ; the wholesome fare, The rustic labors. Whittier tells of these In new-world eclogues sweet as Virgil's own, Fragrant with wood grapes, hay fields, wild strawberries, With forest flowers and laden orchard boughs. Musical with the murmur of wild bees. With lowing cattle and with bubbling springs. And songs of robins and of orioles. 189 In Memory of W^hittier O for boyhood's painless play. Sleep that rvakes in laughing day. Health that mocks the doctor's rules. Knowledge never learned of schools. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side. Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and, eye, — Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! And who loves not the dear familiar lines That tell of winter's brisk and wholesome tasks And cheery fireside joys; and, breathed o'er all, The loving spirit of sacred memories. The mystery of God's unfading peace ! Shut in from all the world without We sat the clean-winged hearth about. Content to let the north-wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door. Ah, brother! only I and thou Are left of all that circle now, — The dear home faces whereupon That fitful firelight paled and shone. Henceforward, listen as we will. The voices of that hearth are still; Look where we may, the wide earth o'er. Those lighted faces smile no more. Yet Love will dream, and Faith zvill trust. That somehow, somezehere, meet we must. Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees! Who hath not learned, in hours of faith. The truth to flesh and sense unknown. That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose it own! 190 In Memory of IV hit tier III ^7 HOSE lighted faces smile no more, — ah me, Who hath not felt the tender sad regret That surges to the heart amid the scenes And haunts of childhood ! Whittier speaks our love, Deep and enduring, for the ancient farms And tranquil homesteads dear to memory, Yet touched with endless pathos through the years Since now our loved ones greet us there no more At garden gate or by the ruddy hearth. Such pathos clings about that ancient house 'Mid the green meadows and the orchard slopes Where Whittier's boyhood passed, — an old-time house With centuried traditions, now bereft And silent since the Poet comes no more, — Silent, yet eloquent of happy years. Of rustic labor and of kindly deeds And family love and sweet content and peace. Here foams the little brook, dear to his heart, Down through the idyllic grove and 'mid the fields Below the orchard on the breezy hill. Singing as joyously now as of yore. Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night. Whispering at the garden wall. Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees. Apples of Hesperides! Here stands the long low heavy-timbered barn Across the road, with fragrant granary And deep-set mows and antique shop and forge, — Lonely and silent now, where once the boy 191 In Memory of Whittier Took part in all the wholesome countr^'^ tasks Among the friendly, patient animals, — Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked dozen the herd's-grass for the cows: Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; And, sharply clashing horn on horn. Impatient down the stanchion rows The cattle shake their walnut bows. Not far away the Poet's well-loved haunt, Great Hill, stands up against the breezy sky. From whose high crest are many cities seen, Hamlets and busy towns, and silver lakes 'Mid forests dark; and in the dream}'^ west Monadnock towering heavenward; far to south That old romantic mountain grand and lone, Wachusett ; with the billowy Deerfield range Dim on the northern line; while, bright with sails, Grey ocean heaves and slumbers peacefully Or rolls and flashes in the morning sun Magnificent. There lately as I roved By that old house and down that little stream And o'er those breezy hills, how poignantly I felt the solemn beauty of it all ! Each spot seemed hallowed by the tender thought Of Whittier's youthful years ; each woodland haunt, Each fair New England landscape, each old room Of that dear memoried house, seemed eloquent Of him who worked and pondered here, who fed His dreams amid these quiet groves and fields And nourished his great soul among these hills. Dear home-land haunts, the simple Quaker bard Loved you beyond all fancied scenes afar ; And if at times he mused with mild regret On Syrian lands, on Venice, or the Alps, 192 In Memory of Whit tier Whose charms he might beliold in dreams alone And wistful thought, — yet loyally he clung To his dear home-land hills, meekly content To bide through life near those ancestral scenes, — Scenes that sufficed his warm home-loving heart. Home of my heart! to me more fair Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls. The painted, shingly town-house where The freeman's vote for Freedom falls! And sweet homes nestle in these dales. And perch along these wooded swells; And, blest beyond Arcadian vales. They hear the sound of Sabbath bells! Here dwells no perfect man sublime. Nor woman winged before her time. But with the faults and follies of the race. Old home-bred virtues hold their not unhonored place. IV T LOVE his Songs of Labor, sweet with sounds Of wholesome toil and rustic fellowship, Fragrant of forests and of ocean winds. He sings the golden harvests of the corn In mild October, of old kitchen hearths And rosy country girls, of long stone barns And creaking harvest-wagons, — all the scenes Of quaint old-fashioned merry husking-bees. Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn! Let other lands, exidting, glean The apple from the pine. The orange from its glossy green. The cluster from the vine; 193 In Memory of JV hit tier But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn. Send up our thanks to God! The building of the stately ships he sings, Where sturdy wrights and smiths, from centuried oak And ringing iron, form with cheery zeal The mighty barks that sail the ocean's fields. High destiny the poet wishes her, Each lordly vessel — freight of golden grain And fruits and balmy spice, — no cargoes base Of groaning slaves or draughts that dull the soul. God bless her! wheresoever the breeze Her snowy wings shall fan. Aside the frozen Hebrides, Or sultry Hindostan! Where'er, in mart or on the main. With peace fid flag unfurled. She helps to wind the silken chain Of commerce round the xvorld! So with the drovers and the fisher-folk And men who fell great trees on mountain-slopes, — His kindly heart with cheery comradeship Warms toward them all ; and toil till now unsung Finds glory in his lays, and humble men Grow noble in his verse sincere and strong. How like his well-loved Burns does Whittier seem In these his poems of democracy ! And who loves not his Ballads, epics true Though brief and simple, of heroic deeds. Of sacrifice upon the stormy seas And great devotions in life's daily fields ! Happy the child who nourishes his dreams And builds his pure ideals from these tales ! 194 In Memory of Whittier And how for us old memory wakes and thrills O'er Barbara Frietchie's splendid loyalty, — Or hears once more on India's far fields The blithe and tender pipes of Lucknow blow, — Or looks on sweet Maud Muller raking hay In that unfading pensive pastoral scene, — • Or sees soft Pity and Love like angels shine Above sad Buena Vista's battle-field ! The wonder and the glory of the sea Breathe in these Ballads ; — hundred-harbored Maine, The Rocks of Rivermouth, the steady chime Of sunset waves around fair Appledore, — They live for us as vividly to-day As when they first enthralled us in his song. O I could listen hour on golden hour To Whittier's moving and melodious lays ! Beside the ruddy hearth on winter nights They gain a fresh impressiveness, they stir Kindly affection and soft sympathy, And leave us nobler for their lessons pure. V A^7E who are native to these dreamy hills And valleys green of Penn's old Commonwealth,- These old-time Quaker shires that Whittier loved, Chester, and Bucks, and Delaware, — must prize "The Pennsylvania Pilgrim," chief among Our poet's ballads ; 'tis a heart-felt tale, And warm with Whittier's sweetest kindliness And Quaker sympathy; he wrote no verse More fragrant of the dear old Faith we hold. More beautiful with pictures of the peace And fruitful silence of the Meeting hour, — Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm. Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland halm. Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm. 195 In Memory of Whit tier Lowly before the Unseen Presence knelt Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt On his moved lips the seal of silence melt. Oh, without spoken words, low breathing stole Of a diviner life from soul to soul. Baptizing in one tender thought the whole. And, noblest strains of all, he sang his faith In the Divine in man u})on this earth — Imnianuel, God in each human heart. The croAvning glory of his muse are they. These })aeans and these hymns ; they have the fire And grandeur of the old })rophetic vein ; They flame with inspiration straight from God; They shine with heavenly hope and heavenly grace. Where shall we find more comfort, greater cheer, Than in these hymns and prophecies ! What words Apart from Holy Writ can equal quite "The Eternal Goodness" in wide charity And child-sweet faith in the All-Father's love,? — > His most majestic utterance, most informed With his heart's deepest faith. I never hear Its sad and lovely cadences from lips Of earnest worshippers, but that I say — Here is a creed for all the tribes of earth! Yet, in the maddening maze of things. And. tossed by storm and food. To one fixed trust my spirit clings; I know that God is good! The wrong that pains my soul below I dare not throne above: I know not of His hate, — / knoxv His goodness and His love. I dimly guess from blessings known Of greater out of sight, 196 /;/ Memory of IV hit tie?" AnJ, with the chastened Psalmist, oxvn His judgments, too, arc right. I long for household voices gone. For vanished smiles I long. But God hath led my dear ones on. And He can do no wrong. I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise. Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies. And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore. I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care. VI A ND now, what can I say of Whittier's power, — Why should he see great visions, and dream dreams, And voice them in undying melodies? O friends, I know he saw, — and felt, — and sang, — Because he ever kept one pure ideal, One starry gleam, before him all his da3's. He dwelt with Beauty, and he loved her well ; With Goodness, and he followed her behest. And never any worldliness or pride, Baseness or jealousy, had loging-place In his clam spirit ; he was not disturbed By storms that overwhelm less steadfast souls ; But clear of vision and high-heartedly He saw Truth shining still, a flaming star 197 In Memory of Whittier That brightened all his path and made his years, — Albeit he had sailed thro' troubled seas, — One blessed course of pure tranquillity; And once again upon this ancient earth A saintly man walked our familiar ways. •^ He. ^ ^t. j^ »r^ ^ •»? «TP yf! Would I had seen our saintly Whittier, The noble, gray old Poet, face to face; Would he had come to Swarthmore now and then In his ripe years, as in old daj^s long past He came to these old Pennsylvania hills And visited in ancient Quaker homes ! Those deep, dark eyes, those firm sweet-smiling lips. That gracious aspect of benignity, — How they had blest our youth ! O I must grieve To think we of the younger Quaker line Have never looked upon his kindly face, Heard his sweet words of peace and friendliness, Or felt his cordial hand-clasp. It had been A consecration to remember him. The great and simple Friend, the Quaker Seer! Straight as a mountain pine. With the mountain eagle's eye. With the hand-clasp strong, and the unhushed song. Was it time for him to die? The hills and the valleys knew The Poet who kept their tryst. To our common life and our daily strife He brought the blessing of Christ. And we never thought him old. Though his locks were white as snow. heart of gold, grown suddenly cold. It was not time to go!* *Elegy on Whittier, by Margaret E. Sangster 198 Verses of ^akerism OLD QUAKER MEETING-HOUSES Dedicated to Joseph S. Waltox A kind friend A true Friend As mountain streams from sudden sources run And calmer grow ere yet they blend in one. Then deeper flowing and more reverently Yield all their treasure to the parent sea; — So holy love in kindred hearts awakes And swift, from many lands, one channel takes. Whose currents blending deep in silence move Toward that great ocean of Abiding Love, Our common Father's heart, where space and time are not And each for each may plead, all selfish ends forgot. Edith M. Winder I T LOVE old Meeting-houses, — how my heart Goes out to those dear silent homes of prayer Witli all their quietude and rustic charm, Their loved associations from old days, Their tranquil and pathetic solitude. Their hallowed memories! O I could roam Old ^luaier Meeting- Houses Forever in old Quaker neigliborhoods And muse beneath the oaks and sycamores That shade those quiet roofs, the evergreens That guard the lowly graves, — and meditate Upon the kindly hearts that softly sleep Beneath the violets and wandering vines And mossy turf, the kindly hearts and true That in old years gone by were wont to come To First-day and to Mid-week Meeting here To worship and to pray and find new strength For daily duties. Many a tranquil face I see in fancy as I ponder here, — The blessed mothers with their ej'es of love And tenderest sympathy, the fathers kind And serious and generous-souled to all, And hosts of rosy boys and budding girls — The youthful scions of old Quaker stock. The great old trees around the Meeting-house, Hoar patriarchs of eld, chant low to me Their centuried recollections of the sires Who tilled the far-spread farms that lie around. And matrons who have made, in years long gone, These grey farm-houses centers of true peace And friendly cheer, in days when son to son Succeeded, and the ancient well-loved farms Became ancestral lands round which were twined What love, what veneration, what deep faith ! O mighty oaks and noble sycamores, With trunk moss-silvered and with lichened limb, Breathe soft to me the storied memories And treasured records of the long rich yeaxs That blessed the Meeting-house at London Grove Gazing across the fertile townships there, — A grand old house of grand old memories. Tell me of Salem near the river shore 200 Old Quaker Meeting-Houses Far in south Jersey, with its giant oak, Type of its people's age-long strength and charm ; Of Lincoln in Virginia's tranquil dales ; Of Centre and of genial Rising Sun ; Of that old Meeting-house at Wilmington, A peaceful island 'mid the city's noise; Of little ancient solitary Cain Dreaming upon its solitary hill ; Of Purchase 'neath its mighty sycamores, Where old-time Quaker kindliness prevails ; Wyoming and Odessa, quaint old shrines ; Poughkeepsie, steadfast, friendly and antique; Of Newtown's cheerful, sunny Meeting-house; Tell me of Ercildoun so friendly-kind ; Of dear Penn Hill, precious in memory ; Of Concord high among the peaceful farms, "The mother fond whom many hearts revere, Since from her fold they Avent to bless the world With kindled lights of Peace and hallowed Love" ; Of Warminster among the maple shades ; Of Gwynedd in the old Welsh settlement. Heart of a region where old faith still lives. And old tradition and old friendliness ; Of Warrington among the ancient woods. Where Friends from Ireland worshipped in old days ; And Langhorne in its friendly neighborhood. Tell me, great trees that shade the quiet roofs And guard the lowly graves among the grass, Tell me of all the simple country faith And grace and kindliness that long have blest The old-time Quaker colonies afar — In fertile Indiana's sunny glades, In Loudon's meadows warm and dreamy-fair, In old Long Island and in Canada, And every region where our Faith endures. Love links us all across the sundering leagues, 201 Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses Love makes us brothers in our cherished creed In many an ancient Quaker neighborhood, In man}' a well-loved dear old Meeting-house Far up and down the land, where'er we come And gather in the peaceful First-day morns, Waiting in quietude upon the Lord, Waiting and praying, — "Children of the Light." II I LOVE old Meeting-houses ; — O what charm, What tender benediction and what peace Dwell in the very sunlight streaming doAvn Across their quiet aisles ! An ancient calm And phantom fragrance fill the sun-lit air That shimmers from the softly-humming stove In winter days and gives a dreamy grace And radiance to the far-off snowy hills And old homesteads and sleepy villages And lonely woods seen through the little panes. And in the golden summer First-day morns How sweet the drowsy air that softly flows Through open windows from the harvest fields And garden walks, scenting the quiet house With fragrance faint of honeysuckle vines And pungent clover-tops and spicy pinks ! The winter sunlight and the flower-sweet air Of golden summer Sabbaths add a grace, An unsuspected solemn spiritual charm. To all the blessed meditations there And tranquil thoughts ; they are the visible form. Harmonious with inward righteousness. That heighten, strengthen, make it fair to all. O can there be perfection of the soul If God's sweet sunshine smiling down from heaven. Or birds and flowers beneath the tranquil blue. Meet no response? I cannot think it so. 202 Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses How poor of spirit he whose heart warms not O'er the calm beauty and benignity That musical silence and sweet country peace And balmy odors lend to those still hours In old-time Meeting-houses ! Well I know What dignity breathes from the lofty space And amplitude of hospitality In these old-fashioned simple Quaker shrines ! Most friendly seems the long, high, sturdy roof, Most friendly the all-welcoming old walls. Seen through the sheltering trees across the hills, As driving cheerily the families come To this sequestered sanctuary dear, Forgetful of the week's routine and trials, To find fresh consolation and fi'esh peace. — I love those spacious and all-welcoming walls Built for whole countrysides to gather there ; They seem the very soul and warm dear heart Of all the Quaker region, — every hearth And chimney-nook and cosy family room In all the old farm-houses round about Find here their essence and their sum of warmth And human consecration kind and true, — So strongly knit is the old Meeting-house With every neighborly and friendly tie. So seems the Meeting sober and benign Of calm Old Kennett by the country road, Ancient and storied, — from the days of Penn To ours, a home of deepest Quaker peace. So seems the Meeting at dear Nottingham, In Calvert's province founded long ago. Child of New Garden in Penn's ancient shire. So peaceful, kindly, and so well-beloved ; Such, old, old Flushing, simple, venerable, Sad with great memories of the bygone years ; 203 Old Quaker Meeting-Houses Such, ivied Abington's serene old house, — How spacious and all-welcoming its walls. How steeped in antique calm the air that flows Around that ample, cheery Quaker shrine ! What sweet remembrance wreathes round every name, What reverence, what tenderness, what love ! And like to these and equally endeared The Meetings with melodious Indian names. Or titles drawn from forms of stream and field, Orchard and lawn and hill and shadowy wood : — Old Octoraro's simple woodland fane, Manhassett, Saratoga, Manasquan Where good Job Scott attended meeting once, That Friend so "deep in heavenly mysteries"; Oswego, quaint Hockessin's little shrine. Lone Catawissa's olden log-built house, Rancocas with its walls of antique brick, Miami, Chappaqua, Greenfield, Short Creek, Mansfield and Little Falls and Waterford, Peach Pond with all its quaint simplicity. And Little Creek so ancient and serene ; Mount Holly by our sainted Woolman's home, Coldstream, Westfield, and Plumstead quaint and old ; Fairhill, in whose green shade was laid to rest Lucretia Mott ; Whitewater, Haverf ord. Old Springfield, Valley, Ridge, and Mullica Hill, Pleasant Fawne Grove, and White Plains well-beloved. Deer Creek, West Grove the olden, dear Woodlawn, Friendly Pennsgrove and dearly-loved Broad Creek, And Brooklyn, stronghold of most kindly Friends. — Forever could I roam, forever muse Around these olden haunts, forever dream Upon the dear hearts sleeping silently Below the violets and the tangled grass, Where weep the rains and sob the murmuring leaves And chant the wistful birds at vesper hour. 204 Old Quaker Meeting- Houses III f LOVE old Meeting-houses : — where on earth Is more of gracious charm and piety And saintly goodness seen than gathers here In quiet First-day meetings? Many a child, I know, is stirred to life-long righteousness By sight and memory of the dignity And peaceful spiritual beauty in the forms And faces of the venerable sires And placid grand-dames in the gallery seats. Wrapt round with tranquil, sweet solemnity And peace and gentleness, they represent The Quaker faith made visible to all. *One such there was whose memory is most dear : — Friendly of soul was she, and all who came Within the sunlight of her kindliness Were richer for her friendship and her love. We say the saints have gone from earth long since ; But she, I think, was saintly, — if to be Devoted to high truth, to hear from heaven The Voice ineffable, and tell its words With pleading power and fervent eloquence To us who listened to her ministry, To live a blameless life, and shed around Sweet peace and friendliness and gracious cheer, — If this be saintliness, the gift was hers. God sends such souls among us now and then To show that heaven is not remote and strange, But here about us on this beauteous earth ; And never can discouragement or gloom Becloud our vision while companioned here With friends like her, whose simple kindliness And cheering love seem touched with grace divine. And many a kindly reverend good old man Of equal saintship have I known, now gone *Lydia H. Price 205 Old ^/aier Meeting- Houses Hiilo his lu-uvfuly hoiiH'. One siicli llicrc was* \Vli()st> hlaiiiclcss lrHii(|uiI yciirs roacluul nigh five-score Before ihey hiid him iti the (|ui('l. earlh Ainon^ the liills above the liramlywiiie, At litUe, h)nely, well-hived Koinaiisville. ITe was a rannei" of the ohieii school, A mail of IririKlly heart and whoh'some che(>r. Sturdy and steadfast through all trials; and now In his old »ige a noble veteran. He sat among the elders nnieh revered, A 1 rue old fashioned I'^riend ; all ages loved His eonverse, for his venerable head IJelied his youthful heart, — ho was as fresh In svm])alhy as any boy, and drew \'ouiig folk and children round him by the charm Of cheerfulni'ss unfailing, and his kind Warm inleresL in all Ihcir joys and griefs. — O when they laid him in I he (juiet earth, T Ihoughl, in childish fashion, that no more Of kindiMss lived, now this good man was gone! Among tlu> ancient graves at Solebury We lately laid,- upon a wintry day Of weeping clouds and sadly moaning winds And sighing trees, — the earthly forn) ol" omt Beloved bevond the usual lot of n)en. So venerable and bt-nign, so kindly he. So cheerful-heart i>(l and so yoiuig of soul, — He seemed a (j)uaker of the olden tinie. Gentle and steadfast, honorable nnd true, (grounded in virtue and integrity, y\i\d guided ever by an iiuier light ; Yet no stern and unl)ending Puritan ; We knew him genial, friendly, meekly wise. Childlike^ in his sim]>licity, naive »Jol»n Wortli tFAlwuiil H. MaRill, President of Swarthmore College 200 Old Quaker Meeting- Houses And quaintly humorous, — such a man, I think, As Horace might have loved, so well he blent Sound lore and home-bred sense, contentment sweet And fine humanity. Yea, he had learned These Quaker virtues at his mother's knee; And through the long course of his fruitful life Her maxims he remembered ; and in him Were human power and grace of soul so fused That long his happy memory shall endure Engraven in our hearts who loved him well, — • The good old man, so venerable and benign. So cheerful-hearted and so young of soul. — From childhood recollection still I see That tenderest and kindliest of men. Whose comforting, benign and winning grace. His gentle ministry and mild appeal, His voicing of his visions and his hopes, Must live indelibly in many hearts, — Darlington Hoopes ; — he truly seemed to me An old-time Quaker of the purest type. — And I recall a man of sunny faith And charity unbounded, — Cyrus Linton, Who left the memory of an honest life Of cheery, friendly ways and warm affection. With all who knew him ; his the helping hand Toward higher manhood; his the love of home And all that "home" implies, — a noble Friend In every noble trait — And Hannah Plummer, From her young days of gentle motherhood Unto her ripe old age a source of strength And wisest counsel ; — who can e'er forget Her liberal spirit? Comfort flowed from her With living force, and many a hopeful life Has been enriched by her uplifting power. Her loving sympathy and friendship firm. 207 Old Quaker Meeting- Houses — And like a sister unto her in spirit Seemed Emily Longstreth, that strong, generous soul, Whose hand was ever lent to further good, To lift the lowly and to aid the sick; Her "gentle life with gentlest closing" told, More forcefully than words, her nobleness. How high a trait is calm sincerity ! A man of simple heart and steadfast faith Seems like a tower of strength, no matter what His state, or rich or poor ; — such men have lived In every Quaker region. One of such Was Hiram Blackburn, — honest, faithful, true. Whose long, long years were passed among the scenes Of childhood's home, and close to his loved Meeting And lifelong friends. — And such was William Webb, Most gentle and affectionate of heart. Of humor quaint, and genial comradeship; His kindliness I never can forget, — A true, good Friend, a man of noble soul. — Sincerity was notable indeed Among the traits that marked the character Of Lydia Hall; sincerity was hers. And simple peace of heart and homely wisdom. With youth she had a perfect sympathy, And patiently and lovingly she wrought In their behalf through all her length of days. — Who may compute the influence for good Of such a life, who reckon up the sum Of all the kindness and benignity, The meek and unobtrusive helpfulness. The calm rich peace, the charm, the gentle grace ! The Friends that I have here portrayed are types Of such as every Meeting-house has known ; Their names are lettered on the lowly slabs 208 Old S^uaker Meeting-Houses Bcncatli tlie solemn cypresses and firs, Wept o'er by sobbing rains and rose-leaves strewn In grieving autumn eves by wandering winds, In every Quaker grave-yard, and their fame Lives in the loving records of the heart Immortall}'. O wondrous power of goodness Surpassing every other human gift, — Goodness that bringeth heaven down to earth And linketh mortal man with angels here! IV T LOVE old Meeting-houses ; — how remote From all the world's loud tumult do they seem ! — Islands of blissful peace to lull tired souls Tossed on the seas of daily circumstance And seeking friendly haven after storm ; Sequestered bowers sweet with holy balm, To shelter and to shield. 'No words may tell The pathos of their centtiried peacefulness. Tranquil and holy; — here have won/en wept Above their loved-ones, strong men here were bowed By piteous grief, in those grey ruthless hours When in the silent earth they laid to rest Their precious dear ones, — while the old house gloomed In silent sympathy, and all its trees, Its drooping roses and its ancient shrubs And clinging ivies sighed in unison A requiem for vanished loveliness. Or worth and noble charm too early gone. Or goodly veterans called to their long home. Tiie memories are sacred that enshrine Those sweet-sad, tragic, grey and mournful hours ; But with each mellowing year that mellows grief And reconciles us to the Father's will. The dear old Meeting-house grows more endeared And gathers sentiment unto itself. Deep sentiment and reverence and love. 209 Old ^luaker Meeting- Houses *One Meeting-house I love to call to mind, Endeared by long ancestral ties, where late We came, descendants of the sires of old, To celebrate in autumn's pensive hours The hundredth year of that old Meeting-house. In many a loving heart that golden day Has now become a blessed memory Of dying woodlands flaming mile on mile. Of great cloud-fleets above the sleeping hills. And old-time peacefulness and love and charm. And through it all, one strong calm voice rings clear. His voice who seemed that centuried day, when all Our thoughts were of the Past, to sound once more The clarion call of sturdy Fox or Penn, Or Woolman's pleading pathos grave and sweet, — With homely simile and pithy phrase Stirring our youth to enter once again The lists where long ago our fathers strove For truth and faith and freedom of the soul. In truth he seemed of that pure brotherhood Of old-time Quakers, — our Idealist, t Our Optimist, — I love to call him so, — Blending the vigor of the elder day With some fine grace caught from our own rich age, And fusing all with warm poetic glow As of some memory Wordsworthian. It could not other be, since once he roamed On Wordsworth's hills and mused the seer's high song Amid Westmoreland's sacred solitudes. — Such memories of that centuried day are mine, That golden day of peacefulness and love. Of dying woodlands flaming mile on mile. And great cloud-fleets above the sleeping hills. *Penn Hill Meeting, Lancaster Co., Pa. tjoseph S, Walton 210 Old Quaker Meeting- Houses I LOVE old Meeting-houses; — 'tis a joy To look across the wistful memoried years And summon back the faces kind and calm Of old-time Friends, who gathered 'neath these roofs In bygone days, who loved these ancient seats Of fragrant wood, and loved the sheltering trees And tender violets among the grass As still we love. They long have gone from earth, Dear, venerable, cheery old-time Friends, — The peace of God upon each kindly face, — But in the heart their recollection lives, Their tender loving-kindness still survives, To sweeten and console; their voices speak Immortally across the vanished years, Immortally in sacred memory; And, hallowed by death's consecrating touch. Their messages bring solace to the soul More deep, I must believe, than living words. O friends, I would that we might cherish well Their sure and simple faith, their maxims quaint, Their piety, their saintly innocence. Their creed untroubled by the doubts that vex Our restless age, the questionings that rob Our hearts of their just dues of peace and joy. We call them "old-time Friends," and such they were,- It is the noblest title we can give. For in the mellow retrospect of years The}^ seem to move in monumental peace. And, like old portraits, keep a lasting charm, A type unchanging, since mortality Has been put off, and but the soul remains. Shining through kindly e3'es and wistful smiles In old daguerreotypes cherished so well. With tender memoried faces such as these We people the old benches where to-day 211 Old ^luaker Meetmg- Houses We sit with living friends, and musingly Find in tlie well-loved faces round us here Echoes and hints and dim resemblances Inherited from those of yore, that make The line continuous, the tides from soul To soul unbroken in their mystic flow. — O Power ineffable, thus to maintain The spirit's kinship through the dateless years, Preserving the imperishable type. And linking with us in our mortal years The sainted and the loved of long ago! VI T LOVE old Meeting-houses ; — simple shrines That hold the history of our noble faith, Strong arks that down the rivers of old, time Have home the symbols of our precious Past. Ah me, their very names are wondrous dear ! — Kindly ancestral English names beloved. All redolent of English honesty And charm and worth, — brought hither by our sires To keep them minded of their English homes Among the moorlands or by tranquil streams, Their "leighs" and "tons," their "moors" and "byes" and "fields," "Boroughs" and "villes," and "chestcrs," "streets" and "fords." Mute history lies enshrined in every name, — Yardley and Yarmouth, Bristol, Burlington, Oxford and Middletown and Little Britain, Old Quaker Street and kindly Mickleton, Warm-hearted Millville, lonely Marlborough, Old Chester, hard by Penn's first landing-place In this new world; Medford and Lambertville, And drowsy Stanton 'mid the drowsy fields. Old Horsham dreaming in the hickories' shade, Easton where Fox the Founder long ago 212 Old ^laker Meeting- Houses Preached to a "heavenly meeting" gathered there, Bloonifield and Chesterfield and Fallsington, Uxbridge and Cain and tranquil B3'berry, Old Darby, Mendon, peaceful Providence; Wrightstown, a stately and a storied house Whose members lived in friendly harmony With the Indians of yore; and Plainfield old, Peaceful with memories of a noble past ; And old, old Shrewsbury where Fox once held "A precious meeting," quiet Fallowfield, Springboro, Homeville with its kindly name, Makefield of gentlest memory, lone Stroudsburg Among the mountains, stately Woodbury, Doylestown so rich in friendliness, Granville, Old-fashioned Crosswicks, Frankford, genial Bart, W^est Chester in the kindly dear old town ; And little York, most like the small and quaint Grey Meeting-house in Furness' grey fields By centuried Swarthmore Hall, where Margaret Fell Through wondrous years kept warm the friendly hearth. Swarthmore ! — Ah how my dreaming fancy wakes At that name loved by Friends around the world ; Musing I wander from that ancient Hall To many a Meeting-house in England's shires Or in green lovely Ireland. Well I know What kindliness, what old-world charm, abide At Henley by slow Thames, at Huddersfield, At Kendal and at Keswick in the vales That Wordsworth loved, at AckAvorth long held dear. At Oxford and at Morland and at Lynn, At brooding wave-washed Saltburn-by-the-Sea, At lonely-hearted Little Eccleston, At Cartmel nigh to those romantic fells Where great Helvellyn's foot-hills face the sea. At Walton-on-the-Naze so quaintly named. At Street in Somerset's delightful fields, 213 Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses At Chipping Norton 'mid the Oxford hills ; And Little Jordans, that most hallowed spot, Where loved and saintly Penn was laid to rest Beside the loved and saintly Peningtons. In these and kindred fanes of our old faith His very spirit breathes who up and down The island bore the Light, — great Fox, who preached God's everlasting truth and word of life. Come to the Light! he cried; wait in the Light, That you may grow up in the very Life That gave the Scriptures. O how mightily Did he beseech! — Dwell, brethren, in that Life That leadeth to dominion over evil. Most tenderly, most grandly he besought: Witness the Seed, witness the Christ within; Heirs of the promise shall you thus becom.e! In Ireland well I know what kindliness And peaceful charm abide, now as of old, At Limerick by Shannon's lordly stream, At Ballinderry and at Bally tore, At kindlj'^ Carlow, and at dear Clonmel In Tipperary's dales, at Waterford, At Wicklow and "sweet Cork" and old Tramore; And up at Lurgan where my fathers dwelt. In Armagh 'mid the emerald Irish fields. Beneath blue Irish skies (O heart of mine. How dreamest thou of those dear fields and skies !) By quiet stream or quiet country town, Or in old red-brick courts secluded deep In hearts of solemn cities vastly old, Stands many an antique Old-World Meeting, still. Haunted with memory and mystery And shadows of the Early Friends, — they touch me With wondrous pathos and heart-moving power; I cannot voice the magic and the charm 214 Old ^luaker Meeting- Houses With which they cry across the wistful years, Holy and tender, from the Long Ago ; I cannot voice the yearning they awake. Those ancient Meetings in the Mother Land ! — O do the fragile balmy blossoms strew Their lintels and their lowly burial-stones With fragrant petal-drift all April long? Do warm rains drip like tears on summer nights? Does drear November sway their massive oaks And moan among their dark and centuried yews? VII T LOVE old Meeting-houses, and could roam Forever in old Quaker neighborhoods, By peaceful hamlets and high breezy hills And dreamy rivers sleeping in the sun. — Beneath the noble sycamores and oaks That guard those quiet roofs I love to watch The Friends arrive and in the shady porch Give cheery greetings, and in little groups Converse on happenings of the week, or glow With kindly tender smiles and wistful words O'er "good old days" and memories half-forgot, While young folks stray apart, and children seek For violets and chase the butterflies. Or 'neath the solemn cypresses I roam Among the mossy stones, deciphering Dim names long weathered by the winter storms And April rains, musing upon the folk That in old years gone by were wont to come To First-day and to Mid-week Meeting here To worship and to pray and find new strength For daily duties ; — and at length pass in With all the gathering groups of genial men And gentle women, blithesome rosy lads And winsome girls, beneath the lofty roof, 215 Old ^luaker Meeting-Houses And on the long unpainted fragrant seats Slow settle into silence, while the bees Drone in the panes and glad birds chirp outside; And if 'tis Mid-week Meeting, then from far Across the fields come sounds of farming toil, Of clinking scythes and plowmen's cheery calls And wagons slowly creaking. Then it is, As musical silence settles o'er the house. That our calm worship seems to sanctify Each longing soul, each heart athirst for grace. As in the ancient Meeting-house we sit. Environed round with friendliness and love. Or touched and comforted with eloquence And gentle pleading; with the solemn thought Of those low graves beneath the murmuring boughs. And all they hold of poignant memory, — In those most holy hours, does not a Voice Unheard by any save the spirit's ear Speak to each longing heart ; does not a Presence Unseen by any save the spirit's eye Touch every brow with balm beneficent ; Do not all barriers fade, all outward signs Seem merely phantom forms, until our souls Flow in resistless tide toward the Divine, "Toward that great ocean of Abiding Love," — As in the ancient Meeting-house we sit Environed round with love and friendliness. With gentle, gentle faces sweet and pure. With stillness and the peace of musing minds! — Such the sure guidance of the Inner Light, Such the companionship and blessed strength Of the great Love that holds our yearning hearts. On many an azure morn of early spring When black-birds piped full sweet among the trees, Or in the flower-soft Sabbaths of mid-June Fragrant with balmy airs, or in the deep 216 Old ^laker Meeting- Houses Decomber silence of a dim white world, Have these inflowings heartened and refreshed God's children met in quiet worship here. Such memories truly make a sacred shrine Of each old Meeting-house, — make it as hol}"^ To our affections and our reverence As any grey cathedral to our brethren Of faiths more ancient far than ours. I yield To none in s^'mpathy for those high fanes And heaven-aspiring minsters of old lands, Whose solemn organ-tones and glorious hymns And incense streaming up in mists of gold So satisfy devout and simple hearts ; — We all were of the old Church once, and feel Some thrill of old allegiance ; — yet the calm Still air of blessedness and holy peace In some old Meeting 'mid its bowering trees, Its rambling horse-sheds, and low walls that bound Its silent "acre" sweet with tender flowers, Holdeth for me a pathos beautiful And wondrous beyond reach of any words. Ye dear old Meeting-houses, thus would one. Who long hath loved you deeply, strive to pay His tribute to your charm, your ancient peace, Your centuried repose, your guardianship O'er gracious souls into the twilight gone Such long, long years ago; hoping to wake In hearts too soon forgetful of the Past, Renewed reliance on your blessed power To soothe our anxious and unresting time With your serene and spiritual grace, Your precious sanctity and ancient charm. Ye loved and quaint old Meeting-houses all: 217 Old ^luaker Meeti?tg- Houses Cornwall beneath thy venerable oak; Time-honored Plymouth 'mid thy stately trees, Hoary of limb and silvered o'er with age; Nine Partners, where the blithe and thoughtful lass Lucretia Coffin came in school-girl days ; Menallen, Upper Dublin, loved Drumore, Yet dearer for your kindly Irish names ; Solebury's Meeting "sacrosanct with love"; And thou, grey shrine of faith and friendliness 'Neath Gwynedd's antique oaks ; and little Cain Sad and deserted on thy lonely hill ; Thou, Old Blue River, 'mid they silent graves, Brooding in silence on thy memoried past; Thou, Pendleton, heart-warm with kindliness ; Thou, spacious, tranquil, grand old Meeting-house At London Grove; quaint friendly Birmingham, Thou storied shrine; thou, ancient well-loved house Where meet the kindly folk of Willistown; Thou, Buckingham, above thy dreamy fields ; And thou, old Meeting-house at Wilmington, A peaceful island 'mid the city's noise; Old Jericho where sleeps Elias Hicks; Historic Uwchlan quaint and picturesque. And tranquil Radnor; and ye, Grampian And Sterling, with your honest Scottish names ; Old Salem with thy monumental oak ; Lone Cecil musing 'mid the forest flowers ; Thou, Goshen, home of loving-kindnesses ; And Macedon Centre, lovable, serene; Camden, so peaceful 'mid thy peaceful graves; And dear Penn Hill of precious memories ; And many another which the yearning heart Holds dear for recollected happiness In hours of meditation and of dream Amid your quietude and rustic charm, Your fruitful silence and uplifting calm. Your tranquil and pathetic loneliness, 218 Old Concord Meeting Your dear associations from old days, Your sacred and ancestral memories. — And jc, old Meetings scattered up and down Among old Quaker neighborhoods afar In our wide continent ; and yc, old shrines In those revered ancestral English shires And Irish fields, beyond the rolling seas That separate our lands hut not our love. OLD CONCORD MEETING (1686-1911) I LOVE to ponder the annals of this old house Established here on the hills so long ago By the prayerful zeal of those far-off Quaker sires. I love to read their records ; — what steadfast faith, What loving-kindness there, what shining deeds ! Their dust has slept in the earth for many a year, And the moss and the ivy long have muffled their graves With pensive green, — a token and tender sign Of the evergreen love we bear those ancient Friends, Those hero-hearts of our faith. They were noble and true ; They humbly asked for the blessing of God on their work When they built their Meeting-house. Their old men saw Wondrous visions, their young men dreamed high dreams ; Simple and sturdy and godly folk were they. True patriarchs of our faith thej'^ seem to me, — Pioneer Friends of this new great western world. Men and women who came over-sea with Penn. They had listened and thrilled to saintly Fox's words In English fields ; from Fox they had caught the Light ; And now they sought in this lonely western land Freedom to worship, freedom to live and thrive Unharassed by hostile mobs or zealots blind. Honor to them who sought no earthly honor ! Their long-familiar names are indelibly dear, 219 Old Concord Meeh ng Rich with two hundred ^^ears of mcmoried love, — Hannum and Marshall, Thatcher, Gilpin and Cloud ; Chandler and Walter, Palmer and Peirce and Brown, Mendenhall and Newlin, Brinton, Pyle; Yea, patriarchs of the faith they truly were, Who minded the Light and sjaread the Light abroad From their homes 'mid the fruitful orchards and quiet farms, — These beautiful fields and hills that we see to-day Wrapt in the dreamy summer's bounteous charm. The very name of their settlement tells their tale, — Concord, — called from the peaceful harmony And brotherly love that marked their blessed lives ; Concord truly speaks of their tranquil years. Their earnest witness against all wordliness. Their fervent seeking after the Light of Christ ; Concord tells of their love of all mankind. Their tender care of the lowly and the oppressed. Their helpful hands held out to their Indian brothers, Their deep concern for setting the black man free. These, and a score of kindred kindly deeds. Speak with eloquence far above all words Of this ancient Concord Meeting and countryside; And not alone of this dear old Meeting-house And Quaker countryside, but of those that grew Under this Mother-Meeting's watchful love, — Birmingham on the Brandywine's emerald hills Where old-time kindliness still lives to-day, The well-loved meeting at ancient Nottingham, And Cain high over the Valley's fertile farms. Ah me, how we cling to the outward things we love ! — But the heart of our faith is in homes not built by hands, And these old shrines, albeit we cherish them well. Must crumble and fall with the all-devouring years And their tranquil beauty become but a legend dim. 220 Old Ken net t Meeting- House Yet Concord's dear, dear name must still endure When every brick and shrub and lowly grave Has been swept away by the ruthless march of time, — Concord, home of our far-off English sires, Concord the peaceful, the tranquil, the deeply loved. OLD KENNETT MEETING-HOUSE (1710-1910) 'T'HIS lonely house beside the lonely road Hath looked on other scenes than ours to-day Where round us lie the fields of rustling corn And verdant pastures sweet with autumn hay. Where all the land is wrapt in peaceful dream. And every noise and restless care far, far away doth seem. Along this ancient road in days of old A varied stream of travelers did pass : — The sturdy settlers trudging b}^ their teams, Grandsire and pioneer and rosy lass, Soldiers returning from the border wars, And fishermen who sought the way to Marjdand's distant shores. Here jocund hunters journeyed o'er the hills With furs and game from out the virgin woods; And keen-ej^ed Indians erect and lithe, And silent as their forest solitudes. How many a wayfarer, how many a load Passed by this ancient Meeting-house along this ancient road ! And twice a week beneath the bowering trees. In sober garb, with looks composed and strait, A gentle company of people came And turned their horses' heads within the gate, Dismounted at the block, and staid and slow Passed to their seats and settled down in row by silent row, 221 Old Kennett Meeting-House Silent, — until some strong, clear voice rang out And held its listeners in conscious awe, Instinct with heaven's visionary fire, Or duty's plain inexorable law, — A voice whose noble fervor could not be The fruit of aught except a life of faithful piety. And truly they were faithful, pious folk, Those Kennett Quakers of the long ago; Read but their names upon these lowly graves, Think of the forms whose dust is laid below; Muse o'er their memories with grateful tears, Those kindly, noble Friends whose names we love through all the years ! — ■ English and Irish Friends of sterling worth. The Webbs, the Harlans who from Erin came, The Peirces bred in old-world Somerset, The Clouds who brought from Calne their honored name, The Sussex Wickershams, the Baileys, too. The Millers who from Ireland their ancient vigor drew. Their lines are scattered far across the world, And this old house deserted seems and lone; Neglect and desolation wrap it round. And moss and lichen dim each low grave-stone ; A sleepy spot beside the sleepy road, — Have silence and forgetfulness made here their sure abode.? Nay, though the Quaker life of olden time No more is seen in weekly gatherings here, — In many a heart this ancient house endures, To many a heart 'tis still beloved and dear. Still cherished as a venerated shrine Among the peaceful hills above the peaceful Brandywine. Yea, this old house that sleeps through summer suns. And dreams through winter nights of star and cold; — 222 Old Kennett Meeting-House What tales of kindliness and worth were ours If all its deepest dreams might once be told Of those dear souls who sowed in days long past Seeds of an influence that shall its latest stone outlast ! — How might it tell of many a tender bride Who came forth wedded from this old roof-tree ; Of many a gray-haired veteran might it tell Laid 'neath yon shades with sad solemnity, — Of family joys and sorrows, smiles and tears, And pensive memories hallowed through the lost and long- dead years. Yet tranquil annals oftenest fill its dreams, And noble faces from its vanished da3's, — The Mendenhalls devoted to good works, The Passmores and the Woodwards and the Ways ; The Hueys and Harveys here are known to fame ; And Lewis, Jacobs, Jenkinson, — Old Kennett loves each name. The history of such a Meeting-house Is filled with pathos and with peaceful charm; It seems the very heart of this old land, This land of ancient wood and tranquil farm, Of sunny gardens and of singing streams, — This old, old Meeting-house with all its memories and dreams. The history of such a Meeting-house If filled with grandeur, beautiful, sublime. Rich with the records of the sainted souls Who speak to us from out the olden time. O may her spirit still all creeds outlast. And calm Old Kennett bless our future as she blessed our past! 223 "^ Haunt of Ancie?tt Peace ^ "A HAUNT OF ANCIENT PEACE" {Read at the Centenary of Willistoivn Meeting-house, 1898) A HAUNT of ancient peace! — AVcll may we call thee so, For while the years increase And seasons ebb and flow, Thou, ancient House, dost seem Wrapt in a tranquil dream And vision of the days of long ago, — A vision softly bright With faces that are gone, Wherein a saintly light And calm serenely shone, — Dear faces loved of yore Whose peace forevermore In benediction round these walls is thrown. Soft pastoral echoes thrill The heart of yonder woods, And misty languors fill The leafy solitudes. The downward sloping year Lies drowsed in golden cheer. And resteth in her queenliest of moods. In yonder hallowed ground The cherished fathers sleep, And o'er each lonely mound The gentle flowers weep. A pensive stillness there Breathes through the autumn air And fills the scene with silence calm and deep. The fathers sleep ; but here Their children's children meet; 224 "^ Haunt of Ancient Peace" Year after quiet year They gather seat by seat; And many a family name Lives on with fragrant fame Among the Friends whom here to-day we greet. Oft in this peaceful air With blessing have been heard The purifying prayer, The Heaven-guided word ; And oft some fervent heart Communing here apart, As with a sacred leaven hath been stirred. Old House, o'er thee hath gone A century serene; Thy far-off, peaceful dawn No living eye hath seen. The human stream hath run Through many a sire and son Since thou didst rise amid the forest green. The mild and mellow years Have left thee calm and free, Through mortal joys and tears Enduring tranquilly. The infant's dawning breath. The darkening hour of death, Have been as passing sun and shade to thee. Here as in days of old Still may the hungry feed, Still love the faith we hold, — Our sweet and simple creed. Here may be given to men The zeal of Fox and Penn To seek and serve the spirit's inmost need. 225 Old Memories^ — New Consecration So by this peaceful vale While ripening years increase, Thy mission shall not fail, Thy blessing shall not cease; Thy consecrating calm Shall fall like holy balm, And thou be still "a haunt of ancient peace." OLD MEMORIES,— NEW CONSECRATION {Read at the Centenary of Little Britain Meeting, IQOJf.) ^ ACRED for us this day of memories old, Sacred and sweet to gather in this calm Serene old meeting-house among the hills By silver Conowingo's peaceful stream; Sacred and dear this day to meditate And muse upon the vanished hundred years. Sacred for us are yon low mounds of green Where lies the dust of those we loved so well. The ancient box-trees and the bright young flowers Keep quiet watch; tenderly, fragrantly, In holy solitude they watch the graves Of those who perished in their 3'outhful dawn. And those who sought at last their mother earth After long years, long honorable years Rich in good deeds and kindliness and love. Surely they know, — those spirits heavenly free, — They know the hidden things we may not know Until we too must sleep beneath the grass To wake in worlds undreamed of; theirs to know Of life and death and vast eternity. All reverently we come, yet happily. With quiet joy, to hail the hundred years. The hundred golden autumns, radiant springs, Summers and drowsy winters that have gone Down to the dim and half-forgotten Past 226 Old Memories^ — New Consecration Since those grave Quakers of that long-lost time Founded this fellowship of worship here And gave to Little Britain life and name. how the heart doth yearn this centuried day For those loved forms and faces, those serene Old-fashioned Friends of that old-fashioned age! 1 seem to see them in their quiet homes 'Mid these old dreamy Susquehanna hills, Living their simple lives with simple faith : — The sweet-faced mothers here among their flowers. Their bee-hives and their bowering apple trees ; Home-loving women, skilled in household craft And all the ways of hearty countr}^ cheer, Making each home its own small happy world, And giving to all this countryside its fame For comfort, peace and hospitality ; — The fathers, sterling-hearted kindly men. Rich in plain wisdom, rich in helpful deeds, Noble and strong and pure, — no neighborhood Had goodlier farmers, truer gentlemen: — And, fair as young June roses after rain, The children, soft-eyed girls and ruddy boys, Making these old hills jocund with their song And wholesome fun, and all unconsciously Through all the long, long golden 3'ears of youth Building foundations sure of character, Of usefulness and home-bred honesty. O tell me, are the}' perished then and gone. Forever gone those simple da^^s of yore? — Nay, much survives ; — and never do I come To this old well-loved shire of Lancaster Sacred and rich in old ancestral ties. Here 'mid the Conowingo's dreamy hills. But that the dear old-fashioned face of things, — The old red houses, locust-shaded lanes. Great ample barns and old gnarled cherry trees, 227 Erciidoun Meeting Soft meadows with their sunny little streams That feed the lovely Susquehanna's tides, The very bergamot and purple phlox And every dear old-fashioned garden flower, — Thrills me with wistful charm; and I can hear Old voices calling from the misty years, Old voices calling from beyond the grave, — So faint, so sweet, I cannot choose but grieve. Yet wandering among these boyhood haunts Where cheery welcomes wait and greetings warm, And lingering in familiar garden paths, Among dim orchard-boughs and grassy lanes, A long-lost world comes back! — The dead still live. The sire surviveth in the son ; there breathe From the sweet presences of blooming girls The traits of m.others' mothers long ago Gone to their heavenly homes. The Past lives on And gives the present and the future years Blessings unnumbered, — holy legacies ! So on this centuried day we well may pause Beside these lowly graves, and in this calm Serene old meeting-house with reverent hearts Gather to muse on those dear hundred years; To-morrow to go forth with hope renewed. With faith fresh-fortified, resolved to make, — As those loved ones of yore would have it be, — From these old memories and sacred ties, New strengthening and consecration new! ERCILDOUN MEETING (1811-1911) A HUNDRED years these walls have cast Their shadows o'er the sod, A hundred years this house hath known The blessed peace of God. 228 Ercildoun Meeting O many arc the gentle souls Through all the hundred years Wlio blest this peaceful house of prayer And loved it through their tears. And many are the gentle souls Through years remote and old Who wept above yon grassy graves Where sleep the hearts of gold. Ah, though in hours of tenderness We think with sorrow deep Of all the dear and well-beloved Wrapt in eternal sleep, — • Yet well we know there is no death For those who deeply love; The limits of this mortal life Their spirits soar above. Let no old meeting-house like this Lament for days of yore, While memoried voices call to us From out the heavenly shore. Let no old meeting-house like this Lament for glory gone. While children of its sires remain To hand the message on. Of noble and of kindly souls To-day we have no dearth ; In every age the Father sends His chosen ones to earth. In every generation still The hand of God is seen, His meadows of immortal love Are ever fresh and green. The lives our fathers lived of yore. The fragrance of the past, — Each age must add to these a charm More gracious than the last. 229 At Plymouth Meeting And so at this first century mark We face the forward slope, Our hearts a-thrill with loving faith, Our eyes alight with hope. Content to know the Father's gifts And blessings will not cease. Trustful in His abounding love, Secured in His great peace. AT PLYMOUTH MEETING I F anywhere is Peace, 'tis here Where softly fades the failing year, And round this Meeting gray and old The great trees drop their leafy gold. By this gray wall what joy to stay And muse the quiet noon away, — So wonderful the day and fair Steeped in its pensive misty air, — To watch the yellow leaves and slow That waver to the ground below. And see the insects gleam and pass Across the tangles of the grass ; To ponder on the slow sweet hours That breathe the scent of ripened flowers, And pacing 'neath the sycamores To hear through 3'onder Meeting doors The sound of children's voices sweet The texts and tender psalms repeat. In holy haunts of silence here True men have slept for many a year; Dear saintly mothers 'neath this sod Were yielded back unto their God; And in this soft and drowsy air I seem to see the children fair For whom were shed what wistful tears In bygone and relentless years ! 230 Old London Grove Meeting The children, — ah, there sleepeth one Great heart beneath yon low white stone Who willingly accepted death To save one dear child's vital breath; — The Artist he,* whose memory bright Is sanctified with peaceful light In yonder home, where still they show The pictured scenes he used to know. Still in his quiet garden old The flowers spill their fragrant gold, Beyond his orchard shadows still Soft sunshine bathes the dreamy hill. Across his fields the yellowing wood Wears still its rich autumnal mood. Tranquil his landscape lies, yet dim With wistful memories of him. Those memories hold a kindly spell Beyond my 3^earning words to tell ; For me his name must mingle aye With thoughts of Plymouth old and gray And golden in the dying year. When recollection bears me here, When tranquil memory shall recall The charm and beauty of it all. And kindly friends again I greet And hear the children's voices sweet, Where ancient sycamores enfold The Meeting-house with leafy gold. OLD LONDON GROVE MEETING (1714-1914.) AA/^HILE memories of the sainted souls remain, Whose dust in yonder graveyard long has lain, Wliile children yet unborn shall hold The hopes and visions of our sires of old, — *Thomas Hovenden 231 Old London Grove Meeting So long dear London Grove shall stand A noble tower of strength in this loved land. 'Neath yon great oak, last Quarterly meeting day, I lingered through the happy hour of noon ; I watched the breeze-touched branches softly sway, And heard the locusts chant their sleepy tune Among the emerald meads of fragrant hay, In that calm hour of noon. It was a golden day of Summer peace, The hills of harvest sounded with the song Of reapers garnering the rich increase Of yellow wheat fields ; and I lingered long Beneath the ancient oak tree's towering green That rises o'er the grass' velvet sheen And spreads its mighty branches in the breeze Superbly grand and strong. The happy children played beneath the trees And romped around the porch, a joyous band. The while their elders clasped the friendly hand And woke old memories of old days gone by. Looking across the dear, full-freighted years Of hopes and griefs, of mingled joy and tears, With reminiscent eye. And watching them, I thought of all the love And kindliness outpoured in plenteous streams, The heavenly intimations from above, The prayers, the aspirations and the dreams. Of earnest souls and true, Which these two hundred long, long years have seen In this old meeting on its hilltop green. Beneath the heaven's blue. As that great oak has grown from its green youth And gained in splendor slowly year by year. So London Grove has spread the light of truth And lit with radiance beautiful and dear 232 At ^luarterly Meeting The heart of many a one, Slow building up its power through sire and son, Mother and daughter, day by patient day. Through full, ripe years of sunshine and of storm. Beneath this roof, inspiring words and warm Have roused the listening soul, Stirring the heart with dreams of human good, Of noble justice and of brotherhood, Of righteousness and hope. Here tender sympathy has helped console Soi'e-burdened hearts when all seemed dark and drear. Faint purposes have taken courage here And dared with evil fearlessly to cope. At London Grove were sowed the seeds That ripened into splendid deeds. And many a corner of the earth Has felt her faith and love, her weight and worth. Father, may she still Work out Thy heavenly will; And may her children, as in years of yore. Be consecrate to Thee forcvermore! AT QUARTERLY MEETING 'T'HE old and new are blent at London Grove, In this old House among the ancient trees. Set round with slopes of wheat and fragrant corn That sway and waver in the summer breeze. Below the turf in j^onder quiet field The old-time Quakers long have lain at rest ; The boxwood and the roses bend above The peaceful generations of the blest. Yet their immortal spirits look to-day From out the kindl}' faces round me here ; Their children's children are inheritors Of their soul-images beloved and dear. 233 spring Meadow Meeting- House The ardor and the impulse that have stirred Yon sister pleading for the pure and right, — This brother bringing sympathy and hope, — Stirred long ago the "Children of the Light." As in far times this spacious House was thronged With genial elders and with gentle youth And bonnie children, — so to-day the old And young have come to hark for heavenly truth. The same heart-hunger deeply moves these Friends That moved of yore their venerated sires, — Ancestral yearnings for the word of God, Undying hopes and heaven-sent desires. Who fears our Faith is dying.? — Let him come To this old Meeting-house beneath the trees, And find celestial balm, while airs float in From corn-fields fragrant in the summer breeze. SPRING MEADOW MEETING-HOUSE A MID the ancient mountain solitudes Of Penn's primeval woods. Where wanders Juniata's noble stream. It stands in quiet dream, — The old log Meeting-house of forest oak. Reared by the sturdy stroke Of Quaker settlers in those woodlands wild. Great hearts, of spirit mild. Great hearts were they, whose memory survives, Who passed their peaceful lives Amid the forest shades and pastoral vales Of Bedford's fertile dales. Remote from worldly haunt, how warm and dear Their cherished family cheer ! How strong their simple faith, their quiet creed, — Fit for the soul's high need; 234 Meeting Memories How fruitfully has gone throughout the earth The spirit that here had birth ! Long have those goodly Friends of olden days Gone from these woodland wa3^s ; And lonel}' now and lorn the valley seems, Wrapt in its ancient dreams ; But of their deeds the memory survives, Their kindly, sterling lives ; And green Spring Meadow's flowers the vigil keep Around their tranquil sleep; And fittingly its guardian to-day Holdeth to Peace's sway, And children romp in summer hours divine About this antique shrine. MEETING MEIVIORIES {Read at the Centenary of Birmingham Monthly Meeting, West Chester, 1915) T ONG have I loved this Meeting ; its dear name, Its genial members and its quiet fame And old-time charm, have had no little part. Since childhood days, in wreathing round my heart Affection, love and gratitude sincere For all its blessings. How did I revere The pensive beauty of each friendly face That from "the gallery" shed its sober grace. The pensive beauty of the golden hours Of summer Sabbatlis, when the breath of flowers Was wafted through the windows, and the birds Chanted their happy hymns and warbled words ! O days of childhood here on "Quaker Hill," Their Meeting memories haunt my vision still, — Romantic memories that bear me back, How poignantly ! — along the starry track 235 Meeting Memories Of recollections that forever hold Deep love for Birmingham revered and old. — Do they not touch each dreaming fancy so, Those faded childhood days of long ago ! To-day, returning to my boyhood home. Like some strayed mariner across the foam, And musing on old memories again, — I hear from long ago the silver rain Lashing the windows, and I see the snow Silently sifting, hear the wild winds blow Among the moaning trees, — mark each dim sound That reached us here from yon fair world around Surging up to these walls, yet coming not Within this sheltered and sequestered spot. Those sounds and sights of memory seem to blend — A spirit-frame for many an ancient Friend, For many a dear, unworldly, sainted soul Who long ago has reached the heavenly goal. We know them happy on that heavenly shore, Those friends whom we may see on earth no more ; — What hope we have that we may meet them there, Far from this world of mortal grief and care ! Their recollection still returns to bless With mercy, love, compassion, kindliness, Beaconing brightly from the vanished time So wrapt around with memories sublime. Thus, coming back to this loved place to-day, — We who have been so many moons away. So many years dispersed afar and wide Across the world, or sundered by the tide Of circumstance and fate, — come back once more And meet together like our sires of yore ; Forgiving and forgetting those sad j^ears Of needless separation, touched by tears Of loving-kindness that can truly heal 236 IVest Chester Meeting-House Old hurts and make our generation feel Deep peace in God's great love. We know that deeds Transcend the petty difference of creeds ; We know that brave and gentle lives of love Are nearest to the heavenly type above, One breath of huvian brotherhood more worth Than all the wordy dogmas upon earth. Then let us thank the Father for this hour Whose blessings breathe upon us like some flower From out an olden garden sweet with balm And beautiful and simple with the calm Of golden memories and hearts that hold Deep love for Birmingham revered and old. WEST CHESTER MEETING-HOUSE My boyhood dreams come back to me. Old Meeting-house, at thought of thee : TTHE peaceful charm, the balmy air. The gentle, gentle faces there. The musing pensive people bound In quietude serene, profound, The sense of brotherhood and love Borne as on wings of heaven's dove. The sympathy that seemed to roll From heart to heart and soul to soul. The sign and seal of heavenly grace On many a sweet and kindly face. That rapt and wistful seemed to bless With depths of wondrous tenderness. The sense of deep thanksgiving there In uttered word and silent prayer, 237 'Jolui Bn'o^/jt : Hero of Peace The noaniess of the Father's arm To shield His well-beloved from harm, When in that hour to us was given Some foretaste of tlie peace of heaven. Such hoiihood drfams come hack to mc. Oil! Mcctiinj-hoiisc, at thought of thcc. JOHN BRIGHT: HERO OF PEACE IJF^.RO of peace was he AVlu) all his length of days His noble voice did raise For light and liberty. Sturdy and pure of life He battled well and long, Rejoicing in the strife With ancient greed and wrong. The Friends' uuAvordly creed In life and thought and deed He followed perfectly, — Hero of peace was he. Our Quaker great and true, — His lofty soul serene Lighted his eyes and mien With heaven shining through. His zeal knew no surcease. Rut guided from above He spread the bounds of peace. Of brotherhood and love; And men remember still His mighty heart and will. They bless his name who knew Our Quaker great and true. "A good man never dies'' His spirit and his name 288 A Portrait of Samuel M, "Janney Are still preserved by fame ; And when disasters rise And evils hcd^e us round The memory of his might Doth help us hold our ground And conquer in the fight. Yea, while the ages roll Nobility of soul Brings heaven down from the skies; — A good 7nan never dies! A PORTRAIT OF SAMUEL M. JANNEY IT' ROM old-world Cheshire came the Janney line, Folk of strong sense and gracious instinct fine. Whose far-off sire,* an honored friend of Penn, Is cherished in the memories of men As of an "innocent and blameless life" And peaceful spirit — one to whom the strife And discord of the world were alien things. From him the Loudoun line of Janney springs; Yea, something of old-time Virginia grace Adorns and shines from out the pictured face Of Samuel Janney. Sure, the kindly South Gave him his sunny eyes and smiling mouth, And softened with affection warm and dear The sturdy soul and honest heart sincere. Of what avail is worldly power Compared with life's consummate flower — A soul like his, serene and kind! Ample the evidence I find In this delightful likeness here, Of modest worth and honor clear; Ample its testimony sure Unto the noble virtues that endure. *Thomas Janney 239 A Portrait of Martha Ellicott Tyson Of "innocent and blameless life " was he, Like that far sire who journeyed o'er the sea; And in the record of his life we read Of fruitful years, of many a friendly deed, Of ministry to all who had a part Within the compass of his noble heart — That make this simple Quaker kind and quaint, Loved and remembered like some gentle saint. A PORTRAIT OF MARTHA ELLICOTT TYSON {At Swarthmore College) T LOVE to hear the older people tell How this dear Friend and Benjamin Hallowell, Back in the far-off year of '64, Beheld their vision of Swarthmore; And how with patient faith they wrought, Inspiring kindred spirits with their thought, Until, their vision flowering into act. They saw their noble dream become a fact. Here in our college hall Hangs Martha Tyson's portrait on the wall, Where generations of our students see What gentle charm, what fine simplicity Were hers ; and how that friendly face Is lit with loving kindness and a grace Born of the spirit's power, — Breath of the beauteous heavenly flower Of woman's tenderness and woman's love, — Sweet and unfading virtues, far above Such lore as dusty books can teach ! The beauty of our quiet Quaker speech And calm unwordly ways Were with this gentle soul through all her days ; Her native vales and hills. The meadows where she heard 240 A Portrait of Martha Kllicott Tyson The silver song of many a blissful bird, The little woodland streams Beside Avhose banks she dreamed her girlhood dreams, All that loved land around old Ellicotts Mills, Had set their impress on her heart ; Their memory formed a fadeless part Of her pure character; and to the end Of her career as mother, wife and friend. There breathed from her an influence fair, A reverential spirit deep, Drawn in by her with the sweet country air In her life's golden prime. Some echo of that olden time I sense, in musing on her portrait here ; I see her homestead loved and dear Among the meadows where the "j^ellow-throats" Pour forth their gushing notes ; Old Maryland meeting-houses, too, that keep Watch o'er the graves where silent sleep Shadow and sun through year on tranquil year, A pleasant countryside Of Quaker farmlands green and wide ; Such was her native place. ; — Such charm, such peaceful beauty give their grace To many a Quaker saint of latter time. Whose memory I love to wreathe in rime. Better than books, the hearts that hold Immortal lessons grand and sweet, — Imperishable beauty tliat can touch Our spirits, wearied overmuch With dust and clamor of the busy street ! — So must we bless Her tranquil face of gentle quietness, — Hers, who with strong-souled Benjamin Hallowell Helped found our Swarthmore, as our annals tell. 241 The Grave of Lucretia MoU THE GRAVE OF LUCRETIA MOTT {Friends' Burial Ground, Fair Hill, Philadelphia) X-J ERE is the still home of the dead, Where all is quiet save the breeze That stirs the drooping willow trees, Lies a revered and saintly head. The noises of the busy town Fade into murmurous tones and low; In silence here the ivies grow And roses drop their petals down; The honej^suckles clothe the ground And moisten it with fragrant dew, And violets weave a veil of blue In vernal days o'er each low mound. And lingering here in evening's glow And looking back across the years, My eyes are filled with tender tears At thought of her who lies below. 'Tis not of blighted hopes I tell, Of youth cut down before its time, Of death that visits in his prime A Lycidas or Astrophel; But with a calmer voice I sing The gleaning of the ripened sheaf. And for the fallen autumn leaf I strike the sweetly mournful string. For some must lie on youthful biers. And some pass down the noonday road; But she in life's green fields abode For more than eighty lovely years. Four score and seven summers fled, Four score and seven winters white, Ere faded from our grieving sight The beauty of that silver head. 242 The Grave of Lucretia Mott And yet we know she is not gone, Although her face we see no more, For reaching from the farther shore With us her spirit liveth on. Her spirit liveth on, and still, As when she walked our human way, It beckons to the perfect day Decreed by the Eternal Will. And pausing here beside her grave Beneath the sheltering maple tree, I muse upon the legacy Which to humanity she gave. When she perceived her sisters bound And fettered by convention's chain. She raised her hand not all in vain, And was with those who broke the ground That led unto our larger age, When noble women day by day With banded effort cast away Their sad historic heritage. In da^'s when bigotry reviled Those Christ-like souls serene and brave Who sought to free the shackled slave. She stood with face divinely mild. And hushed with gentle voice the cries Of surging mobs enraged and rude, — Unflinching in her fortitude. Without retreat or compromise. Bearing the cross with zeal sublime. For pause or rest she would not 3'ield, But ever labored in the field That whitened unto harvest time. O for the faith of ages gone Whose echoes through the cycles roll, — ■ The glory of this steadfast soul In those dark hours before the dawn ! 243 The Grave of Lucretia Moti She rested not by night or day, She made her field all human good, And fed with spiritual food Frail hearts that fainted by the way. And maxims wise for age and youth At fitting seasons would she quote: "Truth for authority," she wrote, "And not authority for truth." When duty called she knew no choice. She ever saw her pathway clear, Obe3dng, void of earthly fear. The promptings of the still, small voice. Not loftier of soul I hold Grave Fox, the father of our Sect, Who like a godly architect Reared up the fabric of his fold; Nor humble-hearted Woolman, he Who wore with lowly grace and mild, The innocence as of a child, The whiteness of simplicity ; Nor Whittier, our poet-voice. Who with the ardors of his song Struck down the strength of ancient wrong And made humanity rejoice. In paths of saintliness they trod, But brighter yet becomes their fame When of their fellowship we name This daughter of the living God. And, Swarthmore, thou wert not unknown To her beside whose grave I muse ; She shared the large and liberal views Of those who laid thy corner-stone. And still to-day her pictured face Serenely gazes from thy walls, And like a benediction falls The beauty of its placid grace. 244 Howard M, yen kins May her example through the years Unto thy children serve as t3^pe, A living, cheering presence ripe With strength for hours of doubts and fears ! The inward monitor she heard, And spoke its hests in accents true ; The perfect peace of God she knew, This gracious bearer of the Word. Sleep well, dear heart, while ages roll; Sleep well in thine eternal rest. Glories we cannot know invest The sanctuaries of the soul ; But here beside thy earthly bed 'Tis good to come at close of day. When worldly things seem far away And heaven's peace just overhead; And dreaming of thy sainted face, A train of grateful revery flows As tranquilly as bends the rose Beside thy quiet resting-place. JOHN WILHELM ROWNTREE I KNOW not where among the hills of Heaven Thy sweet aspiring soul may climbing be ; I only know how much of joy and gladness And shining light went out of life with thee. HOWARD M. JENKINS nPHE breath of May, the coming hand of June, With quickening power to bless abundantl}', Are felt to-day among these mighty hills. Wild wood-flowers star the sylvan corridors, The highland pastures shine with freshened green Of herbage soft, and dreaming summer clouds 245 Henry W^, Wilbur Drift o'er the forest solitudes that stretch In league on league of virgin loveliness. Here where God's sweet air blows o'er birch and pine And flowery pasture-land, we come once more To find fresh joy and peace on these green heights. One friend comes not, — he who had set his heart On this fair mountain-settlement, and saw High promises of benefit and joy And spiritual good to come to those Who have their summer homes on these great hills. God took him from us ; — but the memory Of his fine service will remain to bless All our activities, to consecrate Whate'er of tranquil happiness is ours In contemplation of God's noble works Here spread about in such magnificence. His hope be ours, ours be his happy faith; And let his spirit live in all the songs Of these wild birds, breathe in these wildwood flowers, Sound in the solemn cadence of the winds That sweep these tossing seas of forest boughs. So will his hopes find fruit, ay, richer fruit Than he could dream of, and his peace and joy Like to a benediction on us rest Unseen yet felt with sure serenity. Buclc Hill Falls, Pa., June, 1903 HENRY W. WILBUR: A MAN OF GOD {"Henry Wilbur was a patriot, a reformer, and a man of Go^."— William T. Ellis) A^7HEN some great mountain is eclipsed in cloud And only in our memory remains Far rising with its heaven-reaching head Above the lowly valleys and the plains, Our yearning recollections wraps it round 246 A River of the Spirit With wonder and affection and we grieve, — We lonely dwellers of the level ground, — For that great mountain's majesty and might As once we knew it bathed in glorious light. What though the noble soul for whom we grieve, — Noble and wise and kind and simply great, — Beyond the cloudy limits of our world, Beyond the barriers of our mortal state Has passed, — O yet how warm the glow And recollected radiance of his power, His burning zeal for right and truth. His genial love for earnest-hearted youth. His strength in speech and in the quiet hour Of meditation and of friendly cheer ! Life is more noble than he lived, more dear, Suffused more deeply as with heavenly light. — O what poor words of ours can tell How long we loved him and how well Who gloried in his sunny spirit's majesty and might! —He truly was A MAN OF GOD. A RIVER OF THE SPIRIT {Written for Founders' Night of the Philadelphia Y. F. A., 19U) \^I7"H0 does not love, beside some noble stream That flows with strength majestic through the meads. To wander 'neath the willow trees and dream — Beholding in his vision every rill And little bubbling brook that feeds. With never-failing waters sure, That noble river from each distant hill And wildwood fountain pure.^* O think of all the peaceful farms. The pastures and the groves of evergreen, 247 For the ^^aker Pageant The far-laid landscape's dreamy charms, The old stone bridges, rain-washed, sunny-clean, Past which those myriad waters go With glad and silver song. To mingle with the river and to flow With ever-widening power along Through shadowy wood and emerald lea And melt at last into the sounding sea. Like one of those far fountains pure and clear That pours its waters toward the valley's stream- So does this Friends' Association seem; From its first flowings in a bygone year It waxed and widened, fed along its course By younger currents. Gaining still in force. And ever from fresh branches gathering strength, It spread its fertilizing power And beautified the land, until at length We see it at this anniversary hour A noble river of the spirit, flowing Beneficent and kindly, and bestowing Abundant blessing in full many a field — Rich harvests of the heart, a goodly yield. 'Now to the Father offering thankfulness y We pray that He our labors still may bless. FOR THE QUAKER PAGEANT {Saratoga Springs Conference, 1914-) Prologue A S upon a painted scroll Let us now the scenes unroll That picture how the dreams of Fox and Penn Found rich fruitage in the lives of men. 248 Friends' Conference Echoes Man}' a garret's antique chest In our service has been pressed; Many an olden coat and gown, Dove-grey dress and bonnet brown, Beaver hat and faded shawl, — Precious, precious heirlooms all. Holding each its memory dear, — Reverently were carried here. Brought into the light of day once more, That we, garbed like those loved Friends of yore, Might enact beside the silent wood, — Still the home of peace and solitude, — Scenes that tell how dreams of Fox and Penn Found rich fruitage in the lives of men. Epilogue Now hath our great-souled Founder looked on all Which to his Quaker brethren did befall, — How from the old world to the new was brought The simple faith for which men long had sought, And how the heavenly precepts of our creed Were voiced in fearless word and righteous deed, — Until the hopes and dreams of Fox and Penn Found rich fruitage in the lives of men. From these scenes passed in review Let us now our strength renew. And at this our Pageant's end Glory in the name of Friend. FRIENDS' CONFERENCE ECHOES {Caye May, 1916) SEA-SHELLS TTHE gleaming shells we gather on the beach Shall oft recall to us this shining shore. The children and the music and the mirth, The lines of plunging foam, the billows' roar. 249 Friends' Conference Echoes NAMES ON THE SAND Name after name we wrote upon the sand And saw the waters wash them all away. Not so the memories of those kindly friends — They live unfading in the heart for aye. HYDRANGEAS If great sea-winds and sun and silver rains Can bring such splendid perfect flowers as these, Shall we not seek afresh to ope our souls For God's sweet sun and rain and vital breeze! CHILDREN ON THE BEACH Who would not be a little child again To share with them their innocent delight, And, free awhile from dulling cark and care. To frolic in the sand from morn to night ! MUSIC ON THE PIER Set to the mighty murmur of the sea That music held a double charm for me — Old opera airs, old Scotch and Irish strains. That lead the heart down Memory's magic lanes. OCEAN MEADOWS League on green league they melt into the sky. Bordered with tangled woodlands weird and wild. Where I would wander as in days of old And gather flowers, happy as a child. FAREWELL Farewell, green meadows and blue ancient sea, Whose lure and loveliness no words may tell ; Through all we heard of high and noble here There streams the glory of your wondrous spell. * * * THE RISING TIDE At Cape Henlopen looking toward Cape May I thought, — upon a tranquil Sabbath day, — 250 David Ferris Of those addresses that appealed to me At our great Conference beside the sea, Where late we spent such memorable hours By the bright ocean and the brilliant flowers. More noble in this setting did they seem, Those records of the vision and the dream Of Friendly leaders ; for the sea and sun. Quickening my feelings, made my musings run Forward unto that happy time foretold. That ampler era like an age of gold When brotherhood and loving service flower Beyond all we dare hope for at this hour. And as I mused, and watched the waters creep And murmur up the sands with glassy sweep. Till the strong inrush of the tumbling tide Had surged far up those sandy beaches wide, I seemed to see an allegory there, — Eacli Iwpeful tJiought and every heart-felt prayer That stirred those eager Friends beside the sea, A leave upon life's ocean seemed to be. Lifting the levels of the striving soul Yet nearer unto Time's eternal goal; — Not without storm and many a backward slide In buffeting the rigors of the tide Yet gaining surely toward our heavenly home Beyond the thunder of the falling foam. DAVID FERRIS IS recitation of the deep-loved lines Of Whitticr's verse, I never can forget; The good old man, with his heart-warming smile And loving voice, — I seem to see him yet ! H 251 "Mind the Light" EDITH NEWLIN T RECOLLECT with reverence and love The gentle tranquil one, most kind and dear, Her home-bred wisdom and her courtesy, Her face transfigured with unfailing cheer. AT A QUAKER GRAVE (J. N. G.) T IKE to the quiet strength of that great pine Beside thy grave, seems that long life of thine,- A life of simple truth and honor clear. And lit with kindness, love, and friendly cheer. "MIND THE LIGHT"* T END me. Lord, thy kindly grace, Thy aid through day and night; Shine on me with friendly face, And help me mind the Light. Stand beside me through the storm, Cheer my soul with radiance bright; With thy heavenly comfort warm, And help me mind the Light. Lord, I lay my trust in Thee, My faith through day and night ; Through all hours my comfort be And help me mind the Light. Never shall I quail or fear. Feeling still thy heavenly might. Knowing, Lord, how Thou art near To help me mind the Light. *Set to music by Charles T. Sempers 252 Molly Pryce : A Quaker Idyll Dedicated to Isaac H. Clothier Wlio loves old-time Quakerism I C WEET Molly Pryce in apple-blossom time Went down to Yearly Meeting; all the way The apple-blossoms fell in fairy drifts About the carriage wheels or gleamed afar Among the orchards by the river shore ; For Molly and her father drove nine miles Among Bucks County farms, and then took boat At old Penn's Manor wharf by that old farm Where friendliest hospitality prevails. Most beautiful and lovable was she, Young Molly, David Prj^ce's joy and pride. Bearing in her dark eyes and fragrant hair, Her sweet unconscious grace and gentle charm. Remembrance of her mother's grace and charm — That mother dead five years, beside whose grave They lingered on the third mile of their way, A lonely spot upon a breezy hill Shaded by evergreens that all day long Molly Pryce Murmured soft elegies ; here Molly placed Fresh flowers upon the grassy mound, and thought With wistful eyes of that dear mother's love And constant tenderness ; it seemed to her That naught in all the world could take the place Of that so dear solicitude that now Shone holy in the light of memory. Silent her father, — he could speak no word. But only press her hand ; thus silently They stood a few brief moments, then passed on From out the lonely shade and down the hill And through long apple orchards white with bloom. Delightful seemed Bucks County's countryside, So bounteous in rustic charm, so rich In farmlands, pastures green, and shadowy woods In whose cool depths they heard the wild wood-thrush Fluting his fairy music ; and old homes Grey with the peaceful years, where, by the wall, The fragrant lilacs grew, and daffodils. And dandelions flecked the emerald turf With golden stars. And now they left the land And journeyed through the happy afternoon A-down the gleaming river, past green isles That dreaming lay upon the silver stream. Past many a quiet field and lonely farm. They watched the panting steamboats surging by With gently heaving swell, and barges piled With hay and cord-wood ; they en j oyed the stir And momentary bustle on the wharves Of sleepy river-towns, and watched grave Friends Come on the boat, whose purpose was to spend The week at Yearly Meeting. Drawing near To Philadelphia, they beheld far off And high above the myriad-chimneyed smoke 254 Molly Pryce And endless clangor, — Penn's vast statue throned Against the heavens, o'er the steepled fanes And dream}' domes and spires of his loved town, Above the mighty rivers winding slow, — Gold in the sun or silvered by the moon, And bright with stately ships ; above it all Great Penn looks down with mild benignity And mild pacific gesture, facing far Toward Shakamaxon and the Treaty Elm, Where that firm league, unsworn to and unbroken, Was plighted 'twixt the simple forest men And the great simple-hearted English Friend. II T^HE Pryces found a home in Logan Square Hard by the great Cathedral, from whose choir They heard the vesper-service, — heavenly hymns Chanted in solemn Latin, to the bass Of deep-toned organ-music. Soaring out Across the Square at sunset, o'er the flowers And o'er the peaceful green, they seemed divine, — Those ancient immemorial vesper-hymns. And in the evening Molly found a book, A little leather-covered volume, "Printed By Luke Hinde, at the Bible in Lombard-street, In London, seventeen hundred fifty-three"; And settling in a western window-seat She read the Travels of John Fothergill, The life and labors of the gentle sage Of pleasant Wensleydale, whose famous son, John Fothergill, the kindly Quaker leech. The friend of Franklin and of Humphry Marshall, Founded old Ackworth, that great English school From which our sires a century ago Patterned our goodly Westtown with high zeal, — Calm Westtown 'mid its sheltering woods and hills, 255 Molly Prvce Breathing of pcaccfulness and quiet charm, And dear with many precious memories. Most quaint and edif3'ing Molly found This book of Fothergill's, — narrating how The love and power of Truth had reached the hearts Of tender-spirited folk, where he had preached One summer day at Dover ; but, he says, — And 'twas a contrast to his happier hours, — The evil spirit stirred a woman up To jangle and clamor against the Truth and Friends, Till divers of the hearers quieted her. And Molly further read how this good man At Nathan Newb^^'s in Virginia Preached to "world's people" living "there-away," And found them eager for the living Word. Yet on another day at Western-branch Came many "witli wliom Truth had little place," Though help was given to several "tender Friends." Thus Molly learned amid what joys and trials, What heart-felt joys and half-amusing trials, The early Friends had fared about the world Arousing souls that hungered for the Light. And as the twilight deepened, Molly heard, Leaning from out the western window-seat, A harp and viol played by young Italians Along the southern side of Logan Square. It was a song her mother once had loved, The melting, sad sweet song, Alice, Where Art Thou? They played it with sucli fervor that it seemed The very spirit of that night of May ; Kind Molly's heart was touched, and there was formed A memory for many days to come Of that blest evening when the music blent With Fothergill's quaint volume ; such the power Of simplest joys to move young Molly's soul. 256 Molly Pryce Sinking to sleep that night, — above the hum And sleepy murmur of the streets, there rang In Molly's dreams that song her mother loved. The silver rain falling. Just as it fnlleth now; And all things slept gently. Ah! Alice, where art thou? I've sought thee by lakelet, I've sought thee on the hill. And in the pleasant woodland When winds blew cold and chill. I've sought thee in forest, I'm looking heavenward now; Oh! there amid the star-shine, Alice, I know, art thou. Ill f~\ N First-day afternoon the Pryces heard A thousand children in the Meeting-house Reciting poetry ; it was a thing To be remembered, — all that innocent host Of little folk declaiming in accord The noble Psalms and the Beatitudes, With passages from the inspiring verse Of Whittier, — sweet childish voices lifted In waves of harmony, sweet childish looks Of earnestness and winsome tenderness. While they proclaimed the solemn and mighty truths Poured out from fiery souls to lift mankind, In words immortal and harmonious : The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof ; the world, and they that dwell therein. 257 Molly Pryce For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. And Molly mused "The hum of multitudes Was there, but multitudes of lambs," recalling Blake's touching song ; and as she wended home Beside her father in the sunset hour. While the Cathedral bells poured golden floods Of harmony on high, she still could hear The cadences of Whittier's tender lines As they were spoken by that childish host : / have hut Thee, my Father! let Thy spirit Be with me then to comfort and uphold; No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit. Nor street of shining gold. Some humble door among Thy many mansions, Som,e sheltering shade xvhere sin and striving cease. And flows forever through heaven's green expansions The river of Thy peace. There, from the music round about me stealing, I fain would learn the new and holy song. And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing. The life for which I long. 258 Molly Pryce IV ^OW David Pr3^ce went in on Second-day And sat among the men in his old seat Upon the seventh row, facing the "gallery" Where sat the genial Clerk, among old men. Grey-haired, from forth whose kindly glances beamed Ineffable peace and calm. And David nodded To friends in their old places, — serious men Of weight and circumstance ; young men whose e3^es Were lit by love or dreams of some high good ; With here and there a harmless "enthusiast" ; And hearty farmers bringing from their fields The peace of quiet hills and tranquil streams. When various matters of routine were past, A question rose of sending a petition To some high officer of state ; a few Approved with eager words, but most held back, And some feared they might reach no settlement ; When Israel Darlington, mild-tempered, calm, A just, considerate man of dignity, Counselled their waiting on the Lord ; his strength Recalled more hasty ones whose urgent wills Less readily brooked delay; the Meeting joined With Israel in many-voiced assent Of "So do I" and "That Friend speaks my mind" ; And thus, as always, peaceful ways prevailed. And David's gentle daughter meanwhile went And took her seat upon the Race Street side. Many the types of women Molly saw In that high spacious room, — matrons, and girls, And venerable Friends of nigh four-score; Serene, calm eyes of wisdom and of age. Fresh-blooming faces kissed by country air And rosy with good health, kind friendly looks Dark eyes that brooded tranquilly in dreams 259 Molly Pryce Of joys and griefs gone bv, (leterniined miens Fixt on good purposes and simple deeds Of helpfulness. Some restless seemed, and vexed, Yet. these were few; contentment held chief place In that great gathering, and generous love And womanly warmth of heart. Sweet Molly felt A subtle influence that wrapt her round With peace and benediction, such as come In those best hours of life when we repose Upon the Love Divine. Life larger seemed In that abounding presence; consciously Did she respond to that inflowing spirit That bathed the company with light and love. Thoughts hitherto half- formed now stood forth clear AVith beautiful import, and the precious hours Were like a rebirth for the noble girl. As likewise for full many another there Of that great sisterhood. The noise of the world Was far removed, and utter calm prevailed As time moved by, soothing the restless few To harmony with the others. nnriFiN came the noon that brought mid-day recess With social mingling in the yard, and hum Of many voices, — needed rest and change After the Meeting's tension; like cool showers Following long sunshine. Molly, in the crowd That slowly moved through the packed hall to lunch,- Where many are called but few seem chosen, — heard Fragments of talk and homely interchange Of news, as — "Yes, the wheat looks fairly well But needs a IccWo raiii" ; "The Tlobinsons Have moved to Trenton, they'll be sadly missed" ; "I always use three cups of milk in mine, 260 Molly Pryce And one of su^ar" ; "The Queries suited vie. Why do they want to change 'em?" "Yes, poor Amy Has been a sufferer always ! !' "Well, thee knows Samuel has sold his cattle?" Thus with talk And quiet laughter, younger folks and old Enjoyed the hour of lunch, where lemon-butter (The sort we always see at Quaker picnics) And meats and crackers and coffee and luscious jam, Sweet pickles and delicious home-made rusk, Were handed out in generous store ; and then Some sauntered in the yard, and some took naps Reclining in the shadowy Meeting-house On the long benches. Molly met old friends, Two girls whom she had known at boarding-school, Lucy and Delia Hoopes, who talked with her. Standing beneath the trees, of good old times And bright, glad memories ; and presentl}'^ A party of their home-friends coming up, Each was made known to M0II3'. All were pleased With Molly's charming looks and kindly ways ; And more especially did she delight The soul of Roger Morland, a young farmer, Comely and tall, and straight as an Indian, Kindly of look, and ruddy from out-door life, A noble youth to move a maiden's love, — Who'd left his acres by the IJrandywine For the week at Yearly Meeting. Roger thought He ne'er had seen one whom he more admired Than bonny Molly ; and when Lucy Hoopes Invited Molly for a visit, Roger Inly was pleased, blessing the happy chance That brought acquaintance with the gentle girl And promised further friendship. 261 Molly Pryce Molly read, That evening by the window-seat, the tale George Fox narrates, of how at Rochester He fell into a trance and seemed to see The New Jerusalem descending down From heaven. The beauty and the glory of it Did he behold, and in his vision felt Assurance strong that all who are within The light of Christ and in his holy faith, And in the grace and truth and power of God, — They rightl}^ of the Tree of Life may eat. Whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, — The ancient eloquent fervor seemed the crown Of that day's great experience ; Molly mused Over the olden volume, while a song Rose from a near-by home, a dear old song Simple and touching, — Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low. And the flickering shadows softly come and go; Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long. Still to us at twilight Comes lovers old song. Comes love's old sweet song. Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way. Still we can hear it at the close of day; So till the end, when life's dim shadows fall. Love will he found the sweetest song of all. The sad-sweet lyric brought to Molly's mind Remembrances of girlhood days gone by, Her home among the hills, the little stream Down in the valley, and the robin's song Among the apple trees ; and with it all Mingled a yearning tenderness of heart Awakened by the thought of love's old song. 262 Molly Pryce VI ' 'T^HE sweetest song of all," — still did it sing In Molly's heart, though yet she did not know Its import, for she still was fancy-free, Albeit dimly feeling the appeal Of Roger Morland's manliness and strength. Now on the sunny Fifth-day of the week When Meeting would be late in settling down, And there was time for visiting at ease, David and Molly strolled up Seventh Street And breakfasted with Ebenezer Jones, David's old friend, who dealt in grain and feed On Market Street, and therefore gave his guests Rolled oats and hominy and wheaten grits, — For Ebenezer was a thrifty Friend! — And while the two men talked of years gone by When they were boys together, hunting squirrels And carrying water from the school-house spring On poles between them, and at Christmas sledding Down the steep frozen hill-sides — Molly sat Browsing in books on Ebenezer's shelves. Old Quaker volumes bound in faded calf. One book attracted her, a portly tome. The Journal of George Fox; she took it down And in a quiet ingle-nook she read Its moving tales and testimonies strange, — How once there came to Fox in Carlisle gaol A little lad but sixteen years of age Who sought the truth ; and being there convinced, Became a powerful minister of the Word, — Young James Parnel. Alas, he lived not long, But met a martyr's death. At Colchester, In that grim castle, where he was obliged By his inhuman gaoler to abide In a noisome hole high up in the castle wall, 263 Molly Pryce Once, goin^' down by liuUlor and a rope To fetch his meals, — so he was forced to do, — The poor lad fell on the stones and cruelly Was injured, so that m short space lie died. And on another page did Molly read How 1\)X took ship for far America, And as they sailed, one afternoon, behold A Sallee man-of-war held them in chase. Much to the people's fear. In great alarm They begged of Fox to aid tliem; he replied: "/f is a trial of faith; therefore the Ijord Is to he xvaited on for eounsel.'' Then, He praying, knew that God was come between The vessel and her pirate enemies ; So they escaped. Kind Molly thrilled with joy O'er that escape, and silently she wept At James Parnel's most jiitiful fate and end. And yet this reading fortified her spirit And wrought in such wise on her sympathy, That she was touched with love for all the world. Then silently to Meeting did she walk Beside her father, silently went in And drank refreshment from the silence there. VII I T was a noble company that met That morning in the silence. Beautiful The calm and dignity prevailing there Among those gentle Friends ; and beautiful The sympathy and kindly spirit of love Flowing from all toward all. Ne'er had she known Sweet Molly Pryce, a fuller sense of peace And gladness ; verily it seemed to her That life nuist ever fuller, sweeter be From that environing air of peace and love. 264 Molly Pryce An old iiiun, silvery of luiir and board, Arose and, lialf-comniuning with himself. Told of his youthful sorrows, and the joy That came in riper years ; and much he told Of the great peace that had been his of late From thinking of God's words, "Be still, and know," How often, when the storm was fierce. My path was dreary, and the thorns did pierce, — / paused, and heeding this divine command. Beheld sweet roses blooming ^viid the sand. How often, when I long for rest. Borne down by toil and care, I wake to find myself most blest, God's happy child and heir; To find that good doth ceaseless flow To those who heed ''Be still, and know.''* And then a gentle, sweet-faced matron rose, — Dove-gray of garb, dear Rachel Pemberton, One marked by kindliness of look, and strong With strength born not of this world; and she told How unseen things are greater than the seen. The spirit more enduring than the flesh, Being immortal. — Listen to the thrush Chanting his magic music in deep shade And pouring forth his heart in solitude; Or hear the skylark, — dropping down his song From highest heaven and flooding all the air With rapturous melody, — Thou art unseen," Sang Shcllev to the lark, "but vet I hear Thy shrill delight !" And Wordsworth pondering The cuckoo's hidden harmony, exclaimed, — Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, *By Thora Hago 265 Molly Pryce Thou hringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, ilarling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery. And so with eloquent thought and beauteous verse From pomt to point of her discourse she passed, Showing the spirit's victor3\ Then far-off And faintly as some voice heard but in dreams, There floated in an old beloved song By a wandering singing girl in Cherry Street, — Last night the nightingale woke me. Last night zchcn all was still. It sang in the golden moonlight From out the woodland hill. I open'd my window so gently, I look'd on the dreaming dew. And oh! the bird, my darling. Was singing, singing of you. The flowers that slumber so gently. The stars above the blue. Oh, heaven itself, my darling. Is praying, praying for yoii. VIII "M^OW Roger Morland, in the meeting-house At Birmingham, among the home-Friends there, Had spoken now and then, being stirred thereto By inward feeling, — thoughts and reveries That shaped themselves when he was at his work About the barn, or following the plow Across the hills, or fishing in the stream In summer days. Among the home-Friends there 266 Molly Pryce He was beloved for sterling character And tlioughtfulness ; and found encouragement From older Friends whene'er he spoke in meeting. This morning Rachel Pembcrton's discourse, And that old song a-wavering on the air So tenderly, touched Roger Morland deeply. And to his own and his young friends' surprise, — And Molly Pryce's pleased surprise, — he rose And modestly but firmly, in fit words, Enlarged on Rachel's thought; and from his own Experience, his reveries on the hills Above the peaceful-flowing Brandywine, His fireside dreams, his simple-seeming days Of joy in grass and birds, wild flowers and winds, — Spoke out his heart. — Something of all of these Did Roger bring before his hearers, showing His love of the eternal, in his love For God's high beauty that adorns the earth. He quoted from a young dead poet, one Who sang with tender fervor : "And as I Do love the neighborhood of green and blue, The forest and the sky ; the silver love That glistens in the stream, and that low light That passes from the faces of the flowers ; So by this promise and confession I Do love thee," — old Wawassan, childhood stream ! Ah, silence in the forest ! I have learned More from the hush of forests than from speech Of many teachers, more of joy at least. Thus the young farmer ended ; and at noon The Friends exchanging views of what they'd heard, Agreed that Roger Morland's quiet power And warmth sincere, held promise of much fruit When he should ripen in the ministry And add to native strength the mellow wisdom That cometh with the rich and deepening years. 267 Molly Pryce IX 'T'HE liberal and liberty-loving Friends In Yearly Meeting met, with patience drew Toward a conclusion of their week's assay Of matters spiritual and matters temporal, Their "querying after" all the prime essentials Of daily life, of walking in the light Of truth as God hath given us to see it. The noble, pure simplicity of it all. Its so unworldly nature, its strange force And tranquil charm, touched Molly's 3'oung heart deeply ; And speaking of it to her friends one night, As they returned together from a session Where modern ethics was the living theme, — Her admiration for our simple faith, Oxir mystical religion that can feed Man's spirit bounteously, found warm support And earnest sympathy from Roger Morland, Who framed in few but telling sentences What all of that young group so deeply felt. * * * The Meetings over, Molly said farewell To her father, and with Lucy and Delia Hoopes, Accompanied by Roger and the rest Of those whose homes were near the Brandy wine, Fared into beautiful pastoral Chester County For a visit with her friends at Birmingham. Then David Pryce returned alone, by boat. Far up the river, thence by carriage home; But not until with Ebenezer Jones He had a farewell evening and a meal Of barley grits and similar cereals. With further talk of good old days together At country school; and Ebenezer walked To Arch Street wharf and saw him safely off. 268 Molly Pryce And looking back across tlie gleaming tide, High o'er the spires and house-tops, David saw Penn's mighty statue keeping eternal watch Above the beautiful City-of-Brotherly-Love, Till lost in misty distance. Then for hours, By barges laden high with hay and wood, By sleepy river-toAvns and verdant isles, David returned up-stream; then disembarked And drove nine miles across the fertile land Among old orchards and past opulent fields Of wheat and corn, to his own well-loved farm, — Pausing in silence at the sad sixth mile Where evergreens above his dear wife's grave Murmured soft elegies in the constant breeze. Meanwhile sweet Molly journeyed with her friends Amid green Chester County's beauteous landscapes. By oaken glades they drove, whose ancient arms Swung low o'er mossy turf, and cast a shade Through which the sunlight flickered; past cool streams And stream-side fields close cropped by nibbling sheep. The robins chirped in gushes of delight Among white blossoms ; deep in fragrant grass The quiet cattle browsed, where buttercups Like golden constellations glowed. They caught The scent of lilacs by white cottage gates. And gathered wild flowers b}^ the wood's green edge. And now as they drew near their journey's end Late in the dreamy day, and saw the gleam Of the silver Brandj^wine among the hills. They all joined voices in a dear old song. More loved because our fathers loved it so, — How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood. When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. And every loved spot which my infancy knew; 269 Molly Pryce The wide- spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it. The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well, The old oaken bucket. The iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well. X A BEAUTIFUL home of quietude and peace The old Hoopes farmstead seemed, high on a hill In Birmingham, above the Brandywine. Lucy and Delia took their friend around About the farm, the orchard and the fields ; And Molly admired the old-time garden, bright With sweet old-fashioned phlox and mignonette, Sweet-marjoram and pinks and hollyhocks And London-pride; and in the flower}^ midst Was set a dial that admonished all To "Mind the Light:' She loved the flossy heifers, Red Devons, and Alderneys with star-soft eyes And coated like young fawns. She loved the brook That sparkled down the hillside, winding deep Among the ferns and fibrous willow-roots ; She loved at eve to hear the father tell, — As all the family sat upon the porch Gazing across the emerald hills, — the tale, How Washington had striven at Birmingham, Hard by the quaint old Quaker meeting-house. Against the British ; of Lafayette's renown. And gallant Anthony Wayne. How strange it seemed. That here, where now was peace, and harvest fields Spread opulent their ripening grass and grain, — Red warfare thundered one September day ! 270 Molly Pryce But that was long and long ago ; no scene Could be more peaceful now, and Molly loved The warm green valleys where the cattle browsed Beside the Brandywine's smooth-flowing stream ; The hillsides rich with clover and wheat and millet And silver-green of oats ; and over all The might}' clouds that reared their wondrous steeps Of snow, and rosy vapor-wreaths more soft Than silent dreams. And to herself she sang: Here in the country's heart Where the grass is green. Life is the same sweet life As it e'er hath been. Trust in a God still lives. And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of God O'er the rising corn. God comes down in the rain. And the crop grows tall, — This is the country faith. And the best of all!*' No need have I, here at my idyll's end, To say that Roger Morland often came When work was o'er, and wandered 'mid the flowers And by the Brandywine with winsome Molly; Or how he told, ere many days were past, How she was all in all to him; or how • Sweet Molly readily returned his love, — For their affection had begun that noon Of May at Yearly Meeting. No mere words Of mine can tell their deep, deep happiness; Nor the delight of all their friends, who saw In them a perfect, noble, true-matched pair, — *By Norman Gale 271 Molly Pryce Upright and manly character allied To womanly kindliness and nameless charm. So ere another Yearly Meeting came Sweet Molly Pryce was wed to Roger Morland At David Pryce's home among the hills Of old liucks County. Beautiful the sight That Quaker wedding made, and beautiful The words of counsel and of kindly love From silvery-haired old Friends whose presence lent A benediction. Ne'er was lovelier bride Than Molly, drest in quiet dove-like gray, Wearing a spray of apple blossoms ; more Than one kind eye was wet at thought of how Her sweet unconscious grace and gentle charm Recalled the grace and charm of her dear mother. Among the gifts were Fox's Works in folio, From Lucy and Delia Hoopes, who knew how Molly Loved olden Quaker books ; and seven cartons Of wheaten grits from Ebcnezer Jones (Such was his thrift!) ; with many presents more From Pryces and from Morlands ; for a host Of kindly Friends was there from either side To welcome to their folds this blessed pair. Who blent in their two staunch old Quaker lines The best that Bucks and Chester Counties knew. 272 Roger Morland Dedicated to My WooLMAN House friends, — kindly and unforgettable In this my unambitious rime Fve wandered back into the time Our sires and mothers used to know. Those artless days of long ago. Whose slender records all too brief, — In some old letter'' s yelloxved leaf. Or sampler quaint, or faded flower 'Mid olden silks, — tell of the hour. The vanished hour, when life was less Encompassed round with noise and stress. I know not why I love them so. The Quaker days of long ago. Nor why there lingers such a charm Round many a memoried field and farm. I only know I wish to try And say some word before I die. To tell to our more restless day The beauty of that far-away And happy time they used to know. Our sires and mothers — long ago! Roger Morland VV/^HEN Molly Pryce, the comely Quaker lass Of old Bucks County, was in wedlock joined With Roger Morland, that tall, vigorous youth Who dwelt beside the pastoral Brandywine — They blent in their two staunch old Quaker lines The best that Bucks and Chester Counties knew. Now in their early days as man and wife, Roger and Molly Morland wisely planned To make extended visits to those parts Of the Friendly heritage whereof they knew By fair report that they Avould find a welcome Cordial and kind; and Roger's dawning gift In the ministry made his Meeting glad to send A "Minute" recommending these two Friends To kind consideration in those parts Where they should journey. Therefore, setting forth One bright June day, Avith "Joe," their faithful horse. They fared as far as pleasant Wilmington, And sat next day, the Sabbath, with the Friends In their old tranquil sunny Meeting-house, And heard an ancient minister discourse Upon the reconciling power of Love As Christ hath taught it — ^Love that shall prevail O'er evil in the end ; albeit weak And lowly-hearted folk first told the world Of Christ's great love and loving sacrifice — Peter, and Stephen, and undaunted Paul, Long sanctified within the hearts of men, But in their oAvn day well content to bear The name of fool and dreamer, only so They might hand on the legend of Christ's love. The gentle women and the kindly men Of this loved Meeting gave a cordial welcome 274 Roger Morland To our dear Morlands, urging them to bide Awhile and share the hospitality Offered by all; but Roger said his mind Was set on reaching Hopewell, far away, In goodly season ; so they might not bide Beyond next day in pleasant Wilmington. That evening, in a quaint old-fashioned home, Sweet with unworldly simple human charm, And rich in family heirlooms, Molly saw — Among the old mahogany and plate. The portraits, and the rows of old-time books (The "IForArs" of men like Penn and Penington) — A faded sampler, worked in red and green By "A. K.'s" hand, near ninety years ago. The "Extract" touched her with its quaint appeal And tender piety; and copying down Its solemn couplets, Molly thereby furnished For Roger (when he later learnt tiie lines) Texts, which he chanced to preach from more than once? In after-time. The faded sampler read: I fc ^ EXTRACT W 9 \ I By Love directed, ^ in Mercy meant, g I Are Trials suffered ^ Afflictions sent, M = To stem impetuous Passion's furious Tide, B H To curb ye Insolence of prosprous Pride, B I To zcean from Earth, Sf bid our Wishes soar g B To that blest Clime, where Pain shall be no more, m 1 Where weary'd Virtue shall for refuge fly, H ( (§* evWy Tear be wip'd from ev'ry Eye. H 275 Roger Morland II r> OGER and Molly, drawn by faithful "Joe," Crossed next day into Maryland and drove Long leagues through landscapes green, beneath white clouds. And in the evening found a hearty welcome From Hiram and Matilda Brown, who dwelt Above wide meadow-lands beside their mill. Matilda set before her guests next morn A country meal of sausages and tea And johnny-cakes and juicy home-cured ham, With honey flavored from their own white clover, — O how delicious was that country meal ! And while they ate, Matilda talked of cooking And good old family recipes, and how She baked her "pone" so golden-brown, and how She hung her hams above the kitchen fire To sweeten in the smoke, and how she made Her apple-butter spicy-sweet with bits Of bark of sassafras. — All this advice Did Molly cherish up for future use In her own kitchen on the Morland farm. And now they rambled out to see how lay The land on Hiram and Matilda's "place"; How different from theirs — with flocks of sheep Nibbling the tender herbage in the meads. And rows of bee-hives, and the droning mill Beside the swift mill-race. Then Molly went To see Matilda's garden, with its rows Of hollyhocks and fluttering bright sweet-peas, Petunias softly sweet and purple phlox And lavender and pungent bergamot, And many an old-time herb of sovereign use For savor and for salving. Molly begged A slip or two of London-pride, to plant 276 Roger Morland In her own garden by the Brandywine, And praised the sunny beauty and the peace Of the bright garden-walks. And Hiram Brown Meanwhile showed Roger round the ancient mill; And in the saw-shed 'neath a willow tree Close b}' the swift mill-race, they watched a sight — One of the most entrancing that I know — The great round saw go snoring through the logs With riving and sonorous drone, and fading Down at the end with melancholy moan, While the sweet sawdust odor filled the air. Then in the grist-mill, where the heavy beams, Festooned with cobwebs full of mealy motes. Trembled forever in the steady thresh Of the great rumbling water-wheel — the men, With shouting voices to o'ercome the din. Talked of crop-prospects. Hiram thought the wheat Would fetch its price this year, the ^aeld being short ; But oats and corn he guessed would "pan out" well. If there came rain enough. And Roger said. Up where he farmed, they mostly had big rains About the time they harvested their oats. But corn was fine and staple. "Well," said Hiram, "That's just the way with life — the good and bad, Full crops and short, are mixt up pretty well, — I guess we can't complain !" Then going forth, They harnessed "Joe," and after a good dinner Roger and Molly drove all afternoon Toward Hopewell, and at sunset reached the home Of the Bennett sisters, kindly loving souls. Who'd been at boarding-school with Molly's mother ; And now they welcomed and petted the young folks And purred around them with sincere delight, 277 Roge?^ Morland And fed them on fried chicken and hot bread, With sweet-sour pickles and conserves and jam And layer-cake, and custards drowned in cream; And next day started them upon their way Laden with flowers and with a dainty lunch Packed in a basket made of sea-green reeds. Ill V?I7H0 has not visited the Old Dominion And known the Friendly hospitality Of Fairfax or of Frederick or Loudoun, — Has yet before him an experience Of joy. And now it was to such a joy That Roger Morland and his Molly passed As, crossing into that fair southern realm Of ancient worth and ancient memories, They came one afternoon among the hills Of Frederick County, while the sunset light Lay softly on the far-off mountain slopes. The cows were tinkling homeward; under eaves Of barns the swallows twittered; wisps of smoke From old red chimneys told of supper hour ; The fields were slowly emptied as the men Came down the hillsides from the harvesting. Bearing their rakes and scythes and water- jugs, And cheerily talking. Dorothea Lane Received our friends that evening in her home Amid wide pasture-lands where cattle grazed Knee-deep in buttercups ; — a widow she. Born in a family of Cavaliers Who in old days had served the Stuart cause, And from their King received grants of wide lands Along the Rappahannock. To them once A Quaker preacher coming — stayed by storm As in those parts he journeyed — had persuaded The daughter to his faith; so she had joined 278 Roger Morland The Friends, had come to live among them here, And wedded with John Lane, a man of worth And weight and circumstance, — now dead nine years. Her stately home and generous way of life Were pleasing to the Morlands, tired with travel, And glad to rest in peace beneath the columns Of her wide portico, whose mellow brick Was flecked with flickering shadows of tall pines And box-trees quaintly trimmed. She served them brews Home-made and harmless, cooled with clinking ice; And delicate desserts whose gracious savor She had the secret of in manuscript Among her family papers ; ending off With peaches, pears, and sweet rose-apricots, And plums of purple bloom. Roger next day, With Molly, and with Dorothea Lane Arrayed in rustling silk of soft dove-grey. Drove down through winding vales and o'er long hills To Hopewell Meeting, where Virginia Friends Gathered from near and far to hold a conference: Dear, genial, kindly souls from Sandy Spring, From Waterford, from pleasant old Woodlawn Among the fragrant woods where Washington Once dwelt upon his beautiful estate. From Lincoln and its neighborhood of farms. To tell the many glad and grave delights Of those two days, the counsel and advice Devoted speakers gave, the social hours Enjoyed by friends long parted, the calm strolls And talks beneath the trees, the children's fun. The shy love-making, — all the hearty speech And hearty ways that kindly countr^'-folk Who dwell afar from cities, best enjoy — Were task be^'ond my pen ; so I shall give Report of but one speaker, my young hero, 279 Roger Morland Whose thoughts and ways I have a liking for. Our Roger, tlien, in course of his remarks Warmly described, for sake of simile. The crops of corn — how, in the Quaker part Of Pennsylvania, mile on emerald mile. The Avaving corn-fields bless the fertile land With rich and fragrant beauty ; how they grow Tall and long leaved, and break in yellow bloom, And all through August and the early fall Delight the farmer's heart, until at last The golden ears are garnered in the cribs In blithe October, in that happy season Of apple-harvest and of golden leaves And southward-flying birds. "I speak," said he, "But what you know, for God hath blest your fields With this same crop, our native Indian maize. To me it is a symbol of the sotd — Ripening in stillness, warmed with Heaven's sun, Watered by Heaven's rain, and growing ever With hope of heavenly harvest in the end." IV T 'VE read in Molly Morland's diary — A little brown old leather book, preserved Along with her and Roger's faded letters Up in the Morland attic — how the Friends In north Virginia entertained our twain So long ago. In Molly's delicate script There seems an added fragrance in each phrase That briefly but so poignantly alludes To comforts and delights which were their lot During their sojourn. Thus, she noted down "Music by moonlight," — "strange old stories told By darky mammies," — "slept in valanced beds In sheets that smelt of lavender," — "hoe-cake 280 Roger Morland And uild-blucklK-rrj tart and ^in^cr-brcad," — "Hundrod-k'uf roses, Cantcrhurv-bells, Dark dalilias, and delicious lieliotropc, And rose-geranium," — "O the kind, kind folks In Old Virginia!" — Can't you see it all, The friendly, pleasant, siin[)le old-time joys Of country visits in those happy days ! Yea, those were happy golden days indeed For our two Pennsylvania visitors Among Virginia Friends. The quaint farm-life Engaged their interest every day anew, With all its gentle stir of crowing fowls And bleating sheep, the creak of wagon wheels, The grind-stone's rusty wail, the lonely call Of crows across the woodlands, and the shouts And cheers of romping children. Molly loved To wander out among the yards and lanes ; She watched the old hens scratch and cluck and scratch And call their fluffy cheeping little chicks From out the grass ; she saw the murmuring flocks Of pigeons sun themselves along the roof With ruffling of their rainbow-tinted necks; She heard the bob-whites whistling to their mates " Across the fields ; she heard the shrill "pot-rack" Of guinea-hens ; and in the barn at noon Patted the friendly horses as they scraped The floor and whinnied for their feed; she loved The dreaming dark-eyed cattle, and she loved The hum of bees among the hollyhocks, The locusts fiddling through the drowsy noons, And all the stir and murmur of the farm. And Roger, as they rode, I think loved well To see the reapers in the wide-spread fields Cradling the wheat, and thatching o'er the shocks Against the storms ; to watch the men and boys 281 Roger Morland In breezy upland meadows piling hay Down the long windrows, and the toppling loads Swaying and rumbling down green lanes and o'er The old barn bridges to the odorous mows. But most, I think, they felt the forest's magic : How wonderful the woods through which they drove In the long afternoons ! — tall oak and ash, The straight clean tulip-trees, the sycamores Dappled with sunlight at the wild-wood edge, The shadowy aromatic evergreens, And delicate ghost-grey beeches round whose roots Clustered soft mosses, and the emerald slopes Of ferns so wildly fragrant. Oft they paused. And, while "Joe" cropped the herbage on the banks, They heard the happy wood-thrush fluting far In deep mid-wood his golden notes of joy. Or watched the little clouds of butterflies Hover and veer above the roadside weeds. Oft-times would Roger gather columbines And other graceful blooms that blossomed wild Beside the way, for well did Molly love Their shy and sylvan charm. — O there amid The deep green quiet of the woodland world They felt the Father's love like precious balm Flow round their hearts: to them the forest seemed Nature's cathedral, columned with great boles Down disappearing vistas dim as dreams. And hung with tapestry of green and gold. Where day-long litanies and psalms are sung By feathered choirs high in the pale-gold lights That sift through leafy windows of the wood. V A T Jerry Carter's farm near Waterford They found their friends were busy with the threshing ; So Molly rolled up sleeves and cheerily sought 282 Roge?" Morland To help Jane Carter and her daui^htcrs bake And boil the dinner for the thresher men. Puddings and pies and raisin-cake and cheese, Tea strong as Saul and pickles sour as whig, "Slip-and-go-down" and sweet moist gingerbread, — She helped prepare with zest. Out in the barn, To Jerry's delight, young Roger doffed his coat And took a hand at feeding the machine. Amid the droning rattle and long snarl Of the swift-whirling thresher, Roger stood. Untied the sheaves and shoved the straw far in Till it was snatched and swallowed, while the wheat Gushed forth in steady flow down at the side. Where Jerry measured it in bushel bags, And ever beamed his joy the while he measured. Or watched the tangled straw and chaff float out The high loft-door. He beamed upon his men And on his patient horses as they trod The horse-power's moving slope; for Jerry Carter Beamed upon all, — his family, his friends. His farm, his neighbors, even his enemies (If such there were) ; — one of those sunny souls That finds this good old world a paradise. And specially he beamed at harvest-time, And on the threshing; and to-day he beamed On Roger and Molly, and would have them stay A week or two ; and this his friendly urgence Was seconded by Jane and all their six, Susy and Dora, Tom and "Little Jane," Bill}' and Betsy L. The Morlands jdelded In part, and gladh' visited these friends For near a week, and joined in all the work And merriment upon the Carter farm, — 283 Roger Morland Long days of happiness that made a memory Of warm Virginia hospitality ; Yea, Roger and Moll}' often would recall Their farewell to the Carters, when the}^ saw, As down the long oak-shaded lane they drove, Kind Jerry beaming on them from his porch Among the honey-suckles, with his Jane And all their six, Sus}', Dora, and Tom, And "Little Jane" and Billy and Betsy L. And now they journeyed to a gathering Of Friends in Fairfax County, the last place And nigh the pleasantest, of all they saw During their Friendly tour in Old Virginia, The kindly hearts of those dear Fairfax folk Gleamed in their faces ; thoughtful lonely hours Among the fields and in green garden walks Had given to the men a pensive look And to the women such a wistful charm As tells of inward strength. The younger folk. Rosy and hearty with fresh country air. Were fair as flowers new-washed in morning dew; And in the social hours, at picnic lunch, And at the golden end of afternoon, The charm and friendliness of those kind folk Flowed out in sunny talk and gentle fun. Among the northern Friends assembled there Was Ebenezer Jones ; and Molly smiled To find him, as she thought to, — highly pleased With Old Virginia's hospitality. Free board, free bed, free rides, free everything (For Ebenezer was a thrifty Friend!) ; And after meetings, when the farmer Friends Were genial-kind, old Ebenezer found Them "easy marks," and willing to rebate One-half-a-cent a hundred on the oats 284 Roger Morland And wheat which he would purchase for his store ; — So shrewd and keen was he for "getting on," This enterprising Quaker from the north! The gathering ended with an hour of worship Beneath the trees ; and Roger felt the call To speak unto assembled Friends some words About his quiet faith. "O, friends," said he, "The great world presses on us from all sides, And we must mingle with it ; we must share Its burdens, take the sunshine and the storm With patience ever ; yet not be content With this world's standards ; for there gleams a light, A joy and glory for the soul that sees Beyond these worldly Avails. O let us seek And find, Dear Hearts, this glorious light and jo}'. It will sustain us through the long day's heat, And bring us to the peaceful cool of night With tranquil power. "How may we find the way.'' I well believe that in simplicity. In cheerfulness, in studied happiness. We find it ; in the eyes of kindly friends ; In gentle deeds ; in counsel of our comrades Along the road, their loving sympathy And friendliness ; in Nature's faery charm. Her wondrous panoramas round us spread For our delight — orchard and grove and field. And stately trees, and shining streams that flow By daisied meadows, and the mighty clouds Floating across the heavens like dream-ships Upon that azure ocean. None of these. But has its message and its ministry To hearts that hunger for the beautiful, — The pure, — the true." In words like these did Roger Give to his auditors his quiet faith; 285 Roger Mori and And at the close he spoke these moving verses :* — God spake to me in the sunset as the day a-dying lay. And over the hills from the eastward crept the mantling mist of gray, — In the sunset's radiant flashes, ere the soft approach of night Turned its splendor into ashes as the last pale rays took flight. Standing alone by the casement, bathed in the afterglow. Into my soid slipped gladness, out of my heart crept woe: As the twilight shadows lengthened, and the evening star low burned. My faith in good was strengthened, and my thoughts toward God were turned. The world with its cares forgotten; stripped of its doubts my soul, — A sense of infinite calmness into my bosom stole. "Fear not, I am with thee always," came a Voice from out the deep, "To the end of the world I am with thee; be still," it said, "and sleep." VI to be at home in the end, the end, O to be at home when the long day dies; Home, — home where the green roads bend Round the path that runs to the rainbow skies. Home once more in the quiet peace of things. Soft beneath the music that a loved lip sings! — Madison Cawein A^7H0 does not dream of home when far away, Yearning for all the dear familiar scenes Deep-fraught with old remembrance ! Thus they dreamed, Our travelers, as the golden weeks went by. *"Immanuel," by Paul Harris Drake 286 Roger Morland Then Molly gathered sweet forget-me-nots And musky pinks, along the garden walks In the last home they visited ; and forth They fared, and took the river-boat — with "Joe" Safe quartered on the lower deck — and sailed For Baltimore. Throughout the summer day And all the silver moonlit night, they sailed Adown the wide Potomac's tranquil flood That winds by woodlands green, and wider grows With each bright tributary stream that blends Its shining currents with that tranquil flood, And seeks the briny sea. High on the shore Of sylvan Fairfax County they beheld, Our happy pilgrims, that old stately House, Unmatchable, immortal in its charm, Amid its emerald lawns and lofty trees — Mount Vernon — beautiful with memories And wrapt around with calm and peace profound. — There on the hillside of his green estate Sleeps Washington; and though the "busie worlde" Has made some progress since his far-off day, It still turns back and comes with reverent love To ponder at his home, and soothe its heart With contemplation and with reverie Among those garden walks and ancient shades. Along the banks full many a pleasant scene They watched — the farm-folk thronging to the wharves With loads of produce; village vagabonds, Too tired to stand, drooping o'er sugar-barrels ; Late-coming wagons hurrying to the shore With lad or lass embarking 'mid the tears Of loving home-folks, and all laden down With flowers and fruit and cakes to cheer their voyage. They heard the plaintive, weird old melodies Of darky deck-hands, wheeling up and down 287 Roger Mori and Their trucks of freight with happy care-free air And comic "cake-walk" rhythms full of grace. In many a bay they saw the vestiges — Romantic in their picturesque decay — Of old estates, beside whose river-walls The great square-riggers lay in olden times, Freighted with treacle and with limes and lemons, Mahogany and silks and silverware. With muscovado sugar, and choice books From "London Towne" (tall folios wherein Virginia gentlemen would ponder o'er The rosy songs of Herrick or the Plays Of Shakespeare). Near the dreamy sunset hour, When pearly clouds swam down the mellow sky Above the deep, mysterious, silent woods, — The good boat slowly passed into a bay Embowered with graceful elms and bordered round By farms whose fields all wore an ancient look As if long-settled, rich in memories. And beautiful with pastoral charm ; and here At old Saint Mary's Church, in Maryland — Where Calvert came three centuries ago — The captain stopped his boat, that all might hear The vesper-service in the ancient church; And passing through the ivy-mantled portals, Roger and Molly heard the noble h^mns And solemn service of the Mother-Church, Those venerated rites that touch the soul With all their antique beauty. Then again The boat sailed forth, bright as some pure white swan, Upon the sleepy stream ; and through long hours Our well-loved Morlands watched the summer moon Color the river with her silver fire, While 'mid the dark wild forests on the shore 288 Roger Morland Tlie whip-poor-wills chanted in rhythmic chorus And filled the night with magic. On the deck In happy reminiscent mood they talked, Roger and Moll}-, of their full, rich weeks Among Virginia Friends (while tasting oft Red apples, heaped for them by Susy Carter In the sea-green basket of the Bennett sisters). Of Hiram and Matilda Brown they talked, Those kindly friends beside their droning mill And sunny garden bright with herbs and flowers ; Of Dorothea Lane, whose gracious welcome And ample way of life had touched their hearts With pleasure, mingled with a wistful sense Of glory vanished from the fair domain Of Cavalier Virginia. Long they talked Of Hopewell Meeting and the hearty folk From all the Quaker regions, who had made Indelible impressions, on the Morlands, Of fine simplicity and kindliness And warmth sincere; and they beheld again. In recollection, all the Carter clan Beaming farewell among the honey-suckles Of their wide portico. And as the moon Paled in the west, and lonely ships crept by, Like spirit vessels on a spirit sea — They breathed a prayer of fervent thankfulness For their rich memories. Are they not made up, Our life's most precious moments, from such memories- Thronging like ghosts from out the golden Past — Of hours made dear with friendship and with love And gentle kindliness.'* Yea, that one line In Molly's diary, "0, the kind, kind folks In Old Virginia!" poignantly sums up, 289 'John Comly's Journal In tender words straight from her tender heart, The beauty of an almost vanislied day Of friendly, pleasant, simple old-time joys. •* * * * Though another age is otirs. Let us cherish still the flowers And the loved vicmorials old. Of the Quaker age of gold; Cherish still the tranquil mind. Loving heart, and friendships hind. These are fair and fadeless flowers; Heaven help us keep them ours. Help us walk the simpler way, — • As in "RoGKii Mou land's" day. THE GRAVE OF ELIAS HICKS PRESIDE the lonely ancient meeting-house. Beneath the peaceful sunshine and the snow, Wrapt in enduring calm, lies the great heart That beat so mightily long years ago, THE BIRTHPLACE OF WHITTIER A S pictured in his "Snow-Bound" still it stands, Tranquil and hallowed by the passing years, — But he who loved it deeply, he is gone; Ah me, the thought doth touch the heart to tears ! JOHN COMLY'S JOURNAL A SAINTLY man hath here revealed his soul ; Simplicity and goodness mark each page. Here one may leave our restless day awhile And live in Comly's sweet and sober age. 290 Old Chester County Dedicated to the Old Friends AND THE Old Memories What child of Chester County doth not love Her fields and woods all other lands above, What child of Chester County doth not see Those fields and woods in tender memory When from his well-loved home-land far away He feels the charm of childhood's golden day ! AROUND THE DEAR HOME TOWN {West Chester) nnnE fields and roads around the dear home town, Rich in their old-time charm I find them still: — "The Barrens" whose grey rocks and grasses brown Seem weird as on some Irish fairy-hill; The Oakbourne woods along whose leafy side The squirrels frolic by the quiet stream Where late I saw October's mystic tide Bathe that sweet valley in a golden dream; The Bradford slopes where feed white flocks of sheep. And cattle in cool orchard-shadows rest, While far on high great cloudlands soft as sleep Slow drift and melt along the purple west. — Dear are they all, but dearer none, I think, Than those green fields by Brandy wine's soft brink. Avocd s Stream AVOCA'S STREAM A LINE of lovely silver Winds down Avoca's vale ; Who knoweth not each meadow And every willowy dale? The bells of old West Chester Ring down across the hill, And soft the music echoes Along this country rill. Through lonely Goshen woodlands Where matted mosses grow, 'Mid sassafras and alders Its waters trickle slow. Where earliest spring-beauties And pale windflowers will stand. Its happy currents shimmer O'er many a fairy strand. Across the tawny uplands Where lies the winter wheat, And thro' the yellow twilight The field-larks whistle sweet, — Soft flows the elfin river, A molten silver line, To meet in far-off meadows The sleepy Brandy wine. From glades remote, sequestered. From orchards calm and still. From golden-sunny marshes Below the purple hill, — I hear its silver singing Across my wintry dream ; — I must go rove beside it. That little homeland stream ! 292 Centennial Ode CENTENNIAL ODE {Read at the Hundredth Anniversary of the Borough of West Chester, October 11, 1899) I_I ERE in the golden waning of the year, When vale and wood are wrapped in drowsy peace, And languid vapors dim the distant hill. When from his toil the farmer finds surcease. And 'mid the orchard's shadows cool and still The robin twitters clear, — We come from clangorous cities far away, From quiet villages, from peaceful farms, Long wandering children to the Mother's arms. Here at the tranquil ending of her Century gray. It is a precious and a touching hour. An hour of mingled happiness and tears ; We stand to-day and see a Century's close. From out the silence of those hundred years Comes, like the fragrance of a faded rose. Old Memory's subtle power. The Future looms before us dim and vast ; With prayerful hopes we face a Century's dawn. With fond regret we mourn a Century gone; This sacred moment links the Future with the Past. Let joyous music greet this stately day, Let oratory play its noble part. While happy children with united voice Uplift hifirh harmonies that touch the heart ; Let all the grateful multitude rejoice; Let tears their tribute pay. The glory that we feel, the dear regret. Must make of this a memorable hour; We yield unto its pathos and its power; The joy of this Centennial Day let none forget! 293 Centennial Ode How strange it seems, and quaint, and far away, The little hamlet by the old cross-roads ! — The log-built school ; the ancient inn, "Turk's Head" ; The humble, low-roofed houses, the abodes Of sturdy village worthies born and bred Beneath King George's sway. Remote and dim as half-forgotten dreams It fades into the legendary Past ; A glamour and a spell are round it cast ; So strange, — so strange and quaint and far away it seems ! West Chester lies historic regions near ; From yonder hills she heard the thunders roll Where surged and seethed all day the fiery flood. Where that young champion pure and high of soul. The knightly Lafayette, gave of his blood. And in a later year These streets were filled with clamor and acclaim When that great son of France stood here once more, Rehearsed the battle and each scene of yore. And left behind the splendor of a deathless name ! West Chester's founders lie in peaceful sleep. Her worthies rest beneath the ivied grass ; Across their graves the sweet wild roses run And give their balm to all the winds that pass. Long silent are those gray heads every one, But still their children keep Their honest wisdom and their virtues strong; And much that beautified those quiet lives In gracious souls among us still survives. Like fine and far-borne echoes of an ancient song. Here by the green heart of the countryside, Close to the pleasant dales and wooded hills That border on the beauteous Brandywine, — Sweet stream that "dallies with its hundred mills," — 294 Centennial Ode By meadow-lands whore browse the placid kine, And calm and peace abide, — Our sires strayed not from Motiier Nature's arms, Lost not their contact with the wholesome earth Where sterling virtues ever have their birth; Fresh strength they drew froni these encircling fields and farms. In those old times of cherished memory Along these quiet streets the forms were seen Of many a gifted, many a gracious one : Here often passed with wise and pensive mien The Nestor of our science, Darlington ; And from the polar sea Came he whose white-haired sire is with us yet ; Here cultured Miner dwelt, and honored Bell, And Worthington, and Haines ; — thou knew'st them well, Old Town ; their precious names we may not soon forget ! Nor were there wanting in a later day Those who by gifts and culture stood apart, — The sturdy Lewis, of a learned line; The courtly poet-scholar Everhart; Good Father John, the widely-loved divine; And noble-hearted May, Grave old-time gentleman of life serene; Hickman, the brilliant and the eloquent ; Futhey, in whom the law and letters blent ; And Townsend, he of thoughtful brow and gentle mien. And here our Chester County poets came, Twin stars of song and brothers of the lyre, — Taylor and Read. They roam no more, alas. In Old-World paths, nor chant with lyric fire ! One sleeps beneath the quiet Longwood grass ; Old Kennett keeps his fame. And sacred are the groves of Cedarcroft. 295 Centennial Ode Nor less endeared is Read, whose passionate heart Found two-fold voice in poetry and art Rich as liis native Chester Valley deep and soft. These we remember well, and many more ; In memory's vision once again they rise To speak the glory of departed hours. We gaze about us here with misty eyes, For like the odor of immortal flowers On some enchanted shore, The fragrance of the Past is strong to-day ; Old voices call across the vanished 3'ears, Old faces rise through consecrating tears. Old names resound from out the bygone hours and gray ! And now while Autumn spreads her gorgeous tide Across old Chester County's happy vales, Beside our stream of beauty, Brandywine, And each green township's fertile meads and dales ; While soft October suns serenely shine O'er Chester Valley wide, Let us, the children of this peaceful shire, And heritors of this beloved old Town, With consecrating rites the Century crown, With ceremony high and song of stately choir! O let us not forget our noble Past, Nor lose our fathers' virtues strong and true, Heirs as we are of old simplicity! Let us go forth to meet the Century new. Remembering this solemn jubilee While life's sweet days shall last! And this high hour we ever consecrate With reverent hearts, unto our God above Who rules with His all-Avisdom and His love Each happy home of man, each commonwealth and state. 296 Purple Phlox CENTENNIAL HYMN Set to music by Dr. J. Max Mueller (Sung hy the school children of West Chester on the same occasion) ^~\JjT> Chester County rests in silence golden, Her peaceful fields have seen the harvest home; The fruits are garnered and the year is olden, The woodlands wide are bathed in crimson foam. As Autumn's wealth bestows an added glory And consecration on the ripened year, So in the closing of thy Century hoary Our love for thee, old Town, grows doubly dear ! From many a home we come with fond aJffection To dedicate thine ancient name anew. Across the years with loving recollection To hail the founders whom thy springtide knew. Beneath the quiet turf they long are dreaming, Those sires who builded that we might enjoy; O may we keep their memories brightly beaming, Our heritage preserve without alloy ! To God who in His overflowing bounty Hath blessed our beauteous hills and fertile dells, — The fields and farmsteads of old Chester County, — Our tide of stately music upward swells. To Him who gives this hour of consecration Here in the golden, glad October days. Whose love enfolds each peaceful generation. Our voices thousandfold arise in praise! PURPLE PHLOX nPHE golden calm of early autumn hours Is sweeter made by these sweet old-time flowers. Brightening the air with softly splendid glow, — No fairer blooms West Chester gardens know. 297 An Old-Fj7iglish Pageant AN OLD-ENGLISH PAGEANT {^At the Normal School) rj^AR from the world we seemed on that June afternoon all idvllic, Far from tlio rumble of mills and the wearisome jangle of commerce, Deep in the tranquil glades of remote and Arcadian woodlands. "Father, is it all real?" asked my little daughter beside me, As down the sunny sward and under the dreamy shadows Slovv^ paced a stately procession out of the Middle Ages. "Ah, little girlie," I said, "we are back for an hour in Old England, And there come Robin Hood and liis green-clad folk of the forest !" O what a vision it was, as merrily sauntered before us A troop of story-book people and heroes of old beloved ballads ! High on her throne sat the Queen of the Golden Age of Old England, — Elizabeth, — jewelled, petite, the charming queen of the pageant, Surrounded by lovely ladies and gallants in silk and in velvet ; Under the trees they sat amid the spears and the banners As the stately and gorgeous pageant paused and paraded before them. While melodies drowsy and sweet and enchanting came forth from the forest. With music and dancing quaint and the singing of centuried carols Trooping came the maskers, presenting from history and fabie The early, far-off dtiys of the glorious great English People, — 298 An OIfi-R?i'/Iis/i Pad with "lAlad Anthony's" heroic name. With hi^h distinction still his exploits shine At Stony Point and hard-fought Kraiidy wine; The memory of JMonnioutli and (ireeu Springs AVith his courageous gallantry still rings ; And .lamestown Fonl and olden German! own Still clu'rish anil remember his renown. 'I'rusft'd and loved by AVashington was he, — Our valorous knight of antique chivalry. Ever responiling to his chieftain's need With helpful counsel and with splendid deed. I love his pictured face u})on the wall Of that great room in Tnde[HMulence Hall; A very kind and cheery face it seenis. With genial eyes not all unlit by dreams. The face of one to be a trusted friend. Utterly staiuich and loyal to the end. Invincible of s[)irit, generous, brave. He long has slumbered in a hero's grave 'Neath Old Saint David's venerable trees, AVhoso branches sighing in the sunmier breeze Murmur their requiem for our valorous one — Old Chester County's great and matchless son. General W(i//iic's hoiiic, W1.!f. 828 T/ie Prayer for Peace VII THE PRAYER FOR PEACE {On the Eve of the Battle of Brandy wine, Sept. 10, 1777) 17^ OR inuny a- year wliat summers have been mine, Among the meadows of the Brandywine, Where oftentime in reverie and dream I wandered by that old historic stream, In reminiscent mood oft pondering o'er The legends lingering by its winding shore. Of all the tales that haunt these emerald hills The thought of one my musing fancy fills, — How on the eve of that great fight A prayer went up into the night, Invoking vengeance of the Lord On all who, taking up the sword. Would drive beneath the tyrant's yoke A free and freedom-loving folk. God's mercy, prayed the preacher then. Support and shine around our men, The great of soul, the high of heart. Who sprang from field and forge and mart To fight for home and wife and child. God grant to them his mercy mild Who shall mayhap to-morrow keep The vigils of eternal sleep. Whose hero-blood shall stain the sod. Whose souls shall go to meet their God ! O grant that wicked warfare cease. And bless our land at last with endless peace! There is no "glory" in this simple prayer. No cannon's thunder and no trumpet's blare. Yet shall the spirit of that prayer prevail, And war remembered be but as a tale. In those far years toward which, though sorely tried. Mankind still marches on, with God for guide. Birmingham, 1915 329 Ow^ Heroic Sires TO l»KNNSYLVANIA CONl^KRKNCi:, 1). A. 11. T OYAL Dmi^Iihers, — how often with admiration Do I think of Iho great Ideal held by you, Cherishing still the names of our sires heroic With a loving loyally line and firm and trne! No high i\('i}d that marked their dear devotion, No least service done in those peri Ions days Bnt has at your haiids its fitting celebration, From your loyal hearts its meed of noble praise. This greeting, Loyal Daughters, \v\. me offer Hc-membering lu-r who once was one of yon, AVho lovi'd through life with deej) and warm affection The great Ideal to which your hearts are true. OUR IlKHOIC SIRES {Decoration Dat/) l^^AR down the street with j)ensive tread The grey oltl heroes pass. To where their comrades long have lain Asleep beneath the grass; lleneath Ihe grass on (piiet hills. In vales by quiet streams, Where battle's clangor nevermore Shall break their quiet dreams. Far down the street the veterans pass ; Their pace is staid and slow; And sorrowing nnisic marks their steps From bugles breathing low. From bugles low, and languid flutes, And slowly beaten drum "^riie hours go by, — sad nuisic sounds. And up the street the}' come. 830 Heftry Hayes Tlicy slowly come; but empty now Their arms of starry bloom, For they have strewn the morning's flowers O'er many a lowly tomb, O'er many a tomb on quiet hills And down by quiet streams. The dead, — O do they know these rites, And sweeter are their dreams? I know not ; but to those who see That sad procession slow. Who look on those grey heads, and hear The mournful bugles blow. There comes a warmer quickening Of patriotic fires, A deepening of reverence For our heroic sires. HENRY HAYES: OUR ENGLISH SIRE {Read at the Bicentennial of the Hayes Family in Chester County, September, 1905) npWO hundred years have rolled away And mingled with the countless span. Two centuries since our English sire Founded in this new world our clan. What fortitude was his, what faith. What trust in the all-friendly God Who led him o'er the trackless sea To this remote and virgin sod. Far from his own dear English fields, Beyond the utmost western foam. Amid these Chester County hills To fix and found his new-world home. 331 Ife/irv Haves 'I'lio pleasant vales of Oxfordshire Lovely with all their storied oharnis, The tvreen-niar^ed Thames sh)W winding down Amid the peaceful ancient, farms ; The mea(h)ws and the hedtje-rows i;'reen, 'l^he ori'hard and the Howery i;arth, Tlie ancient church and ivied walls That sheltered his ancestral hearth, — How far, how fair seemed those lost scenes When in this new world strani;e and wild He tlu)ual swan that would not be espied. To Avhat remotest islands of the sea, O full sailed vessel, dost thou hold thy way? To what blue Adriatic bay Within whose circling shore Was sheltered many a lordly argosy Of golden Venice in the years of yore? Or through long days of storm and shine And wan, still nights 'neath stranger stars. By reefs and buried bars, Ploughing and ever ploughing through the crested brine. Wilt thou at last attain The beauteous islands of the Indian main ? Perchance, majestic ship, thou art Bound to some Libyan mart. To trade in Afric's ivory and gold, Or what the diamond-quarry yields ; And thine unresting way wilt hold Through green Sargossa's weedy fields. O'er southern oceans where the sun doth blaze LTnpityingly thro' long, long torrid days, — Where sea-birds strange and lovely have their home, Skimming the languorous foam With sleepy wing of green or golden hue ; Where through the sultry night O'er liquid wastes all silver-bright Thy prow shall cut a path of livid blue, While curious monsters of the deep About thy sides with baleful eyes do peep And thy brave mariners affright. Thy destined port, fair ship, I may not know, But still of thee I dream ; 366 Ocean Reveries And thou^li the currents of tlie ocean-stream Have carried thee beyond my ken With sweeping flow, And by these shores to fare again May never be thy lot, — Within one heart thou shalt not be forgot. God speed thee on thy way. And grant thee voyages safe until thy latest day ! ni This sunny morn The breakers washed me up a curved shell, Of its small tenant long forlorn, — An empty and deserted cell. I held it to mine ear, And from its purple chambers seemed to hear. Faint as the echoes of a fairy bell. Strange tidings from that hidden world Down in the emerald deeps. Far from the billows' fretful moan And sobbing monotone, — Wide ocean-floors empearled. Where fair sub-tidal forests wave Their noiseless leafage in pellucid streams; Where from the walls of many a coral cave The soft sea-lantern glows, Shedding its phosphor beams On sponges, lucent fronds, and ooozy weeds. And all the viewless life that grows In those unfathomed ocean meads, — Fantastic realms more fair than have been sung In old poetic story. This fragile shell, methinks, hath clung Unto the foot of some vast promontory Deep-rooted in the underseas. About whose rocky bases curled The vegetation of the nether world, 367 Ocean Reveries But on whose lofty crown the tossing trees Moaned in the constant breeze. Tall sentinels of some lone shore, They little dreamed That far beneath the wintr}^ roar Of those chill barking seas Eternal summer gleamed ! Perchance came one sad day When this wee denizen Of that hoar cliff's deep base was torn away By some wild current keen, That severed with impetuous rage Its ancient anchorage. Up, up 'twas carried then. Through azure solitudes and aqueous glooms, Past loveliest ocean-blooms Colored with amber-gold and tremulous green. And tincts that but the diver's eye hath seen ; Thence whirling high and far Toward this our upper day, At length it rested on a pebbled bar ; And there by ruthless theft ; Of ravening fish the life was reft i From this wee, harmless thing, j And but the shell was left, — j Within whose hollow cavicles still ring, J Resounding sorrowfully a3^e The echoes of its dole. I'll bear thee to mine inland home, fair shell. Far from the thunderous roll And roaring of the salty swell. There thou shalt chant for me Thine endless elegy, Soft harmonies to soothe the soul, 'Mid dusty uplands whispering, sweet as sleep, 368 Ocean Reveries Cool memories of thy dreamcd-of home Beneath the bubbling foam Of the complaining billows of the deep. IV For two long days and nights a storm hath raged, And by this sounding shore The angry armies of the deep have waged Mad internecine war. Ah, fierce and bitter was their fight Upon the tossing champaign wild and white ! But now the serried waves have spent their force, Sunk is each watery hill ; Though dimly still The dying cadence of their sad remorse Moans on the wearied strand. This quiet evening from the tawny sand I gather gleaming pebbles many a one, Where yester-eve those harried pebbles spun And chafed amid the churning flood That whelmed the upper shore With racing sheets of frothy scud, And strewed the beach with graceful ocean-grass And purple weeds in tangled mass, — The lovely wreckage of the deep-sea floor. This gathered ocean-grass, these pebbles fair, Peaceful memorials shall be Of that fierce strife of the embattled sea. They shall recall to me The swift on-coming of the gale; The winds that now with sorrow seemed to cry, And now loud-trumpeting their boisterous glee; The clanking fog-bell's iron agony; The ships with creaking mast and ghastly sail Fast fading in the misty air, 369 Ocean Reveries Seeking for safety on the open sea ; The groaning piers ; the low gray sky Streaked with the driving rain ; The screaming fish-hawks hastening to the lee Of yonder towering rock, Against whose rugged sides the seas may knock Long centuries in vain ; The mighty waves inrolling from the main Crested with toppling foam, Moaning and muttering on their way From their mid-ocean home, Like helpless giants rushing to their doom, And at the last Crumbling and tottering in ruin vast. And pounding on the beach with thunderous boom And clouds of seething spray ! But wildest anger is the soonest past ; So with that glorious storm, — Glorious in beauty and in splendid power ! The quietude of this calm vesper hour, These breezes warm, Are like the stillness in some minster vast After the stately anthem hath uprolled Unto high heaven from a thousand throats. The black bell-buoy that so lately tolled Across the storm, now voiceless floats On the low-heaving, glassy swell Of that wide silver, silent main. The ships that fled the tempest, once again Display their sails afar : Touched by the sunset's spell. They seem, — mast, sail, and spar, — Like phantom ships that swim in golden mist ; For lo ! the splendors of the dying day Transform the sky. 370 Ocean Reveries An Eldorado fair, A sea of billowy gold, hangs in mid-air, En-isled with cloudy amethyst, And bordered round with many an opal bay. To which warm rosy rivers flow. Laving with molten fire the crimson capes. E'en while I look on that enchanted show The gorgeous clouds assume strange shapes. And towering high They fill the arching sky With pageantry fantastical. Until I see in that majestic rack The mythic monsters of the zodiac, Moving in solemn, slow processional Toward that far point where heaven's violet verge Dips drowning in the ocean's sleepy surge. O for a Turner's brush, a Shelley's pen. To paint that fairest scene vouchsafed to men, A sunset by the ocean shore, — Its visionary spell. Its glory and its sense of dreamy peace, Its loveliness ineffable! Too wondrous is that beauty to endure ; And even now it dies away. Its evanescent splendors cease; The soft dream-rivers roll no more. And vanished is each lustrous bay ; — All, all are gone! Then tranquil night begins her sway; And silvery, cold, and pure. The stars are climbing one by one The azure steeps, Up to the firmament's enroofing dome. Till all their vast white galaxy Is mirrored in the dreaming deeps ; — 371 Ocean Reveries While still the drowsy foam, Along the argent edges of the sea, With liquid murmur low Plashes in its eternal ebb and flow. V Like the remembered music of old songs. Gray Ocean, is thy voice to me, Chanting thy plaintive minstrelsy Through the enduring years ! Wave after plunging wave prolongs The same wild cadences that charmed the ears Of men of old heroic days. Immortal Homer hymned thy praise, Singing the wondrous wanderer divine, Ulysses, — faring o'er the perilous brine. Sad mariner ! what voyage can measured be With his in legend or in history? Not Argo's with its fabled fleece, Nor his who sought to found the Latian line, Nor his of Genoa whose high-souled quest Bore him to unknown oceans of the west. Thy billows ring to this our day With echoes of eternal Greece, — Chios and Cos and green Corinthian bay. Vergil's resounding and imperishable lay Gave to thy name an added glory ; And through the ages long. In epic or in figured allegory, Thy waves have echoed through the poet's song. Wonder, and might, and majesty are thine! And beauty changeless through the changing years. Proud states and kingdoms fade into the past, Bewept of human tears. Forgotten is each vanished earthly shrine : Thou only dost endure, 372 Ocean Reveries Illimitably vast, Based on foundations old and sure; — God's symbol of eternity, And type of unimaginable power, O'erwhelming in one little hour The mightiest armadas of the sea. E'en as that single billow yesterday Swept foaming up the strand And unrelenting washed away The little forts and pyramids of sand So fondly built by children in their play. From the surf-thunders of thy stony beaches, From the far voices of the central sea Where white, reef-nested birds untamed and free With tireless pinions sweep Above those solitary reaches, — There comes a message vast and deep. To wearied man it calls, To man enwearied with the fret and care. The hurry and the heat. That make these vaunted latter days unsweet. Across the world it thrills ; 'Tis echoed by the forests and the hills, — By tenderest flowers fair. Ah, blinded ones, will ye remain the thralls Of custom and of cant? Shall hoary Ocean chant Its poetries unheeded? Shall it roll, Yet rouse no echo in the sleeping soul? Must nature's pleadings unregarded be? Thy shoreward and familiar places, O many-centuried Sea, Beloved are and fair ; Yet to my fancy, as it seems, The imap-cs that we behold in dreams Most beauteous are and rare. 378 T/ic Son or of the Nautilin So Avhon I rovo oiu'o inoro tho homeland hills Noiir one ilear stream in lautls oi wavinjjj wheat,- TJie Brandvwine, fed from a tiiousand rills. Winding bv willowed banks with music sweet, — And think upon the unseen spaces Of thv mid-deeps remote, — Visions shall i;reef me of the mai>;ie boat Of tliat wee mariner of sunnner seas. The Pearly Nautilus, — upon whose shell The sun hath wrought, the rainbow laid its spell. The loveliest of all the creatures stranj^e That o'er the sea's blue territories range ; — And borne on some imaginary breeze, Faintly resounding on the ear. The strophes of its silver song I'll hear: Song of the Nautimts My silent way I am plying Afar from the haunts of men. Over the billows flying In the lonely sea bird's ken ; Far from the shelving beaches, Far from the breakers' roar. Out on the wide sea-reaches Trailing my amber oar. Cradled among the surges Here in the sapphire sea, T drift where the warm wind urges My elfin argosy. Waving my streamers airy I stem the silver tide, And rove by the lands of faery AVhere the winsome mermen bide. O'er emerald surges swinging For many a magic mile, I hear the sirens singing, I sail by Circe's isle. 874 Alsace But wlxjfi the wavf.'H arc weaving Their symphonies of woe, I flee from tlieir sombre grieving To the twilight deeps below. Then when the storm is over, Up from my shadowy home I wander, a fearless rover, To rock in the shimmering foam. From the noise of the world's bewailing My happy life is free, In the golden sunlight sailing Alone on the lovely sea. ON READIN G A HISTORY OF ENGLISH FARMING 'T'HE farm-life of five hundred years ago. Its sowings and its harvests, here are told; O what ancestral love of country life Awakes in me at this rich tale unrolled ! AMERICAN APPLES IN BISHOPSGATE TTHE sight and tang of these red beauties here. On London fruit-stalls, set my heart athrill. And for a space I feel a western wind Blown from old orchards on some homeland hill. SUNSET IN VENICE C^ OLDEN and rosy vapors float like dreams And glorify each tower and palace old; And all these strange and silent water-ways Are wondrous avenues of running gold. ALSACE I AND of my fathers, — many an hour I longed. Watching from Strasburg's walls thy mountains blue, To see the hour, now haply close at hand. When thou to France allegiance might renew ! 375 The Greek Dancer BETRAYED ! r^ OETHE and Schiller, Mozart, Wagner, Kant : How is your noble land of Thought and Song Betrayed by men who sneer at solemn oaths And plunge the world in woe, nor hold it wrong ! WILLIAM DE MORGAN OO late in life beginning? — Yes, what tales Throughout his middle years he might have wrought ! Yet who would lose the rich autumnal gold. E'en though with summer's largess it was bought? ALFRED NOYES' EPIC OF "DRAKE" nn HE old august heroic voice I hear Chanting afresh of England's glorious prime. In rolling measures of harmonious rime Worthy of Milton's high memorial year. ON READING JOHN ERSKINE'S POEMS IN VAN CORTLAND MANOR GARDEN TP HROUGH drowsy hours the warm old Garden throws Upon the drowsy air its summer sweets, While here I ponder on how warm a heart Of musing passion through these pages beats. SARAH ORNE JEWETT'S LETTERS ^AVORING of balsam-breath and salt sea airs, And sweet with scents from dreamy gardens old. They tell of happy years and friendships deep ; They show a loving soul, a heart of gold. THE GREEK DANCER {A Pastorale) 7/1/ HAT vision of pastoral charm do we see, — What maenad or maiden of Thessaly she, — Terpsichore's self can it he? She moves to sylvan music, girt with flowers And flinging balmy blossoms as she moves 376 The Greek Dancer With rhythmic steps across the luscious green; And for an hour we dream of Hellas old, Of woodland ways and woodland harmonies And far-off fabled visions long forgot. Softly she moves, and O so wistfully, The gentle, silent shepherd-girl ; no words, No joyous song, no silver laughter hers, — Only the charm of dancing loveliness, Of flying color and of scattered flowers And faery ribbons fluttering in the breeze. O shepherd-lads, pipe us, pipe us your fill Of mellow-breathed measures from Dorian hill; Your pastoral measures pipe still! Now like a young Bacchante cometh she. With vine-leaves garlanded and purple grapes, In wild abandon down the orchard slopes ; And now she passes on with stately flow, A summer-queen among the golden sheaves. Laden with golden corn and harvest flowers And wisps of hay, — like to some pastorale Shaped by a Tuscan painter long ago. daffodil girl from the valleys of Greece, — O fresh from the realms of Arcadian peace, — Ah vie, must thy dancing e'er cease i A Past long-dead awakens at the touch Of her most magical, most gracious art; Green Dorian woodlands, vales of Sicily, And old Italian harvest-fields once more Pass with authentic grace before our sight. — O dance forever, wistful Dryad, dance To Doric music of the rustic pipe, — That hearts grown weary may once more grow warm And thrill with olden raptures such as stirred Theocritus hearing the shepherd flutes 377 yls Winter Wanes 'Mid plaint of doves and drowsy bleat of sheep Far in the vernal fields of Sicily ! Dance on, O dance, and weave thy pensive charm Round hearts growTi weary; fling thy flowery spells As Perdita once flung in mid-wood green! And though thy joyous presence fade away With evening's light, — let not the spirit lose The blissful memory of thy grace, thy charm. Thy sisterhood with sylvan gods of old. Alas, she has vanished! No more is she seen; The shepherds are trailing their pipes o^er the green; We grieve for our lost shepherd-queen. AS WINTER WANES /^H, let us fondly dream, as Winter wanes, ^"^ Of his sweet child the sunny Spring, And lone: to see her rove adown the lanes Where early blue-birds sing! Not many be the days ere we shall hear The brooks take up their ancient song. In purling cadence soft and silver-clear The forest-side along; And see the fragile crocus lift her face From out her bed of freshening sod. Living her little life with happy grace And thankfulness to God. The jocund robin from the tree will trill His roundelays of vernal mirth. And odors sweet arise where farmers till The brown and mellow earth. The first brave swallow o'er the silent pond Will skim with dip of rapid wing. And fill the beechen solitudes beyond With tender twittering. 378 To the South Wind The water-willows budding by the brook Will arch it with an amber screen, And the long-cloistered scholar leave his book For forest-alleys green. Then grieve not, ye with drooping hearts who pine; Soon will young Spring renew her birth, Upspringing joyously as Proserpine From out the fragrant earth. Not always will the hills be hid in snow. Not always will the skies be gray; Beyond our little hour of present woe There waits some brighter day! TO THE SOUTH WIND D I EAR South Wind, O sweeet is thy blowing, Sweet is thy murmur by grove and creek. Here where the air was filled with snowing And the world was white but yester-week. Dear South Wind, when the Winter dying Looked on a land that was bare and drear, AU for thee were our fond hearts sighing. All for thee and thy sunny cheer. Hail, O hail to thee, blithe new-comer ! Out of the dreamy south-lands blown, Out of the lands of endless summer Far in the realms of the soft mid-zone; Where all the air with song is laden. And sunlight sleeps on the purple vine, Where the shepherd pipes to the listening maiden In drowsy noons 'neath the shady pine. A thousand charms from those lands thou'rt bringing. Waking the flowers on heath and hill, Filling the forest-side with singing, With sweeter music each silver rill. 879 The Return of Spring Dear South Wind, O sweet is thy blowing, Sweet is thy murmur by grove and creek. Here where the air was filled with snowing And the world was white but yester-week. THE RETURN OF SPRING r^ OME Spring, O Spring, sweet morning of the year, Too long delaying in thy pensive dreams; Come with thy festal mirth, thy woodland cheer. Thy tender leafage and thy lucid streams. Bid laggard Winter go unto his rest. And pelt him thither with thy rathest flowers. That like the dying sun in rosy west He know a glory in his latest hours. Yea, let him go ; for thee our hearts are yearning, — Awake, awake, fair Spring, and gladden earth with thy returning ! Come with thy soft and fragrant April rains And overbrim the pure, sweet-watered rills That murmur through the meadows' grassy plains And tinkle down the hollows of the hills. Come, waken with thy sweetly-breathing spell The golden daffodils and violets blue. And gem with joyous tears the crocus-bell. And fill the tulip's cup with silver dew, O down the valleys let us see thee straying, And in the greenwood let us hear thy fairy music playing ! Awake, and with thee wake each vernal thing, Each wildwood bloom and every budding spray: And may we hear the sylvan warblers sing Whilst thou dost show new beauties each green day. With thy soft airs bring pale anemones, Those tender sweetlings of the dawning year, And baby-buds upon the willow trees, — And all the verdure nature holds most dear. Then wake, delay no more, O sweet new-comer. Thou gentle younger sister of the golden-hearted Summer ! 380 Aprir s Here! APRIL CINCE Chaucei-'s antique day when joyously He sang of April's birds and fragrant showers In green old England, this most tender month Has been the theme of song. V^Hio would not pay Full tribute to young April's wondrous charm ! Her mingled smiles and tears, her sun and rain. Her fresh and luscious herbage, little leaves And first frail wood-flowers, ever touch the heart In each succeeding Spring with fuller joy. Most wilful, most beloved, doth April seem Of all the year's twelve children, tenderest And deepest dowered with wonder, of them all ! APRIL'S HERE! IJOW beautiful it seems, — A day in April, when the breeze Is blowing fresh and sweet, After a night of dripping rain ; And in some lofty tree, — Some sycamore or oak or odorous pine, — A joyous bird is shouting. Shouting his jubilance abroad In the fresh-breathing wind! Hope and happiness are in his song. It is blossom time! It is nesting time! Blow, blow thy flute, happy bird; Blow and warble and shout In a rushing rapture of song. And tell the waking world That April's here! 381 The Blackbird ENCHANTING GIFTS /^N many a green and golden hill Bloom violet and daffodil; The trees forget their wintry grief And put forth leaf by tender leaf; In many a moist secluded dale Blow aconite and wind-flowers pale; The blackbird in the hemlock high Utters his sweet delicious cry. Shall we not praise the Father, then, For these enchanting gifts to men ! THE BLACKBIRD /^F all our birds I love the blackbird well; The blackbird is my joy. When I was but a boy I came beneath the blackbird's fairy spell, — O can you wonder that I love him well ! Beside the Brandywine I heard his song. In morns of early March; He fluted from the larch In magic tones that held me long and long. In those wild morns of March. It seemed no mortal music that I heard, In those sweet mornings wild. I was a spell-bound child, Rapt by the rapture of a simple bird, — A fairy-haunted child! O, can you wonder that I love him well, — That each returning Spring I yearn to hear him sing And thrill me with his old remembered spell. With that old magic that I love so well ! 382 May w ROBIN, DEAR p) OBIN, dear, With thy voice of gold, Sing to me now As in days of old ! Sing to me now From thy crimson breast Glad-heart songs That I love the best, — Thy simple joy In the golden grass And the elfin winds That whisper and pass. Thy simple faith In the bloom of May, Dogwood wild And apply spray, All the Springtime's Joy untold, — Sing it, Robin, With voice of gold! MAY ITH flush of buds on every spray The fields and groves are bright with May, And every hill and grove is seen \ Clad all in fresh and luscious green ; ' The gentle sheep and placid cows On sweet and tender herbage browse. And little lambs disport and bleat By rivulets of water sweet. The woods with half-grown foliage seem Wrapt in a soft and misty dream, And all the land in blithesome May Seems deckt for one long holiday. 383 yu/v JUNE nPHE bright soft skies, the gentle airs of June, Its fields of daisies nodding in the breeze. Its fragrant hav-fields ripening for the scythe On upland slopes, its clover drowsy-sweet With storcd-up honey, — who can e'er forget These charms of mild mid-June, or who desire More beauteous memories than those of days When great Avhitc clouds sail over wheat-fields green. With sweep of mighty shadows, and afar Fade down behind the hill, while every hedge And leafy grove is musical with song. With twitter and cheeping of the joyous birds, Heart-full of sunshine. O the magic hours Unmatched, of this all-perfect month. Young golden-hearted June, queen of the year ! JULY nPHE land is dreamy and the air is sweet With hum of reapers in the golden wheat. Far off the robins call at early morn With fairy notes as from a fairy horn. The bees drone round the silken hollyhocks And murmur 'mid the beds of purple phlox. The locusts in the lofty branches croon, And frogs in marshy lowlands chant their tune. By country streams through all the sunny day The bonnie country children romp and play. From spreading orchard-branches bent and old The harvest-apples hang their fruity gold. In calm content and peace all things abide In this serene and calm midsununer tide. 384 Midi summer MIDSUMMER Morning nn HE breeze is stirring, small wings are whirring. And up from the heart of the glade Soft mists arise from the sacrifice Which the dew to the dawn has made; And sweet and clear to the listening ear Come the matiiLs of winged throngs, And the leafy woof of the forest roof Is thrilled with their wondrous songs. Each lily white and poppy bright Is wrapt in a golden dream; From the regal rose one petal blows And drifts on the lazy stream. That happy hummer of soft midsummer, The golden-belted bee, Is droning over wide fields of clover And basks in that fragrant sea. Jtivening Fireflies are brightening with elfin lightning The dusk of the drowsy eve, While afar is heard the lonely bird That doth ever grieve and grieve, — The soft-eyed dove whose notes of love Betray a hopeless breast, A song of sorrow with no to-morrow Of joy for its sad unrest. ^ight The lucent light of the queen of night Is burning at heaven's crest. And high and far in her silver car She sails to the sleepy west. But all too soon the lovely moon Will leave the heavens dim. As she dips below the isles of snow And meets the world's blue rim. 38.5 September AUGUST QOFT August mists drift o'er the drowsy fields And wrap the land in peace ; no sound is heard Save when some solitary crow far off Calls with sad note, or when the lone wood-dove Grieves by the woodland edge. The vast white clouds In peaceful navies drift across the sky Wliere high and far a lonely buzzard wings His lonely flight. The fragrant gardens glow With flowery splendor, and by sleepy streams The soft-eyed cattle browse in velvet grass Beneath old willows, — while the poppied dream Of August broods o'er all the silent land. SEPTEMBER T) Y what signs do we know September here, Most drowsy, dreamy month of all the year.'' Across the quiet fields of yellowing corn The crows are calling in the misty morn. In sunny beds of plilox the droning bees Are sipping dripping sweetness to the lees. The purple grapes make golden all the air With musky odors languorous and rare. Folded in mystery at slumbrous noon The far-off hazy hillsides seem to swoon. From orchard boughs ripe apples one by one Drop and lie mellow in the misty sun. Borne on soft winds the thistle's downy seeds Float o'er wide meadows rich with pungent weeds. Down from the lofty gum-trees quaint and old Drift silently the leaves of red and gold. 886 October In tranquil fields the cattle lie and dream By the green marge of many a lazy stream. By these signs do we know September here, Most dream}', drowsy month of all the year, OCTOBER C\ SPIRIT brooding by the sleepy stream Or pacing down the leaf-strewn woodland aisle, I think no trouble can disturb thy dream. No sorrow shade the sweetness of thy smile, For the full-ripened year Hath won rich largess from each teeming field; The orchard-boughs droop with their ruddy yield. And down the wind come sounds of autumn carols clear Far, far away thy sister April stands. Her balmy eyes the home of happy tears, — Young violets and bloodroot in her hands : Ah, can it be that faintly-borne she hears The robin's elfin flute Blown in thy waning forests? Doth soft grief Stir at her heart because the yellowing leaf Is falling and thy glades too soon stand lorn and mutt Yea, grief may stir her soft and girlish heart. Queen as she is of fresh and budding flowers. Not so with thee, dear Spirit, — far apart Thou reckonest the drowsy-footed hours ; To thee sweet is the tune Of pensive winds that rob the swa^'ing rose And shower the turf with fragrant-petalled snows ; And sweet the chestnuts dropping 'neath the hunter" moon. Thou smilest still, — and lo, in every dell The asters and the regal golden-rod 387 Autumn Rain Drowse da}^ bv day beneath thy charmed spell And greet tlie scented wind with dreamy nod. Ah me, thou smilest still ! — All day thy wide champaii^ns lie bathed in mist, Hung o'er with clouds of vaporous amethyst That fail at eve and fade beyond the lonely hill. Thou smilest still, — as in the loved far days AVhen youn^ Persephone with startled call Was rapt from Knna's starry-blossomed ways Bearing M'ith her the summer's self and all The flowery wealth of Greece. Thou smilest still, — and thy calm restfulness, O Spirit of FiUchantment, comes to bless Our fevered hearts Avith its unvexed and golden peace! AUTUMN RAIN f SAT by a western window Reading from old Montaigne, AVhile the yellow leaves were sifting down In the wash of the autumn rain. When sudden a far piano Sent forth a Beethoven strain, — Sonorous and resonant and sweet, — O'er the grieving autmnn rain. And the spell of that splendid music And the wisdom of old INIontaigne Seemed blent in a happy harmony As T watched the autumn rain. Ah, little guessed the player. Pouring that wild refrain. How the yearning melody reached one heart Through the sob of the autumn rain. 388 Farewell to October- O thanks to the unknown player, And thanks to old Montaigne, For the memory they made for me Of that day of autumn rain. FAREWELL TO OCTOBER "/ love Old October so, I can't bear to see her go!" ^O wrote Riley in his rime In a golden Autumn-time Long ago; and still they tell (Those old verses) of the spell Of October's waning mood As she fadeth down the wood Where beside the glassy meres Weeping willows drop their tears. While the rainy twilight grieves 'Mid the soft and sodden leaves. Or upon a misty morn When the crows across the corn Call and call through sleepy hours, There among the gipsy flowers Old October wanders lonely By a plaintive brook whose only Song is of the Summer fled. While the golden, brown and red Leaves along the roads are strewn By the winds whose wailing rune Is an elegy that sighs Under sad and sombre skies. Dawns of rose and amethyst. Eves suff'used with golden mist. Forest pathwa3's paved with gold. Drifted down from branches old; Tangled wealth of weed and vine. Berries stained with woodland wine; 389 Christmas Eve Pensive walks by drowsy streams, Haunt of reveries and dreams ; All must vanish with the spell Of the Month we love so well. "/ love Old October so, I can't bear to see her go!" DECEMBER NIGHTS T^EAR hearts, why should we fill the soul with sorrows, When song and dream and music all are ours? Why darken life's sweet days and glad to-morrows, When Poetry can cheer like summer flowers? When song and wistful dream and music golden May wrap us round like tides of summer flowers. Shall we not sit and muse on ballads olden. And drink the honeyed heart of wintry hours ? In days to come, dear hearts, we shall remember How song and dream and music all were ours. When, deep in drowsy nights of old December, The Poets charmed us as with summer flowers. The snow, the moonlight, Winter's every glory Will fade at last with time's remorseless hours ; Oh, let us lull the dying year with story And song and music sweet as golden flowers ! CHRISTMAS EVE ATLT'HILE day is fading down the sky And softly falls the snow, We'll sit within the ingle's light And muse upon that wondrous night Long centuries ago. 390 Christmas Eve For on that peaceful eve was born A little holy Stranger. Upon no silken bed he lay ; His pillow was a wisp of hay, His cradle was a manger. No inn of all wide Bethlehem Would shield the tender Child; So forced was he to lay his head Where oxen lowed and horses fed, Beside his mother mild. Not wrapt in naperics of price Nor princely vestments he; But swaddled was the Prince of Light In linens all of fairest white, In pure simplicity. The night was dark, ah, chill and dark ! A deep calm held the earth; Yet all transfigured was the place, Lit with the glory of his face, — That Babe of heavenly birth ! The shepherds saw his star on high, And rising up straightway. They left their little lambs in fold, And faring far o'er hill and wold They came to where he lay. Rich offerings with them they bare Whose wealth may not be told, — The orient pearl and balmy myrrh In silver ark and canister, And frankincense and gold. S91 The Salvation Army And bending low these gifts they laid At their meek Saviour's feet. precious gifts, O blissful sign ! For cold is every pagan shrine ; Now rules this Infant sweet ! He rules, and Fear and Dread no more Shall hold their hated sway : Bright as the silver-beaming star That lit the shepherds from afar. He brings the better daj^ ! And hark, along the wintry sky Ring carols sweet and wild, — Resounding o'er the happy earth The glorious tidings of the birth Of this celestial Child ! That angel choir their anthems chant Through lands remote and wide, Proclaiming to the sons of man How Peace and Love their reign began Upon that holy tide. So while to-night the holly bough And mistletoe we weave. We'll think upon that wondrous Bo}^ And all he brought to earth of joy On that first Christmas Eve. THE SALVATION ARMY 1-1 ERE in the street they call on humble men To follow One who loved the lowly more Than folk of pomp and power ; — across the way A church stands empty with a fast-shut door. 392 December YULE-TIDE'S HAPPY PEACE ^ ND only Love keep in your hearts a place — At this most holy season of the year Doth it not come with consecrating grace, This prayer of Wordsworth our high Poet-Seer ! Love that makes brothers of all men of earth, The child-sweet Love that lives and cannot fail, Warm as the fire that cheers the dear home-hearth, Pure as the snow that whitens hill and vale. Deep in the treasury of the tranquil mind, O friends, — ye of sweet faith and hope elate, — Let Love this gracious day be firm enshrined And Envy barred forever from the gate. So shall ye build the temple that endures. And Yule-Tide's happy peace be richly yours. DECEMBER TTHE ruddy hearth-fires gleam and glow Across the weird December snow; The rabbits race beneath the moon; The frozen beggar asks a boon At doors that never turn awa^^ A helpless waif near Christmas Day. The happy children free from school Enjoy each hour of happy Yule With merry, merry, harmless noise, — Dear rosy girls and ruddy boys ! From wide old kitchens comes the sound Of doughnuts rolled and spices ground; The pantry shelves are heaping high With apple tart and pumpkin pie. So comes the Christmas Day and goes, 'Mid frosty dawns and sparkling snows. Then, as the closing of the year With solemn portent draweth near, S93 To y. R. s. The family by the evening fire, Crowned with content and heart's desire, Thank God for all the blessings given That make this earth a door to Heaven. ROBERT TYLER (A memorial tablet in old Bruton Church, Virginia) ^^ p)OET, Philosopher, Statesman, Gentleman,'" — That noble record Time can not efface While loyal love keeps green in memory His old-time Southern courtesy and grace. TO A SOUTHERN DAMSEL ARRAYED IN A GOWN OF THE ANTIQUE MODE CO might some Southern lass of long ago Have looked when gathering roses in the dawn Beside some stately Old Virginia home Fronting upon a dreamy length of lawn. TO GEORGE CABOT LODGE TTHE winds of your fair "almost-island" home Sing all the old immortal songs for you; There, magical the music of the foam, And every old thalassian fable true ! TO EDWARD T. BIDDLE A^YNKYN de Worde was old Caxton's heir, And Johann Byddell next to Wynkyn came; Hence thou, who lovest well their ancient craft. Right fittingly dost wear an honored name. TO J. R. S. CTURDY Virginian, dear to thee the charm And majesty of every noble tree; How man}' an orchard, grove and ancient farm Have taken on new life, new strength, through thee! S94 A Hl ome BESIDE THE FIRE I— low good it seems, this wild and stormy day, Beside the fire to dream the hours away; Or, turning Shelley's well-loved leaves again, Hear his high music throbbing through the rain! TO J. M. t^OUR themes, old friend, delight thy kindly heart And fill th}' fancies with unfailing cheer, — Thy Country's annals. Nature's beauteous face, Great-hearted Books, and Children fair and dear. TO A. J. M. I N all thy family's happy work and play Thine is no minor or uncertain part, — Kindly inspirer of their noblest dreams. Of all their deeds the center and the heart. A CHILD'S FACE f LOVE to look upon that dear child's face; — What winsome kindness and contentment there, What innocent wonder in her dreamy eyes Beneath her clear brow and her soft brown hair ! A HOME f KNOW a home beneath a noble oak, A happy home, made beautiful with books And all fair things, — whose smiling windows gleam With gold and crimson as tlie setting sun Goes down the dreamy valley. Joy and peace Abide within that home ; and, best of all, A child, a winsome child, transfigureth The house's cheer and charm with holy power Of innocent and wondrous babyhood. 396 child' s Slumber Song LITTLE LEON CO quaint, and so sweet, little Leon, thou art, Child with the hair of gold, — Who that knows thee but gives his heart To Leon, five years old ! Thy father's mirth and thy mother's grace In thy winsome glances shine: Scarce have I seen a sunnier face. Little Leon, than thine. Dreamy-sweet be thy golden years. Child with thy soul of joy. Soft, O soft, be the wistful tears That touch this bonny boy ! CHILD'S SLUMBER SONG CTILL is every birdie wee And the stars are gleaming ; Sweetest visions wait on thee, Darling, in thy dreaming! Elfin bowers dost thou see And the fairies dancing? Happy will my Dearest be At the sight entrancing! Mother by thy little cot Sees thee softly smiling. Dreams whereof she knoweth not Thy sweet sleep beguiling. On the morrow morn the sun At thy window peeping Will awake our little one As she lies a-sleeping. Now the heavens starry bright Keep their watch above thee ; 30( Child of Melody and Light Slumber softly through the night, Knowing how we love thee. Come, to Dreamland let us start ; Mother's love enfolds thee. Safe within her happy heart She forever holds thee. Father with his sheltering arm From mischance will hide thee ; Little Darling, fear no harm While we are beside thee. Still is every birdie wee And the stars are gleaming ; Sweetest visions wait on thee. Darling, in thy dreaming! CHILD OF MELODY AND LIGHT r^ HILD of melody and light. Be thy years serene and bright, Beautiful as sunny May Till thy life's autumnal day. Face the future high of heart; Cheerful, loving, act thy part. Cloud and storm must come to all. Soon or late some shadow fall. Let thy soul be fortified For what sorrow may betide. With thy heart in Heaven's care. Keep thy glad and joyous air. — 'Tis for thee my warmest prayer. 397 ^^Peacherind" TO A DREAMING CHILD \/irHAT beautiful dreams, what dreams of joj, Have come, my bonnie, to thee? Art thou drifting drowsily, drifting now In a ship on a faery sea, — On a faery sea whose froth and foam Bear thee far from the fields of home. Far on the sapphire sea? What wondrous islands wait thee there Afar on the sapphire sea, With magic woods of purple gloom And flowers on a grassy lea, — On a grassy lea where birds fly over Daffodils, daisies and honeyed clover Abloom on the windy lea? I see thee smile in thy dreams, my dear, And I know that the faery foam Which floated thee far on the phantom sea Is bearing thee back to home, — Back to home and the little nest Where throb the hearts that love thee best. Here in thy own dear home. "PEACHERINO" T ITTLE darling, full of mischief, Full of sunshine and rejoicing. Droll delight and merry humor, — Peacherino ! Like a humming-bird in summer Flying, flitting round the roses With a golden shine and shimmer, — Such thy faery charm and brightness, Peacherino. 398 ^^The Age of Innocence' In the years that lie before thee Keep thy merriment and sunshine, Keep thy cheery charm and brightness, Spreading happiness around thee, Little dai'ling, — Peacherino ! LOVELY AND LOVABLE CHILD I OVELY and lovable child, Delicate-fair as a flower And dear for thy maidenly charm, — I could pray that no happier fate Befall thee than, careless of gold. Of fashion and fame and "success," To live as the spirit appoints. Growing in sympathy, faith, In ardor and joy of the soul, And crowned by the consummate gift, hove, that can look with disdain On perishing things of the hour, hove that can lift and console And yield thee contentment of heart, Peace and ineffable joy. And lead thee in heavenly paths. Victorious, glad and serene. This would I pray be thy fate. Lovely and lovable child, Delicate-fair as a flower. And dear for thy maidenly charm. "THE AGE OF INNOCENCE" {A Painting by Reynolds) T> ETTER than all his dames of high degree This sweet and simple maiden seems to me. Compact of charm and sunlight, joy and tears,- Eternal typo of childhood through the years. 399 h,avendar HEART OF JOY T^HE singing dawns of April, The rosy breath of June, And Autumn's gentle wistfulness, Are all with thee in tune. The silver of the starlight The white foam of the sea, The sunny river's radiance, Are sisters all of thee. For thou art made of music, A spirit blithe and bright ; — God keep thee so forevermore, O heart of joy and light ! LAVENDAR A S to a wanderer on some far sea Come happy visions of his native shore, So doth thy gentle fragrance bring to me Sweet memories of the days that are no more: Of far-off days when in my childish jo}^ I sauntered in the garden paths with her Whose grey and tender wisdom taught the boy To love the fragrance of the lavendar ; Of later days when 'neath the attic roof, Among old chests, while sadly fell the rain, I gazed with misty eyes upon the w oof Of fragrant silks she ne'er would wear again. O like the lavendar's faint breath to me The visions of the dear, remembered years. When that one calm and gracious face I see Arising through the halo of my tears ! 400 At Brandy wine Manor Church IN THE CHITKCH TTHE sorrowful soft organ blows Across the golden air And fills with solemn harmonies This home of holy prayer. A maiden bends her graceful head Across the yellowed wood ; — Among those kneeling worshipers None seems more pure and good. She hears the yearning organ thrill With melodies divine Below the triple windows high That softly gleam and shine. She sees the white-stoled singers pass Below the lofty screen, Like phantom forms beneath the trees In woodland twilights green. My heart was fed on other faiths, A simpler creed is mine ; But yet for me the English Church Is filled with grace divine. So stately and so beautiful, — Grey English Church serene, Keep safely through all years to be The gentle-souled Kathleen. AT BRANDYWINE MANOR CHURCH r^ AZING from this high stately house of prayer O'er league on league of wood and peaceful farm, I seem to breathe a sweet and wondrous air And feel an old-time faith's most solemn charm. 401 WASTE NO'I^ YOUR HOUR C\ Wl'iARY women, with f<>\v Iiours of case, Whoso tinio is takon up Avit.h {>hil)s and teas — Waste not iioiir hour! Lcarii wis(h)in in the fields From birds and roses and the nuirmiirin^ trees. O, weary men, whose business lets you find Small leisure for the masters of the mind — - Waste not your hour! Pause now and then to dream liot up a little on 3'our steady grind. Go back, my friends, to your forefathers' chiys; Revive their calm, serene, untroubled ways. Waste not your hour! 'V\\v ^ods look |)ityin<]j down While human hearts grow ooM and faith decays. Waste not your hour! Turn from the noisy street, And hand in hand with little children sweet. Find (Jod again among the forest shades. By river shores and fields of waving wheat. The follies of the time the soid devour; (iod calls to you in every lovely (lower; (), heed His voice ere yet, it be too late — Drink deep at Nature's fount; Waste not your hour! "EFFICIFNCY" {"Life is better than efficiency " — Sir George Grove) I TOW godless the "edlciency" that makes Men selfish seekers for an earthly goal, — Ruthless, victorious, trampling others down, Tiarge in "success" and ]>iteous small in soul ! 402 A World of Silver SUSAN B. ANTHONY {A Youthful Portrait) A S in a bud lies hid the perfect rose. So here high consecration, saintly grace, Unending love and all-victorious hope Lie soft foreshadowed in this clear sweet face. IN APRIL /^NCE more the green and golden days come back, With song of birds, and buds and swelling shoots; And far across the hills of dream I hear The mellow music of the shepherd flutes. THE SUMMER MOON 'T'HE yellow moon is swimming o'er the sky Like some vast galleon floating high and far, A derelict adrift on heavenly seas And wandering on from star to lonely star. SEPTEMBER BY THE BRANDYWINE CLOW feed the cattle in the drowsy meads. Slow fall the leaves upon the lazy stream That loiters 'mid the flowers and golden weeds. And the calm days glide by like some rich dream. A WORLD OF SILVER IV/f YSTERIES of rose and silver when the sun was dropping low, Then the twilight's faery shadows pencilled on the silvery snow; And at last the moon, a silver galleon ponderous and slow Swimming o'er the silver silence of the dreaming world below. 40? Old Irish Son^s AT NARRAGANSETT PIER T ONG strolls beside slow-winding Indian streams, Rich talk in rosy meadows by the sea, Slow lingering sunsets on the windy lea, Music and moonlight beautiful as dreams. THE HOTEL BLENHEIM IN queenly grace above the ocean strand It lifts its splendid beauty far and high, And fair as in some Venice of our dreams Rise towers and domes against the deep blue sky. SHOP-SIGNS "PRINGLE and Pretty," "Hoover," "Culver," "Gulp," ^ "Crocker and Pozzett," "Kasser," "Zindel," "Zook":— How might some Dickens, gleaning names like these. Make them immortal in a merry book! A LECTURE ON OLD FRENCH SOCIETY T IKE odors faint from out an old rose-jar, Or forms that o'er an ancient arras pace, There passed before us for an hour a far And faded world of antique charm and grace. " THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE " VVTHEN spirit-voices call her from all care To pass unto a lovelier land than this, O blame her not, that dreamy girl and fair. Whose heart so yearneth for the Land of Bliss ! OLD IRISH SONGS l^^L/^HAT love, Avhat yearning went to make their charm, Their wistful tenderness and wild despair, Voicing a thousand years of Ireland's grief From Donegal's grey cliffs to lone Kildare! 404 To My Books AFTER HEARING OLD ENGLISH SONGS 'T'HE busy present seemed to melt and fade, And back to blithe old English country ways She carried us in dreams that golden hour With madrigals and glees and shepherd lays. AT A BEETHOVEN RECITAL V^7HAT dreams and j^earning reveries awoke, What loved melodious memories untold, While through the wintrj'^ sunset into dusk The golden music murmured, surged and rolled! AFTER A CHOPIN RECITAL 'T'HE cold blue moon hung low among the trees; Deep in the frozen woods the winds made moan; And through it all I heard great harmonies. Yearnings and hopes and dreams of wondrous tone. RUBINSTEIN'S " SPHAEREN-MUSIK " T IKE country-songs some lovely girl might chant Across the harvest fields at close of day, So seem those strange, sweet old-world melodies That laugh and sob and softly die away. MEMORIES OF HOME A STRANGE enchantment haunts the dear home hill. My heart it yearneth for the dear home stream. And odors from remembered roses fill The music and the magic of my dream. TO MY BOOKS I STREW soft roses sweet with early dawn Among your leaves because I love you so. O who will find these flowers when I am gone, And learn how well I loved you long ago.'' 4o: Ody sseus IN BEAUTY'S QUEST T WANDERED wide in Beauty's quest,- To see her face I followed far, I could not pause for ease or rest But still must chase my fleeting star. With eager feet at morn and night I searched for her by hill and stream, But never to my yearning sight Appeared the darling of my dream. Heart-sick I vowed I would forego My gipsy quest for evermore, And turned me home at last, — when, lo. The lost Sweet-heart beside my door ! ODYSSEUS t^AR did he fare upon the wine-dark sea. Divine Odysseus, weaver of all wiles ! For many moons he lingered in the isles Of fair enchantresses, though fain to flee, And ever longed his own dear land to see. Yet was he doomed to visit Hell's dark aisles And wander sore-distraught for weary miles. Ere he might greet again Penelope. O wondrous Wanderer ! what voyage can measure. In legend or in history, with thine .f* Not fabled Argo's with its golden treasure ; Nor his who sought to found the Latian line ; Nor his of Genoa, in western seas Touching on isles rich as Hesperides ! 406 Old Romance SAPPHO r\ SAPPHO, last and loveliest Muse, Thou Flower of starry Song, HoAv have thy golden fragments lived Throughout the ages long! The red, red apple hanging High on the topmost bough, — Ah, wistfully as in thy day We watch that apple now. Sweet childhood still enchants us As in that old-world hour When thou didst cherish one sweet child Fair as some golden flower. The roses, — dear, undying, By faery shores that blow, Whose bloom and fragrance touch us yet From out of Long Ago, The violet light of sunset Across the violet sea. The crocuses and daffodils That star the emerald lea — All these are thine unfading Throughout the ages long, O, Sappho, last and loveliest Muse, Thou Flower of starry Song! OLD ROMANCE {On Reading the Celtic Poems of Lionel Johnson) r^ REY Merlin in Broceliande, They say, is sleeping still; His wizard spirit haunteth yet Broceliande's dim hill. The mystery of Old Romance Dies not, nor ever will! 407 Schiller The worldly strive thro' weary days Their coffers deep to fill ; Romance, they hold, long since is dead, Forgotten Merlin's hill. Nay, Uther's son in Avalon Roams yet by mead and rill ; The ancient glamor of his name Haunts Usk and Severn still. If custom's thralls with gleaming gold May furnish chest and till, — That Arthur roams in Avalon To them doth nothing skill. Ah yet, tho' we may proudly prate Our news of mart and mill. Grey MerHn's spirit haunteth yet Broceliande's dim hiU. The mystery of Old Romance Dies not, nor ever will! SCHILLER A BOVE the dreaming thunders of Beethoven, Above the Minnesingers' joj'ous throng, One poet chants for me his golden numbers — Schiller, the tenderest heart of German song. Not Heine's wistful charm and lyric feeling. Not Goethe's mighty nmse serene and strong. Can e'er surpass my memoried affection For Schiller, tenderest heart of German song. O student days of mine, long lost forever. Let me not do your memory the wrong Now to forget that kindly friend you gave me — Schiller, the tenderest heart of German song ! 408 At Concord YOUNG FOE BESIDE THE HUDSON PRESIDE the dreamy river I meditate and dream And wonder if forever The phantoms of my dream Will sail the dreamy river — For silent and forever In soft delicious stream Adown the dreamy river Soft pageantries do stream Enthralling me forever — Far flows the dreamy river, From underworlds of dream And drowsy ghosts forever From poppied fields of dream Pass down the dreamy river — And drowsily forever They beckon from the stream As down the dreamy river They pass in sleepy stream And leave me lost forever — Lost by the dreamy river In poppied dream on dream And wondering if forever The phantoms of my dream Will sail the dreamy river. AT CONCORD L^ROM Harvard's halls how well I loved to roam By Concord's hills and woods and winding streams, And muse by Hawthorne's home or 'neath the trees Where Emerson was wont to weave his dreams ! 4UV At the Bwial of Lord Tennyson AT THE BURIAL OF LORD TENNYSON A S I roamed in Oxford's ancient meadows, by her classic stream, Came the word that England's Laureate now was passed beyond life's dream. Sleeping in October's moonlight, Shakespeare's volume by his side. He had crossed the bar, and drifted now on heaven's eternal tide. Leaving then those dreamy meadows, far I fared and mused awhile Where the Poet's long-loved landscape reaches mile on verdant mile To the shore where ancient ocean laves that green and ancient Isle. Then in London's mighty Minster I beheld the noble state Of the solemn service, 'mid the sleeping dust of England's great, — Kings and statesmen, saints and poets, levelled by one common fate. Up the solemn aisle they bore him, solemnly with honors meet; And I watched them as they laid him reverently at Chaucer's feet. While the ancient Abbey echoed with great music heavenly sweet. October, 1892 410 IVoodberry' s ''-Wild Eden' HORACE HOWARD FURNESS OuB Shakespearean TTHREE centuries did Master Shakespeare wait For an interpreter whose gift should be Upon his mighty verse to meditate With wit and sense and sweet humanity ; Pursuing merrily through every Play With genial satire and with kindly jest Those grave Malvolios of an elder day, Johnson, Malone, and Capell, and the rest ; A sage whose library, like Prospero's, Was dukedom large enough, where year by year, — 'Mid stout old tomes and lordly folios Shut up in measureless content, — with clear. Fine touch he did illume the Master's page With light that shall renown our prosy age. A WELL-LOVED AUTHOR LJE kept his youthful soul unto the end, What though the well-loved face grew worn and thin, — For youth and life and love were doubly dear To his warm heart that breathed them through "Hugh Wynne." .ON READING WOODBERRY'S "WILD EDEN" f^ OLUMBIA, — thy like I have not seen Since old-world Oxford charmed my happy eyes, Grey old-world Oxford tranquilly that lies Dreaming amid her river-meadows green. August! y seated like a statel}^ queen On thine acropolis, thy beauty vies With all thy sisters' charms ; yea, strange new ties Enthrall me as I watch this noble scene. 411 The Sky -Lark of the Poets Yet one rich voice I miss ; I come too late To hear his golden lore, his Attic dream : — Yet while his lyric page I meditate This summer eve by Hudson's lordly stream, I still may hear — most gracious and elate — The Plato of this little Academe. THE SKY-LARK OF THE POETS 'T'HROUGH English verse rings forth the sky-lark's song; And I have loved it long, — In Shakespeare's page, and Shelley's, and in one By Frederick Tennyson Less known but not less lovable. They each Report his heavenly speech; — In radiant music beautiful and bright They sing his starry flight. Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings! * * -* Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers. All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh, — thy music doth surpass. * * * How the blithe lark runs up the golden stair That leans through cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, And all alone in the empyreal air Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth! Of all the poets' songs none do I hear With more delighted ear Than hail the lark, "blithe spirit" of the air, With raptures of despair. Wordsworth's grave eloquence has won my heart; And Watson's later art ; And Mackay's lilting song; — each poet stirred By that small wondrous bird ! 412 The Sky -Lark of the Poets Leave to the nightingale her sluidy wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine. Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. Two 7vorlds hast thou to dwell in. Sweet, — The virginal, untroubled sky. And this vexed region at my feet, — Alas, but one have I! * * * bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare thee — As poets do xvhose hearts are true, for wings that will upbear thee — O! tell vie, tell me, bonnie bird. Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred? Or canst thou sing of nought but spring among the golden meadows? Now, as I close my book, and by the fire Dream to my heart's desire Of larks that lilt across the poets' page Untouched by grief or age, — The Ettrick Shepherd's artless verses stream Across my musing dream, And wake once more the old unclouded joy 1 felt when but a bo}' Chanting them idly in the glad sunshine Beside the Brandywine: — Bird of the wilderness. Blithesome and cumberless. Sweet be thy jnatin o'er moorland and lea! Eviblem of happiness. Blest is thy dwelling-place. — O to abide in the desert zvith thee! 413 To He?'bert Bates TO HERBERT BATES {On his "Songs of Exile") T^RUE Ocean-lover tliou, who far from home, From old sea-fronting cliff and streaming beach, With Poet's vision yet dost reach Across the wide still plains to where the foam Surges and seethes all day, Flinging its flaky spray O'er many a league of dripping oozy rock Whose sides are seamed and tortured with the shock And thunder of a thousand stormy years. The viking's blood along thine every vein Doth live again ! The ancient sea is sounding in thine ears ; And joy unto thy heart 'twould be, • Where hovering gulls are flying Beyond the curlew's crying. To climb the tossing ridges of the wild white northern sea ! Keen mariner, who dost rehearse Thine ocean-love in passioned verse Ebbing and flowing in recurrent tides, — About thy book abides The sweet fresh touch and tang of salty waves ; And glowing o'er thy gladsome staves. Still for the hundredth time there comes to me The charm and mystery. The strange weird wonder and delight. The sleeping indolence or whelming might, Which men have celebrated in the sea Since he of Chios hymned his Odyssey. Poet of Ocean, chanting foam-born strains 'Mid vast drear western plains, Not wholly do the prairies lack thy praise — Dead ocean-floors of old primeval days — And thy poetic thinking. Far-sundered ages linking, 414 To a Friend Is like the lonely fir-tree sung by thee, Which dreaming of its hilly home Above the flashing foam Where the rough world-edge meets the sea, — Though barred from dear-loved strand and sound of plunging wave, Still murmurs to the prairie Songs of Exile sweet and brave ! THE SILENT POETS * *(^F the lost Paradise much hast thou told; — ^^^ Of Paradise found what hast thou to say?" So spake young Ellwood, sitting at the feet Of him who sang in stately harmonies Man's first transgression and unhappy fall. "Of Paradise found, what hast thou to say?" Grave Milton answered not the Quaker youth, But sate in pensive muse, his mighty soul Stirred by new visions ; and in later days The second epic greeted Ellwood's eyes. High is the poet's joy : 'tis his to muse On truth and all fair things, and to enshrine In silver words the image of his dreams. But what of those whose friendly wisdom oft Doth shape his visions, — silent poets they, Who cherish in their hearts unwritten songs And hymns that gladden all the secret soul ! TO A FRIEND I A MONG thy garden's golden flowers We stood at sunset, thou and I, And watched the crimson clouds and gold Make glorious the western sky. A splendor filled that western sky And held us with its spell divine; 415 To a Friend We felt akin to men of old Who worshipped at some antique shrine. But never from an antique shrine Died out the splendor and the light More swift and sorrowfully dim Than paled that tract of heaven bright. What though it paled, that heaven bright, Like sails on visionarj' seas, — We know that Beauty still survives For us who are her devotees ! II Far down across the summer woods We heard the summer thunders roll. While in the deepening twilight hour I heard the story of thy soul. The moving story of thy soul, — Ah, how it woke my wistful dream And brought from half-forgotten years Grey memories in ghostly stream ! I saw them pass, a ghostly stream Of well-loved hopes, ah, lost for long! — Dear hopes that haunt my -vasion now Like echoes of a vanished song. Yet who would wake the vanished song Or live again old years of dream. When Faith and Beauty beckon on And fill each morn with golden gleam.'' Ill How Milton's music filled th}'^ heart In thy rich 3'outh, thou oft hast told; Wliile still I held that Shelley's page Had filled my dreams with songs of gold. With heavenly airs and songs of gold Did Shelley haunt my happy youth. And yet like thee I oft must turn To Wordsworth for sage words of truth. 416 To a Friend He spoke to thee sage words of truth, He lield me captive hour on hour, Whose simple love embraced alike The lofty peak, the lowly flower. Yea, he who loved the lowly flower I know is on our hearts enrolled With Milton and his music high. With Shelley and his songs of gold. IV Beethoven's symphonies august I heard thee play; and from that eve In many an hour of reverie His mighty song doth sob and grieve. Adagios that sob and grieve Have held me ever with their spell. Enchanting is their pensive charm, Their mj'stic power I may not tell. I may not fathom, may not tell The reveries that flood the soul While stately harmonies august Thou pourest from Beethoven's scroll. Twice blest, who from Beethoven's scroll "Ineffable art born along," And dost with sympathetic pen Portray his "deep harmonious song" ! V A boyhood vision came to thee, — Long years ago it seems, how long! — In music strange a voice was heard That bade thee give thy soul to Song. And thou hast given thy soul to Song And followed still her starry gleam, And she has yielded many a flower And sent thee many a golden dream. From flower and star and golden dream Thou wovest still a fabric fair, 417 Her Memory And ever through the silken woof Has run a thread of music rare. O visionary music rare That woke thy wonder as a boy, — Still may it bless with fadeless flowers 0/ innocence and peace and joy! AT BUCK HILL FALLS /^ OD'S free air blows about these mountain crests Sweet with the breath of oak and pine and beech, And ever sounds in accents soft and low The forest's mystic speech. Among these highland haunts of bird and flower Primeval peacefulness and beauty brood; No echo of the restless world may rise To this green solitude. Nature's unceasing music here is heard In tumbling cataract and foaming stream ; And far above the white clouds poise and drift Calm as a summer dream. Ah, sweet it is to banish for a space The weariness and tumult of the street, To thread wild upland paths and ferny glades In this remote retreat; To contemplate these mighty slopes serene Where league on league the shadowy woodlands roll, And find in murmurous leaf and sunset cloud Renewal of the soul! HER MEMORY {To D. H. W.) QHE seems to linger still as in a dream In this old home beside the silver stream, — A sweet and gracious memory, making bright The lonely house as with a spirit-light. 418 Saint Patrick LONGING FOR IRELAND {St. Patrick's Day) KINDLY of heart are the children of Erin, 'Tis they are the patriots loyal and true. Daughters and sons of the land of St. Patrick, — O but the heart of mc's longing for you ! It's down in the west by the fairy Killarney, It's far in the north by the Donegal shore. You'll find hospitality there by the plenty, — How my heart longs for you, Erin asthore ! Where are the names that have more of the love in them, Cork and Kinvarra, Dungarvon and Clare, — Dear old home-places beloved all the world around; O but the heart of me longs to be there ! Kinsfolk of mine in the green County Armagh, Sure, Ireland knows you for kindly and true: Here at the feast of the holy Saint Patrick O but the heart of me's longing for you! SAINT PATRICK /^ REEN Ireland, circled round by the ocean green, Home of a kindly race, of a kindly faith. Of folk who from ancient years have loved thee well And have mingled their ancient faith with their love for thee, — Of old did Patrick, the holy, walk thy fields. Pastured the sheep and prayed in the lonely hours. Prayed in the forests and far on the mountains and moors. And ever dreamed of heaven and home as he prayed. In Ulster he wrought, and in Leinster, many a year, — In "the Gospel's net" bringing men to the harbor of life. 419 Saint Patrick By shores of rivers turbid and deep and swift, By waters of Boyne and mighty Shannon he passed; Through valleys sweet with the lowing of peaceful herds, Sweet with the tinkling bells of sheep that roamed Amid the shamrock and deep in the clover blooms, On hillsides yellow with gorse, on mountain heights, — Old Slievenaman where the purple heather blows, And the larks pour out to the sun their passionate joy, — O'er moorlands grey in the twilight's wizard gloom. He passed, — that noble Saint, — and won to his love The flower of Ireland's sons with his wondrous words. Warriors and lords and kings before him knelt; Lowly and simple men forsook old faiths, — Old druid rites revered by their earliest sires, — To follow Christ's Apostle forevermore In his new and holy gospel of heavenly love. To holy Patrick, valorous, meek and wise, With his mien majestic, his gracious and kindly ways. Men listened gladly, moved by his power divine. To a warlike people he preached the dawn of Peace; To chieftains and princes he preached humility; To the druids and bards, a faith more marvellous. More strangely sweet, than the faiths of elder time. And over the emerald fields and the heathery hills. Over the shamrock meadows and mighty streams. Rose hymns of praise for Christ who reigns from the Cross, Hymns for Christ who befriendeth the humble and poor. And little children, and men despised of men. In Armagh sleepeth Patrick? or far in Saul, In Glastonbury, or by Downpatrick's wave? — No man may tell, — But long as the ocean green Shall lave thy lonely cliffs and emerald fields, His holy name. Green Isle, shall reverenced be As Christ's Apostle who taught thy early folk The kindly faith that blends with their love for thee. 420 Our Ancient Mother OUR ANCIENT MOTHER (Harvard College) l-JOME of the heart is she, of youth eternal, Of joy and dreams and fadeless April hours, A dedicated shrine of Truth supernal, A garden lovely with the Muses' flowers. By mystery and beauty is she haunted, By sorrow born of sweet and loyal tears ; Hers is the glamour of old days enchanted. And hers the pathos of the vanished years. "In our dear Attica" each antique portal. Each quaint colonial hall and elm-swept green, Is hallowed with remembrances immortal, — How magical their beauty and how keen! Yet sadness mingles with her golden graces. For those red walls dear recollection keep Of voices musical and memoried faces. Of comrades gone to their eternal sleep. How has she stirred the soul to finer vision. How has she waked the will to fuller might ! And how revealed in reveries elysian. The upward pathway beautiful and white! With tranquil tenderness and wistful pleading. She calls her sons to seek the noblest good; Not fretful nor insistent, nay, but leading Through silent power of her great motherhood. The blessings of that motherhood we cherish. High heritors of her majestic Past; Old Harvard's holy memories cannot perish; Grey tower and ivied wall they shall outlast. 421 Beside the Sea Serene, august, magnificent and hoary, In splendor rich, and rich in great renown, — Her children's love is yet her chiefest glory, And ''Veritas'' her sweet, sufficient crown. BESIDE THE SEA I SOMETIMES wish that I might be Alone beside the lonely sea, With only wife and children there To make the golden hours more fair. And one low room whose walls are lined With long-loved books to cheer the mind. O how enchanting it would seem Through quiet hours to muse and dream, And there beside the drift-wood fire To talk and laugh to heart's desire. Or watch the bonnie children play And romp beside the ocean spray ! And often by the sea we'd read Old songs of love and knightly deed, Old ballads out of Ireland brought, Fair tales by William Morris wrought. And blithe romances many a one By well-loved Louis Stevenson. And every happy dawn of day We'd ramble by the tossing spray, And listen all the afternoon Unto the sea's romantic rune. — Would not such days delightful be Beside the wild and wondrous sea ! 422 The Isle of Dreams A SEA-MEMORY I KNOW a sea-beach where the land comes down In wild green marshy meadows to the sea, And ends in flat grey rocks and tawny sand Whereon the tireless ocean-tide doth creep And crawl in languorous summer's sleepy days, Or moan and thunder through the dreadful nights Of deep midwinter, yet hath left unchanged That stretch of flat grey rocks and tawny sands. Here, many a dreamy August afternoon. Along the moist, hard sand-slopes have I paced And watched the whitening breakers roll and curve And plunge, sending a sheet of watery green, Flecked all with bubbles and with frothy foam, Far up across the grey sands to the base Of those grey rocks, then fleeting leave behind Myriads of little shells and weedy froth, While melancholy ocean sadly moaned And blent his murmurs with the cries of gulls That swept his tossing crests with tireless wing Along those marshy meadows by the sea. THE ISI.E OF DREAMS r\ SWEET are the verdant valleys, ^^^ And fair are the silver streams That flow by the fragrant alleys Afar in the Isle of Dreams ! There from dawn to the gloaming Under the dreamy trees, Sweet to list to the foaming And murmur of fairy seas. And when the moon is waning All in the rosy morn, Sweet is the soft complaining Of fairy flute and horn. 423 The Bodleian Library Lying among the roses There in the greenwood deep, The wanderer reposes Wrapt a magic sleep. Faint and far-heard singing Falls on his raptured ears, Elfin echoes ringing Out of the fadeless years. Filling his soul with sorrows, Melting his heart with ruth, Dreams of sad to-morrows. Visions of vanished youth. Full of a soft regretting He slumbers till dewy dawn. All the present forgetting Living in days long gone. O sweet are the sleep}^ shadows That haunt those sleepy streams. And sweet to lie in the meadows Afar in the Isle of Dreams ! " MUSA REGINA " {A Painting hy Henry 0. Walker) T O, here the Sovereign Muse inspires her son; He gathers power from her triumphant eyes. Through his bright song high victories shall be won And heroes fired to deeds of great emprise! THE BODLEIAN LIBRARY nPHE world hath not another home like this Of antique quietude and cloistered dreams; The deep-browed student here is wrapt in bliss. And Oxford's ancient light around him streams. 424 Princeton University Library HARVARD LIBRARY A N endless summer-tide of lettered peace Here have I found through long, long winter hours, Wandering in academes of golden Greece And England's gardens of poetic flowers. BROWN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY {The Harris Alcove) A CROSS the dreamy college green it looks, Beneath old dreamy silence-haunted trees. Here would I anchor by this isle of books And gather apples of Hesperides ! COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARY /^N this acropolis the city's noise Seems nothing, and its tumult faint and far; A sanctuary this of noble J03's Wliose portals ope to heaven and every star. AMHERST COLLEGE LIBRARY IT seems the heart of that green college town, 'Mid those green hills and near the fair green river ; And in its quiet alcoves one might drown All memories of the noisy world forever. PRINCETON UNIVERSITY LIBRARY TN that calm house, from Virgil's folios To Princeton's own true poet* did I roam. So kind the welcome that its guardians gave, — Each peaceful alcove seemed to me like home. ^Henry van Dyke 425 The Childre7i s Readi?ior-Room o VASSAK COLLEGE LIBRARY Y^/^ISDOM and peace and bcauW have their home In this high liouse adorned with Gotliic grace; And happy tliey who read innnortal books In so serene and beautiful a pUice. HAVERFORD COLLEGE LIBRARY T IMMURED among okl nioniory-haunted trees And wrapt around with quiet Quaker spell, How it hath ministered to chosen youth, How waked their hearts to wisdom — who may tell ! BRYN MAWR COLLEGE LIBRARY CERENITY and peace and sunny dream Have laid their blessing on these graceful towers. And airs august from Old AVorld Oxford seem To breathe amone; these courts and cloistered bowers. A LIBRARY BY THE SEA (Cohassct, Mass.) LJfERE twice a daj^ the tidal waters rise And flood the green salt meadows with soft foam. How fitting, that beside the eternal Sea Eternal Literature should have a home! THE CHILDREN'S READING-ROOM {New York City Public Library) V\7HAT would we not have given in childhood's day For such a realm of dear delight as this — Where wrapt in sunshine, beaut^^ color, joy. The little readers spend long hours of bliss ! 426 Across the U^orld THE NEW CATHEDRAL OF ST. JOHN THE DIVINE A S one who watched old Norman builders raise Pillar and glorious arch against the skies In holy and devoutly patient wise, To stand at last through all enduring days A temple and a home for God's high praise, — So do I watch pillar and arch arise. And muse how o'er the city's grieving cries This solemn pile its consecration lays. Columbia's sons : the great goal is not near ; Adown the decades shines the starry lure And calls you on through year by patient year. From yon slow-rising Minster learn this truth — He buildeth Godward steadfastly and sure Who buildeth firmly in his splendid youth. ACROSS THE WORLD {The Centennial Year of the American Bible Society) CLOVAK and Zulu, Muskokee and Kurd Alike may freely ponder on the Word; Latin and Lettish, Filipino, Greek In this old Volume may for solace seek, — So wide across the world, through joy, through tears. Has gone the Bible in these hundred years. It missioners have reached the friendly hand To men of every creed in every land ; Bearers of love to nations wide and far. For them all gates have gladly stood ajar; In paths of pleasantness they ever trod. Rejoicing thus to serve the living God; — So wide across the world, through joy, through tears, Has gone the Bible in these hundred years. 427 Grandfather s Farm Yeomen of Iceland through their long, long night Have searched the Scriptures and have found the light; Fijians, Irish peasants, Persians, Poles From its loved leaves draw comfort for their souls. The Servian, the Seneca, the Swede, Each in his home-land tongue its page may read; — So wide across the world, through joy, through tears, Has gone the Bible in these hundred years. And when we think how on the Flemish plains, Amid high Alpine snows, and Russian rains. Soldiers of every warring nation lay Hatred aside and seek at close of day The peaceful page and yield them to its spell, — Our gratitude beyond all words to tell Goes out to God who gave his servants grace To bear the Word to every land and race. LURGAN {In the County Armagh) LOVE thee, Lurgan, for the legends dim Inherited from thy ancestral earth, — The kindly parish, whence my kinsfolk drew Their share of Irish drollery and mirth. GRANDFATHER'S FARM I MUSE to-night on recollections sweet with fadeless charm. The far-off unforgotten days on dear Grandfather's Farm, Far in the southern region of that fertile county wide Where silver Susquehanna rolls its gleaming dreaming tide. O memory, call back once more those dear old days, and bring To weary boys a cooling draught from that delicious spring. 428 Grandfather s Farm Bring back again the apples, big and rosy-red and bright, — I still can hear them thumping down in quiet of the night ! — And waft to me the musky scent of purple grapes once more. And pears whose yellow mellowness we loved so well of yore; Bring back the luscious berries on the tangled brambles there, And the quaint old-fashioned melons with their flavor sweet and rare ! And let me hear again the birds we loved so long ago, The robins fluting 'mid the apple-blossoms' pearly snow, The meadow-larks that called across the valley wild and sweet. And black-birds and bobolinks that piped above the wheat. How beautiful in memory beside the quiet road The old brick house knee-deep amid the fragrant flowers that glowed In peaceful summer beauty ! There the bright corchorus flowered Beside the trellised porch with honeysuckle all embowered, Where in the dreamy Sunday afternoons of long ago. Dressed in our best the little cousins sat, — a happy row. And listened to the stories which the older folks would tell About their childhood doings, — O I still recall the smell Of that sweet-breathed honeysuckle, and I still can hear the bees That mixed their droning murmurs with the drowsy sum- mer breeze ! I still can smell the warm sweet grass wherein we loved to lie And watch the great cloud-fleets that sailed across the silent sky; 429 yohn N, Russell And far beyond, we seemed to see the heavens shining through On us enchanted children from those skies of summer blue. Those days are gone, and those old folks now sleep in quiet rest ; But still the cloud-fleets fade afar down in the sleepy west. The flowers that bloomed by those old walls have faded many a year, And all those happy days live but in recollection dear ; And other children dream beside that porch 'mid other flowers. — O may their memories be half as beautiful as ours. Be half as rich in recollections of the wondrous charm Of far-off unf orgotten days at dear Grandfather's Farm ! JOHN N. RUSSELL (1804—1904) T THINK of it with mingled joy and tears, The quaint old Farmstead where he used to dwell; For he is gone who loved it long and well. With her who walked beside him through the years. He long has gone, but Memory endears The well-loved place, and still a pensive spell Breathes from its silent loneliness to tell Its hallowed story to our yearning ears. He long has gone from us ; but there remain His sympathy and truth and kindliness And his high honor that knew not a stain. These cannot fail, but shall remain to bless, — New-consecrated by this centuricd day, — The children of his lineage for aye. 430 A Portrait Painter ACROSS THE YEARS SOMETIMES, in precious moments, I can hear Old memoried echoes beautiful and dear, — M}' mother's music, — while her sweet girl-face Yearns from across the years with tender grace. BERGAMOT C\\SQ thoughts, old friends, old songs came back to-day, And buried recollections half-forgot, — When in a sunny garden bright with bloom I drank the fragrance of the bergamot. BALTIMORE CTRAIGHT did we sail into the silver west Till at the rosy ending of the day Lo, where the tranquil city purple-robed Stood like a comely queen above the bay ! Here first one feels the glamour of the South, Its tenderness, its fine and wistful grace; The city's dreamy beauty stirs the heart Like some fair southern girl's patrician face. Wliat pathos haunts her hills and olden streets They who revere the muses sadly know, — Here walked with eyes a-dream Sidney Lanier, Here sleeps among the shadows Edgar Poe. A PORTRAIT PAINTER Che is the friend who reverently sees God's beauty in the clouds and flowers and trees ; And, best of all, in faces loved and fair Can paint the heavenly spirit shining there. 431 Aiken s Portrait A QUAKER GIRL'S PORTRAIT "DEHOLD this portrait here, This likeness of a damsel dreamy-dear. Did she not draw her charm From life on some green-acred farm Whose fresh sweet air Makes maidens blithe and fair? Did she not draw her spirit's dainty fire From that brave Flemish sire Who made a score of rebels run When William fought with James at Boyne, — Her kindly cheer From that old Irish county dear Where all the day Folks talk in "shanacus" the hours away! With no pretence, — So modest she, — her's is the wit and sense Descended straight From ancestors of wisdom and of weight, Quakers of loving heart. Who in their neighborhood bore well their part : Dear mothers fair, Of character benignant, sweet and rare; And sires of old. Strong men and valiant, of heroic mould. — • All this I see in this bright portrait here Of this young Quaker damsel dreamy-dear. AILEEN'S PORTRAIT (A Painting bzj Helleu) HO knows her? W^ho knows This slip of a wild Irish rose? I have heard of her charm, Though her face I've not seen, — This beautiful young Irish queen, Aileen ! 432 W^ The Golden Wedding AVho may fathom her spirit, — how keen The joy at the heart of Aileen! Her pictured face here Shows her dreamy and dear, And her pensive s^lance muses and glows As she dreams of her "wild Irish rose." Dear daughter of dreams, may she be Through all time the bright soul that I see In her pictured face here, — The lovely and lovable child. With her wonderful wild Irish spirit romantic and keen, Aileen ! Aileen ! THE GOLDEN WEDDING (7. n. C. and M. C. C.) 'T'HE long half-hundred years have rolled To this the happy year of gold. The full rich fifty years that tell Of lives spent honorably and well. After the ocean's sun and storm, The haven's shelter safe and warm ; After the guiding pilot-star. The beacon on the harbor-bar. Your star, — God's love that cannot cease ; Your haven, — deep enduring peace. Now upon this golden shore Count your greatest blessings o'er: Children, and their children too. Loyal, loving, kindly, true; Hearts of gold that shall hand down Record of your fair renown, 438 Consolation Echoing in form and face Heritage of strength and grace, Following still your simple creed, Honorable in word and deed, Handing on your kindly fame To the latest of your name. Worthy you and worthy they Of our solemn joy to-day, When the fifty years have rolled To this happy year of gold. And the genial clan we see Gathered 'neath the home roof-tree. Offering their reverence due, Loving you and honoring you. May God's love that cannot cease Give you deep enduring peace. And the memory of this day Hallow and hearten us for aye. CONSOLATION I T^HE daffodils shone round my wandering feet All dewy and golden and sweet, The little blue violets lay like soft stars in the grass. The meadow-lark carolled across the green acres of wheat. I watched the white cloud-islands pass And mingle and melt in the limitless heavenly sea, Mingle and melt and fade in the rose-tinted west. Till the lark went to rest 484 Consolation And all through the gi*ass on green hillside and lea The bright starry flowers had fallen asleep In their night-slumber deep. II A little child rambled and romped all the sunny long day In joyous and innocent play; How happy her song and how jocund her merry sweet noise! I longed for the power of the painter, so might I portray The charm of that little one's joys, As warmed by the sun and caressed by the summer-soft air She seemed a true sister of birds and of flowers, — That girleen so bonnie and fair. Singing on through the sunny-bright hours. Ill I saw by the ocean a sunset of purple and gold ; Far down in the south fled a thunder-cloud dim, And the thunder still muttered and rolled. Though faint and more faint till it failed on the rim Of the billowy, heaving, wild fields of the sea Late vanquished and vext by the turbulent storm. How delicious and warm The flaming soft cloud, all ablaze With the myriad hues of the rainbow that hung o'er the lea. While the west seemed enwrapt in a luminous haze, — A light and a glory that live with me yet ; Its wonder how can I forget ! IV And now at some line or some musical magical word Of the well-beloved poet Lanier is my memory stirred. And I muse on the pathos that sings Through the sobbing of flutes and the yearning of eloquent strings, 436 ''Elmwood'" The lordly and eloquent voices of violoncellos, The bass-viol's murmuring deep, And the horn's clear victorious clangor that mellows And dies into dream-music tranquil as sleep: — To these I could listen forever, Listen, and muse in a tremulous dream. While the harmony flows like a deep shining river, A golden and glorious stream. V O, what do they say to our hearts, — the rich music, — the child, — • The flowers, — and the thunder-cloud wild, — So wonderful they. So wonderful, touching, harmonious, each in its way? That God's in his heaven, alVs right with the world, as he sang, Our great-hearted Browning; — that the message which rang In the harping of David, — the wonder that rolls Through the harmony Shakespeare applauded in beautiful souls. Will heal our heart-sickness, and bless, — 'Mid our foolish and pitiful world-weariness, — With their peace and victorious calm. Will bless with their healing and heaven-sent balm. "ELMWOOD" {Cambridge, Mass.) I UNE'S "perfect days" that Lowell loved so well Could find no home more beautiful than here, Where ancient elms and wildly flowering shrubs Caress the rambling house he held so dear. 486 At a Performance of ^^Comus" PAGANINI'S VIOLIN T N Genoa's minster John the Baptist sleeps ; From here sailed Godfrey on the First Crusade ; Upon her roll of admirals she keeps Columbus, whose renown shall never fade. Her graves, her names, her palaces, all tell Of glory past, of splendor that hath been. One only relic with a living spell Still speaks to us to-day From out tlie far-away : — Great Paganini's wizard violin. O, its imagined and immortal tones With what compelling pathos spoke to me, Above all monuments, all martyrs' bones Cherished by this bright city of the sea ! WHEN DOROTHY PLAYS "Y^JHEN Dorothy plays, it resembles a harp With its sobbing and sibilant strings. Now merry and mad. Now pensive and sad, — How lovely the lilt as her fancy takes wings ; And under her fingers how fondly it sings. As she touches the sibilant strings ! Play, Dorothy, play. Till at dying of day Thy music shall lull to repose In the twilight of purple and rose. AT A PERFORMANCE OF "COMUS" 'T^HE joyous students deckt in costume quaint. The high verse chanted in soft summer air, — Fresh beauty gave to Milton's golden lines, His noble sentiments and precepts fair. 437 Her Beautiful Singing THE VIOL, THE HARP, AND THE REEDY BASSOON Q WONDROUSLY wistful and tender the somnolent measures Poured from the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon ! I think I could sit in the shadows and listen forever Rapt by the spell of the strange and enchanting soft tune. With you, O my dreams, I could linger and listen forever, Delighted and soothed by the somnolent flow of the tune That weaves and upbuilds me a tangle of magical music Poured from the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon. Visions and memories waken that long have been sleeping, Stirred by the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon ; Phantoms of flowers and of songs of the far-away summers Rise at the sound of the haunting and eloquent tune. The sweep and the sway of the plaintive and somnolent measures Charm and enchant me and flood all my thought with the tune. As I dreamily sit in the shadows and listen delighted To the song of the viol and harp and the reedy bassoon. HER BEAUTIFUL SINGING (On hearing Louise Homer) "D EAUTIFUL, golden, and tender with tears. Waking old echoes from memory's years. Touching his heart who with happiness hears The flow of her beautiful singing. Wonderful, sweet, the melodious roll Of music from some old composer's great scroll. Given warm life and endowed with a soul, By the charm of her wonderful singing ! 438 Music Manuscripts Beautiful, yearning witli mystical power, — Song that is sister of cloud and of flower, — Long let me cherish the memoried hour That brought me her beautiful singing ! "THE SONG OF THE SHEPHERD LEHL" {A Victrola Record hy Alma Gluck) V^HAT a very, very merry song of love and laughter, Telling of the maidens on their happy holiday ; What a jolly shepherd in the mountain meadows piping,- Piping to the maidens in the woodlands at their play ! Ever could I listen to this singing sweet and tender, Ever could I listen to the happy shepherd play ; — Wonderful the art that can bring to mine own fireside The music and the beauty of an Alpine holiday! MUSIC MANUSCRIPTS (In the New York Public Library) T MMORTAL music in such fragile form ; Such precious manuscripts, — O guard them well ! V^Tiat tenderness and passion must the}^ hold. What yearning aspiration, who may tell? Here Wagner has inscribed with strong bold hand The moving fire and ferment of his soul ; Here Mozart's notes minute and fairy-fine Are woven in a heart-revealing scroll. The glorious harmonics that Haydn knew, The majesty of Bach's great organ-peal, And Mendelssohn's melodious, pensive dreams, — These wondrous pages touchingly reveal. And does this yellowed stain tell where a tear Fell from the old composer's brimming eye As musingly from forth the keys he called Remembrances of magic days gone by.'' 439 Easter Anthems Is this uncertain, wavering phrase the sign Of some great tenderness that touched his heart ; And does this wistful wild cadenza show His proud and splendid mastery of his art ? How may I tell the joy of that rich hour When high above Manhattan's roar I heard Immortal music sounding from the leaves Of those old manuscripts all dim and blurred ! THE SONGS OF HAWAII Y^/'HAT love, what melancholy, what emotion Thrill the wild poets of that golden land Where round old Molokai the mighty ocean Thundering upon white leagues of shining sand Thrills the wild poets' hearts with deep emotion ! Their mournful songs throb with a savage glory Magnificent beyond all words to tell ; — Only the heart that loves can feel their story, Only the heart that grieves feel their wild spell And throb with sympathy for their sad glory. O could Beethoven but have known their splendor, How richly had he built, with these for theme, Some symphony of power and pathos tender. Leading us through an unimagined dream Down avenues august of mournful splendor ! EASTER ANTHEMS {In the ancient Church of St. John Lateran) T^HE bright-stoled cardinals and bishops shone Like stately flowers, while high above them soared Celestial notes from voices of j^oung boys Chanting the glory of the risen Lord. Rome, 1893 440 By Airship from Sea to Sea RUSSIAN HYMNS {In the Cathedral of St. Nicholas) A NGELIC voices soared and sighed and mourned In heavenly canticle and stately hymn, While the majestic echoes slowly died Adown far spaces shadowy and dim. TOWARD GREECE /^ NCE from an old Italian hill I gazed Toward Greece with yearning, past all words to tell ; Nor nearer have I seen, save in bright dreams, Hellas, that holds me by her antique spell. AT HORACE'S SABINE FARM LJ OW wild this spot, how rustic and remote. Where once the happy poet had his home And 'mid these ancient meadows tuned his pipes Far from the roar and din of dusty Rome ! BY AIRSHIP FROM SEA TO SEA (An Imaginary/ Voyage) VVriTH sure and powerful lift of mighty wings We towered high above the Golden Coast, Then heading eastward soared through azure tracts And vast savannahs of the buoyant air In steady flight toward home, — the little home Among the apple trees and well-loved fields Of our ancestral farm beside the waves Of old Atlantic. As we swung through space I leaned far out and saw recede and fade Estuary and gulf and steel-blue sea And endless orchard-lands and peaceful farms; 441 By Airship from Sea to Sea Then soon we swept above Nevada's hills And glassy lakes inlaid in forests green, And so in easy smooth delightful flow High o'er strange melancholy chasms and cliffs And monstrous mountains where no human eye Hath ever looked, no foot of man hath ranged. Since old upheavals raised them from the ooze. Far down and faintly h,eard the eagles screamed Among the world-old Colorado peaks, Elsewise as still as death ; while warm soft rains Washed us from billowing clouds, and sudden ceased. And sunlight flashed again. Afar we soared O'er many an ancient winding Indian stream Like metal strands threading the emerald woof, And beautiful of name, — Osage, Sheyenne, Neosho, Chattanooga, Tennessee, — And saw the Kansas counties league on league Verdant with waving corn, and in the night Beheld pale moonlit countrysides far down And cities drowsy in the deep of night, — A phantom world of weird and silent gloom. — O God, how lonely and how lost we seemed. How far away the little fields of home, In those cold midnights up beneath the stars ! All day the steady flapping of vast wings That wakened boyish dreams of that great roc In the old Arabian tale; all night the swing And rhythmic pulsing of the enormous bird That bore us so serenely down the sky And faltered not in its majestic flight Beneath the wheeling planets strewn around With pale star-dust and rainy-golden mists. Through old immensities of chilly space. Among cloud-islands desolate as doom. Through rosy sunsets and through rosy dawns. 442 By Airship from Sea to Sea While o'er the continent with velvet speed, — As of some giant gull stemming the trades, — We floated, now in sunlight, now in dusk. And gazed on far-stretched landscapes laid below, How fair Missouri's pampas warm and ripe With golden miles of wheat, how beautiful Kentucky's fertile meadow-lands, how fair Green Georgia's pines and languorous fields and fens. And Alabama basking in the sun! And now the last morn broke, and hovering O'er old Atlantic's rim, we saw once more Estuary and gulf and steel-blue sea And silver lapse and foaming of white waves For mile on mile of pearly sands, and watched The fishing fleets and mighty liners crawl Like faery barks across the wrinkled sea Off Carolina's coast where Hatteras Juts into restless ocean, and far up Beyond the frothy capes of Chesapeake Where driving gusts of storm beneath us hid The continent and hid the bellowing sea Whose hoarse voice rose about us mournfully In one long melancholy wail; yet still The vast wings oared us on our steady course, And pacing our small platform back and forth We felt the foggy damp of glooming clouds Drip from the sodden cordage and the sting Of briny fragrant breezes, — till we rushed Forth into flashing sunlight, coasting north Beyond the fields of Delaware, and last Came down with graceful swing and smooth descent Among the apple trees and well-loved fields That lie about our dear ancestral home Here by the grey Atlantic's plunging tides. 448 That is the. I^ife for Mel THAT IS THE LIFE FOR ME! npHE farmer follows the shining share Plowing for winter wheat, And while he furrows the mellow earth His song is lusty sweet, — some folks love the city, — 'Tis there they'd rather be; But a co7intry wife and a country life, O that is the life for me! At the end of every furrow long His horses stop and steam, And he gazes down the wide hill-slope In a momentary dream. He looks on the roofs of his old gray home And thinks of the dear ones there, His bonnie wife with her wistful smile. And his children rosy-fair ; And he sings: In the smoky city Some folks woidd rather he; But the country ways and the country days, O they are the days for me! And then the horses jog along, And he sings with j oily cheer. While deep in his heart he thanks the Lord For home and his darlings dear. He thanks the Lord that a friendly fate Has linked him to the sod. Where he can live as his fathers lived And worship his fathers' God ; 444 The Delaware River And plowing there for the winter wheat His song is lusty and brave and sweet, — some folks love the city, — 'Tis there they'd rather be; But a country zcife and a country life, O that is the life for me, dear heart, that is the life for me! THE DELAWx\RE RIVER T^HE River, this radiant day, is wondrous fair. Moving majestic between the purple woods And the exquisite green of lawns and of level farms ; Its lambent silver warm in the drowsy sun. And broken only when some tall ship sweeps by. Leaving a winding wake of bubbling foam That swirls away into eddies and wreathing rings. On high the clouds of pearl and of tumbled snow Drift to the west and fade o'er the emerald hills. Followed by fuming smoke from the throbbing tugs That draw the flat-boats heavy with hay and Avood, Or take some black-hulled vessel toward the sea To voyage across the world ere yet again She sweeps with a swirl of foam between these shores And wakes these emerald hills with her horn's deep boom. Far off, two ghostly ships bear swiftly down. Cleaving the silver surface with steady rush And sending lines of ever-widening waves That ripple and dance among the reeds by the shore. The "Usk" and the "Ethelwold" they, — romantic names And fit for these swift, bright ships that wander wide ! 446 Horace Howard Furness O never enough do I see of this splendid Stream, — Whether far up where it flows amid mountain walls, Primeval, beautiful, wild as in those dim days When the Indian warriors dwelt by its flashing tides ; Or where in calmer reaches it laves the fields Of ancient farms where quiet Quakers lived, — Those generations of kind, unworldly folk ; Or here where the stately ships set out for the sea With swift reverberant throb of their pulsing screws And swish of swirling foam that whitens the blue With heaving lanes of choppy, bubbling froth, — Tall ships, that swim in the golden sunset hour Through fields of lucent gold till they fade like ghosts, Fade and vanish afar in the misty blue Adown the radiant River that seeks the sea, — The Delaware, dear through many a memoried year. THE DELAWARE AT CAPE MAY W HO, standing by the marge of that white beach, Can watch the tossing seas without emotion, Where the great river brings its mighty flood To meet at last and mingle with the ocean ! AIR-SHIPS AT WILLOW GROVE T LOVE those stately "ships"; — a fascination Haunts their high steady flight above the trees, Circling with majestic swift gyration. While far-borne music floats upon the breeze. HORACE HOWARD FURNESS H E seemed the soul of kindly courtesy, Of sunny friendship and of genial cheer ; — Last of our race of old-time gentlemen, He left a memory beloved and dear. 446 Rarly Dutch Farmers THE LAND OF PENN r^ REAT Commonwealth, thy children feel deep pride ^"^ When musing on thy history, and when They hear the bead-roll of those noble sons Whose homes and deeds make dear "the Land of Penn." THE SUSQUEHANNA QOUTHEY and ardent Coleridge dreamed of thee As noblest of the waters of the west; And Stevenson held thee dear; but thy own bard, Thy own home-poet Mifflin, loves thee best. THE FORKS OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AGNIFICENT the sweep of waters here, M Down from great mountain gateways far and dim,- A friendly force that bears fertility To endless orchards, farms and gardens trim. THE JUNIATA LJIGH on the roll of earth's romantic streams Thy name, blue Juniata, still shall stand, — Bright river, winding league on sylvan league Among majestic mountains wild and grand. THE DELAWARE AT PENN'S MANOR A S peacefully it flows to-day as when Great Penn dwelt here beside its silver tide; And still his tranquil spirit seems to bless This realm of fertile farms and orchards wide. EARLY DUTCH FARMERS COME legend lingers in Monroe and Pike Of antique farms along the old "Mine-road" O'er which the drowsy Dutchmen drove their wains Of cider and wheat in many a ponderous load. 447 General Peter Muhlenberg THE EARLY SWEDES (Tinicum Island) T) EMOTE and very far away they seem; And yet at Tinicum I find some trace, Some echo of that pious, thrifty folk, In this quaint, sleepy and old-fashioned place. CONRAD WEISER L-I E sleeps at Womelsdorf , the good old man, Loved b}^ the Indians from his early youth ; They put their trust in him, their faithful friend. Their champion, armed with honesty and truth. COUNT VON ZINZENDORF /^ OOD missionary-nobleman, thy name We cherish still with reverent esteem. As his who taught the simple forest sons The hope of heaven and the Christian dream. THE MORAVIANS ^ OT theirs to walk the ways of public life. To join the forum's crowd or take up arms ; But still to pass their days in kindly peace Among their pleasant towns and thrifty farms. OLD PENNSYLVANIA IRON-MASTERS t) UTTER and Nutt and Lincoln, Potts and Bird,— All honor to those sturdy men of old, Whose furnaces and forges paved the path Unto our State's prosperity untold! GENERAL PETER MUHLENBERG ' ' A TIME to preach," he said, "and time to fight,"- Staunch warrior-parson of heroic breed; One of those valiant patriots of old Who wrought for liberty by word and deed. 448* yames Logan s House ROBERT FULTON'S BIRTHPLACE {Lancaster County) "lyiT'HAT lessons learned he from the fairy waves That sang to him the secret of their power, When here by Conowingo's winding stream He sailed his boats in boyhood's magic hour ! JOSEPH PRIESTLEY'S GRAVE AT NORTHUMBERLAND pREACHER beloved of Coleridge and of Lamb, He fed their spirits as with Heavenly lore ; Now 'mid the quiet Quaker graves he sleeps In this old town by Susquehanna's shore. "WHEATLAND" {The home of James Buchanan) T GRIEVE for his lost happiness who left The groves and meadows of this fair estate, This beautiful retreat, — to waste his days In struggling with an all unfriendly fate. THE PENN STATUE ON CITY HALL {Philadelphia) Q.REAT-HEARTED Pcnn; how tranquilly he looks Toward Shakamaxon b}' its storied stream, High o'er our little tumults and annoy, Wrapt in the mazes of his mighty dream ! JAMES LOGAN'S HOUSE {At Stenton) LJ ERE stands the stately house where Logan lived, A witness of the ample days of yore ; What antique ceremonial here hath passed. What noble figures thronged this welcoming door ! 449 Independence Hall OLD PHILADELPHIA STREETS <- ^rjUTHBERT" and "Apple Tree,"— what quaint old names, Speaking of bygone days and bygone men ! Amid their mouldering beauty one may walk And almost see the small town loved by Penn. LOWER CHERRY STREET (Philadelphia) LJERE is a fragment, perfectly preserved, Of that small old-time city of our sires. Through such a precinct might "Hugh Wynne" have walked To greet his ships home from the English shires. OLD STRAWBERRY STREET ( Philadelphia ) T^ HE roaring traffic throngs the streets beyond, But in this tranquil byway peace still reigns ; And here at twilight, ancient worthies walk, And ghostly faces peer from out the panes. THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN (Philadelphia) LJ ARD by the olden streets he loved so well. All heedless now he sleeps, the genial sage; Type of our New World wisdom, sense and thrift, — His memory greener grows from age to age. INDEPENDENCE HALL TN calm and simple dignity it stands, Matchless memorial of heroic years. What lover of our land can pace these halls And muse upon their past untouched by tears ! 450 The Philadelphia Cathedral THE PORTRAITS IN INDEPENDENCE HALI. T) EFORE the pictured patriots on these walls How good it is in reverent mood to stand, Musing upon their valiant loyalty And their triumphant spirit calm and grand! THE BETSY ROSS HOUSE {Fldiladel'phla) Y^HO holds great shrines and stately halls alone Worthy of worship and illustrious fame? Behold the endless pilgrim stream that seeks This little, lowly house of noble name. THE GRAVE OF JOHN MORTON {^St. James* Chtirch, Chester) LJERE sleeps the Signer who in his last hour Still gloried in his life's consummate deed, When with those hero-hearts of '76 He set his name to Freedom's new-born creed. THE GRAVE OF JAMES WILSON (Christ Church, Philadelphia) l-I E wrought with noble heart and spacious mind To guide our young Republic on its way. How fitting that his dust at last is laid By this historic temple old and gray ! THE PHILADELPHIA CATHEDRAL LJERE daily many a soul finds solace true In revery and prayer 'neath this great dome, 'Mid all the antique beauty that makes fair Their faith who love the mother-church of Rome. 451 Arch Street M, E. Church AT YEARLY MEETING \^7HEN in cathedral aisles I walked to-day, Then went and worshipped with the tranquil Friends, — How beautiful they seemed, those sister Faiths, Each in its own way seeking noble ends ! THE GRAVEYARD OF OLD ST. PETER'S CHURCH (Philadelphia) V^HAT recollections haunt these hallowed stones Caressed by vines and many a fondling flower, — 'Round this old church where Washington communed, Finding deep peace through many a tranquil hour ! VESPERS AT HOLY TRINITY (Philadelphia) nPHE yearning twilight hymn, the reverent rites, The gracious words of hope, the organ's roll, All speak to me of him, — here well-beloved, — Of Phillips Brooks, that great and simple soul. THE CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION (West Philadelphia) T IKE that old London church where Goldsmith lies, It dreams in silence near the surging street, — A quiet refuge, offering to all men The solace of a faith benign and sweet. ARCH STREET M. E. CHURCH (Philadelphia) "VTO lover of the Gothic's noble power And beauty as of the spirit, but must feel The charm of this white church whose gracious spire Points to the heavens with beautiful appeal. 452 The Old Chew Mansion THE OLD PHILADELPHIA BAR g RADFORD, Meredith, Binney, Biddle, Rawle, Brewster, and many another honored name. Make bright the roll of wise and courteous men Who give our Philadelphia Bar its fame. THE LAW SCHOOL {University of Pennsylvania) V^ILSON and Sharswood are remembered here; 'Mid the great jurists' names theirs hold high place, Here where their noble lore fitly is taught In halls adorned with dignity and grace. A STREET-PIANO IN LOGAN SQUARE 1\/f EN smile and step more lightly down the street. Young girls hum o'er the tune, the children dance. And trees and grass and flowers in that old square Gleam in the golden sunlight of romance. JOHN BARTRAM'S GARDEN (Philadelphia) nr O one who wanders down these sylvan slopes. Amid these lanes of bowering greenwood old. There comes a dream of ancient Arcady And happy islands of the Age of Gold. THE OLD CHEW MANSION (Germantown) A S quaintly dignified it seems to-day. Its old-time beauty is as stately yet, As when it stood in midst of Freedom's war Or later welcomed glorious La Fayette. 453 The Old Meeting-House THE MORRIS HOUSE {Germantown) "QREAMING of Washington and Jefferson— Of their deliberations once the scene — It standeth like some veteran of old time, Peaceful and patient, dignified, serene. GETTYSBURG V\/^ITH Salamis it ranks, and Waterloo, In Freedom's annals glorious and bright. Where ocean-floods of Error surged in vain Against the serried champions of Right. THE STATUE OF GENERAL MEADE {Fairmount Park) f: CTERNNESS and pity warring in his breast, ^ His calm eyes glowing with supernal light. He rides as in those days at Gettysburg — Our own home-hero, matchless in his might. THE PEACEFUL BRANDYWINE T ONG have I loved that fair, romantic stream Whose sylvan music charmed me as a child ; Fair stream, now winding 'mid the peaceful farms. And now 'mid woodlands beautiful and wild. THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE {On Brandywine Battle-field) V\7HERE once around this olden Quaker shrine Thundered the boom of guns and trumpet's blare. Now golden harvests crown the peaceful hills And balmy roses scent the summer air. 454 General Anthony Wayne OLD ST. DAVID'S CHURCH AT RADNOR LJ OW simple, touching, beautiful it is. This little church among its ancient trees Set like some Old-World isle of heavenly calm Amid our troubled time's uncertain seas! THE GRAVE OF "INDIAN HANNAH" {Near Embreeville) T AST of her race, the lonely Indian lies Beside Wawassan's wild and wandering stream ; And where her fathers led the forest chase, Now farms and orchards lie in peaceful dream. THE "STAR-GAZER'S STONE" (Chester County) l\/f ASON and Dixon spent a winter here "Star-gazing" by the frozen Brandywine; And this their quaint rude stone is standing yet Memorial of the laying of their "Line." HUMPHRY MARSHALL'S GARDEN {Chester County) QTILL grow the oaks, magnolias and pines Which he, the friend of Franklin, planted here ; And in the ancient county where he dwelt Our Quaker sage's memory is dear. GENERAL ANTHONY WAYNE T F "mad" at all, thou wert but nobly mad, And fearless 'mid the roar of hostile guns. Intrepid hero, well thy mother-shire Holdeth thee high 'mid her immortal sons ! 455 Great Pennsylvania BAYARD TAYLOR'S GRAVE A T Longwood lies the dust of him we loved, Lulled by the birds and summer breezes soft ; And o'er yon hills his deep-loved Kennett grieves For him who sang of her at "Cedarcroft." WEST CHESTER 1— IE ART of Penn's ancient county, — well I love Thy kindly homes, thy streets, thy pealing chimes, Thy fields and groves, and old historic haunts Still fragrant with the charm of bygone times. COATESVILLE THHEY do misjudge thee much who take as type An ignorant mob with helpless passion blind. Rather, I think of thy old sturdy stock Of folk benignant, upright, gracious, kind. AT THE BIRTHPLACE OF BENJAMIN WEST (Swarthmore) ' IV/f ID England's mighty dead in tranquil sleep He rests, beside great London's central roar, — The Quaker painter, who in boyhood roamed These fields and watched the sunset from this door. A WOODLAND NEAR SWARTHMORE A^T'HEN sunset lays its charm on these weird oaks And fills with faerie glamour all the wood, How easy seem old legends to believe. How near the ballad-days of Robin Hood ! GREAT PENNSYLVANIA /^ REAT Commonwealth, what child of thine but loves Thy hills and streams and fields of rich increase — Woodland-of-Penn, set 'mid thy neighbor States, Eternal pledge of Brotherhood and Peace! 456 Pennsylvania PENNSYLVANIA I LOVE thy virgin woodland streams That in deep meadows croon their ancient dreams, Bright rivers born of forest fountains And lit by sunny gleams, Cradled afar among thy lonely mountains ; On their primeval charm the Indians set INIelodious names remembered 3^et : Juniata, Monongaliela, Allegheny, Susquehanna, Wawassan, Conewango, Conestoga. II I love thy verdant, widespread, fertile shires, Settled by our heroic sires And called by them from those gray homeland places By Old World croft and mere. Round which our antique races Wove their devotion deep and dear Through year on historied year : Lancaster, Lawrence, Cameron, Cambria, Somerset, Huntingdon, Montgomery. Ill I love thy pleasant towns ; each seems to stand The peaceful heart of its green land, — Quaint towns wherein what kindly recollection. What warmth of heart and hand Keep olden memories fresh; what leal affection 457 Pennsylvania Cherishes with its genial spell Saxon and Celtic names loved long and well !- Darhy, Kennett, Birmingham, Selkirk, Powys, Duncannon, Gwynedd, Tyrone, Avondale, IV I love the sites that history enrolls High on her honored scrolls, The fields that give our Commonwealth a glory, A legendary fame Magnificent in song and story. Peace-lovers though Ave be, deep were his shame Who loved not each immortal name, — Valley Forge, Brandy wine Battlefield, Gettysburg, Germantown! Thy streams, thy mountains, thy deep woods. Thy pleasant towns and pastoral solitudes. Where Old-World folk, Scotch-Irish, German, Quaker, Led forth by zeal divine. Sought liberty to praise their Maker, — Stir every son of thine To loyalt}^ undying, noble, fine, Woodland-of-Penn, Great Keystone State, Beloved Pennsylvania! 458 Crowned and Sainted AT PENN'S MANOR XJERE came the Founder in the far-off days, And 'mid these fields and by this noble stream In rustic quiet loved to meditate Upon the young republic of his dream. CROWNED AND SAINTED {In Memory of Susan B. Anthony) QROWNED is she and sainted In heavenly halls above, Who freely gave for her sisters A life of boundless love. I saw a strange, rich vision, I heard strange music ring, As I dreamed o'er my well-loved poets On a night in the early spring, I mused o'er the great-souled Wordsworth (Oh, to me he is half divine!). And I found again in his pages The song with the beautiful line That tells of the perfect woman, In whose spirit blithe and bright There shines like a consecration A gleam of angelic light. And I seemed to behold in my vision The sorrows of all the years ; I heard the women pleading, Pleading with soft, warm tears ; And ever above the praying, Above the sorrowful song. And the tender, wistful grieving For the long, long years of wrong, 459 Crowned and Sainted I heard them speak of the leader, In whose spirit rare and bright Should shine like a consecration A gleam of angelic light. I saw the nation toiling In grief and darkness lost, Like a ship on the pathless ocean, O'erwhelmed and tempest-tost. There was need of a faithful pilot, There was need of a God-sent hand, To guide o'er the pathless ocean To guide to the longed-for land; And oh, there was need of the woman In whose spirit sweet and bright Should shine like a benediction A gleam of angelic light. Like pilgrims wandering the woodlands In a country wild and strange. Who daily front new dangers. And sigh for the blessed change Of kind and friendly faces, Of dreamed-of comrades dear, The comfort of friendly firesides And pleasant household cheer, — So sighed the toiling people For her in whose spirit bright Should shine like a consecration A gleam of angelic light. And then I saw in my vision How the mighty of earth grew proud; They scorned their humbler brethren, They laughed at the lowly crowd. Ah me, to think of the folly And fashion that fill our days! 460 Crowned and Sainted Ah me, to think of our scorning Our fathers' simpler ways ! Ah me, to think of the greedy And godless kings of the mart, — And then to think of our hunger For one great human heart! The land was weak and helpless. It lacked the leader true Who should cure it of its blindness. Who should break a pathway through The wall of outworn tradition That still around us stands, Ready to yield and crumble At the touch of heroic hands, — Hands of noble heroes Fearless and great and strong, Wlio shall heal the old-time evils And the centuries of wrong. In my vision I saw those heroes, — And there by the men of might Stood their sisters consecrated, With eyes of angelic light. And was one sister foremost Among those women there? And who was she whose bearing Made her seem so queenly fair? Was it high-souled Mary Lyon, Uplifting her sisters' lot? Was it the saintly Quaker, Our own Lucretia Mott? Was it noble Frances Willard, Wlio strove as angels may? Was it the loved and lost one Whose passing we mourn to-day? 461 Robert Fulton Nay, none of any was foremost, But hand in blessed hand They stood as Olympian women On old Greek friezes stand. All shared a common glory, All were linked by the fate That gave them names undying In the annals of the State. But the newest comer among them Gazed 'round and serenely smiled As her sisters turned to greet her With heavenly motions mild. And then my vision faded, And a lordly melody rolled, As down celestial vistas The saintly company strolled. But the face of that latest comer I longest kept in sight, — So ardent with consecration, So lit with angelic light. And I woke from my wondrous vision, And oh, my heart beat strong! — I had seen the perfect woman Of Wordsworth's beautiful song. Crowned is she and sainted In heavenly halls above, Who freely gave for her sisters A life of boundless love. ROBERT FULTON JN Little Britain, close by old Drumore And Conowingo's waters silvery-clear That sing among these hills and drowsy fields, Upon a day of mystery and dream And peaceful country calm, — was born a boy 462 Robert Fulton Gifted by God and destined in his time To knock at Fame's high portals, yea, to lift This wa^'side hamlet into bright renown And make old Fulton House a name to ring Across the centuries. To-day he sleeps Beside the stately Hudson, where the noise Of endless traffic surges evermore Round Trinity's most venerable shrine, — More fit I think it were he rested here In some lone country grave-yard's peaceful shade. Lulled by the songs of birds and country streams, 'Mid these dear fields his earliest childhood knew. It was a day of mystery and dream, When he was born, by Conowingo's banks ; Its peace and stillness filled the joyous house. Its peace and stillness flowed along the veins And round the warm heart of that winsome child, — Grave Mystery, that in the ripening years Should fill his deep, dark eyes with wonderment. And harmonize his moods with Nature's own, — With winds that stir the leaves of solemn oaks. With flow of river waters, song of waves. And endless chanting of the little streams That wind and wander through these tranquil fields. Those quiet country hours so beauteous With golden peace and charm, filled his young heart With magic Dream, whose strange enchanting force In boyhood's budding years and youth's rich hours Should ripen fancy's blooms and wake to life Imagination's seed, — a glorious gift, — Promise of harvest and immortal fruit ! Heaven-gifted boy, — how he would feed his thought In day-long wanderings and lonely strolls 463 Robert Fulton Through yonder meadows round old Lancaster, — His youthful home, — or here in Little Britain When summer holidays had called the lad For happy hours on Conowingo's banks ! Far up and down this fair enchanting stream, Among these woods and by these peaceful farms In Little Britain and in dear Drumore, He roamed delightedly; oft would he pause By fairy waterfals to hear their song And muse upon the sweeping current's force; Or on the smooth deep stretches he would sail His tiny boats for many a summer hour; Or 'mid the dusty air of stream-side mills Would watch the great wheel turning steadily In green twilight 'mid dripping moss and fern. And farther roaming, as I think, he sat High on the slopes of Susquehanna's hills To meditate and muse upon the power And noble splendor of that lordly stream Winding far down between the emerald hills 'Mid "river islands that in clusters lie As beautiful as clouds." — O who may tell What unsuspected strength and high resolve He gathered from the sight and from the thought Of that majestic and mysterious stream! From Indian waters of melodious name, — From Conowingo and great Susquehanna, From Octorara's wild, romantic stream. And Conestoga where he first essayed The art that was to make his name renowned, — From these and from old Lancaster County's farms And woods and wayside smithies and old mills, No less than from yon neighboring city's shops, Her forges and her foundries, did he build ,, His lore, his craft, his high-aspiring art, 464 Honor and Homage This Heaven-gifted boy ; and when the hour Was ripe for harvesting his spirit's fruit, How noble his achievement, how superb His victory, how splendid his account Of gifts wherewith he had been dowered from Heaven ! Yea, Mystery and Dream had guided him; The eager youth obeyed their kindly law And followed where they pointed to the stars. — So did he lift this hamlet to renown, This quiet village by the silver stream Of Conowingo winding through these fields ; So did he make old well-loved Fulton House A name to echo through uncounted years. HONOR AND HOMAGE {Read at the Dedication of the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument, Media, Pa.) LJONOR and homage in this hour we render. Honor and homage, yea, the patriot's meed. With song, with music and with martial splendor We praise the heroes' deed. Yet what can our poor words add to their story, ^Vhat song of ours augment their certain fame? Theirs is a sure serenity of glory. Theirs an immortal name ! From field and forge, from many a quiet village. They gathered when the nation called to arms; — Farewell to peaceful toil and fruitful tillage Of loved ancestral farms. Farewell to hearts and homes, perchance forever, To wife and clinging little ones farewell; Ah, me, that men these holy ties should sever With battle's awful knell ! 46& Honor and Homage They questioned not — our heroes — but when Duty Sounded across the land her summons dire, They left their tranquil fields and vales of beauty In this old Quaker shire. Through dark and anguished days on field and ocean, Wliat deeds were theirs, their children's children know, What sacrifice of sorrowing devotion Against a valiant foe. For them was sorrow and for them was weeping ; Back to these hills of home they came no more. Their grieving comrades left them softly sleeping By far-off hill and shore. They softly sleep in bivouac eternal On lonely fields beneath a southern sky, And o'er their quiet graves in seasons vernal Creep tender wood-flowers shy. Where rolled the thunder of the cannon's booming, White flowers of peace wave in the Summer air ; Those storied hills are fragrant with the blooming Of roses soft and fair. And to these few survivors old and hoary Fulness of honor and of love we yield, — ■ What though fate gave them not the dreadful glory Of falling on the field. Those, who in starry youth were doomed to perish — These, whom the Lord hath granted length of days — With equal reverence their land shall cherish. Their native county praise. This stately monument shall stand a token, A consecrated mentor to our youth. Serene and pure as simple faith unbroken. Steadfast as simple truth. 466 A Child of Ocean Let its high teaching be forgotten never While it shall stand to touch the heart to tears ; And may its guardian soldier look forever On sweet and peaceful years ! THE LOVE SONGS OF "SIDNEY FAIRFAX" I By Severn Sea "l^E gathered roses, she and I, And poppies on the purple lea ; We threw them in the yellow tide And saw them float on Severn Sea. I sailed away the morrow morn, And watched her waving from the lea ; — And would to God that I might sleep Beneath the tides of Severn Sea ! For when I came another year And hastened to the purple lea, They showed me one low grave beside The moaning tides of Severn Sea. n A Child of Ocean You seemed part of all loveliness Of that sweet summer day ; Yours was the wild sea-rose's red, The white of blowing spray. Wild, wonderful sea-music Seemed singing, Dear, through you, — The old immortal witchery That once Ulysses knew. 467 A Southern Girl O child of wind and ocean, Wild roses and white spray, Why did you break my yearning heart That fatal summer day? Ill In Heurick's Garden Sweet-heart Cecily, you and I In Herrick's garden over the sea Watched the butterflies sailing, sailing Over the grassy Devon lea. Cecily, Sweet-heart, sweet our day In Herrick's garden over the sea ; And 'mid the Poet's old white roses We plighted troth by the grassy lea. Sweet-heart, Cecily, sweet our parting In Herrick's garden over the sea ; There 'mid the butterflies, sailing, sailing, I left my love by the Devon lea. O, Cecily, Sweet-heart, home returning To Herrick's garden over the sea, Your sailor lover found you sleeping Forever under the grassy lea ! IV A Southern Girl Some memory as of dreaming years Long, long before the War She seems to bring to our grey skies From olden Baltimore. The charm of far-off southern days Like roses breathes from her ; Her fine and tranquil ways rebuke Our fruitless noise and stir. 468 Golden Dora Most womanly and true is she, — All me, where shall we find Another lass so blithe of heart, So beautiful, so kind! On Breden Hill Rosalie mine, do you remember Our twilight walk on Breden Hill, And how we heard the rapturous thrushes Sing to the twilight star their fill ? Sweet was the rapturous song of the thrushes, But O your words were sweeter still! And the twilight star was long a-slumber When we came home o'er Breden Hill. Rosalie's voice and the rapturous thrushes And our twilight walk on Breden Hill — My lonely heart alone must cherish. For Rosalie's lonely heart is chill. O lost, lost Rosalie — I remember ! And I know the thrushes are singing still, Though I wander half a world asunder From Rosalie's grave on Breden Hill. VI Golden Dora Golden Dora, I remember How we plucked the scarlet poppies In the weeping- willow meadow All among the dreamy rushes By the Avon; 469 Marian Mar low By the Avon, In September, Where the drowsy scarlet poppies In the weeping-willow meadow By their splendor gave no token Of my anguish, Of my anguish, In December, When I wandered drear and lonely In the weeping-willow meadow Where you sleep below the poppies, — Golden Dora. VII Marian Maelow Marian Marlow, wistful Marian, What was the song you sang for me While slow I paced in the sleepy twilight There by the shore of the Irish Sea? Pacing there in the sleepy twilight, Musing deep on the vanished years, — Ah, how your music, Marian Marlow, Touched my lonely heart to tears ! Old and wild and all regretful, Marian Marlow, your song to me ; Not sadder seemed the moaning billows Rolling in from the moaning sea. What strange touch of old enchanment, Marian Marlow, dwelt in your song. Weird old Irish melancholy. Sorrows suffered long and long.? 470 In the Cathedral A lost and lovely and faery magic Abides in the song 3'ou sang for m'e, Marian Marlow, wistful Marian, There by the shore of the Irish Sea. Marian Marlow, wistful Marian, Was it yester-year or years ago I dreamed I heard by the moaning billows That selfsame song with its surge and flow, Its surge and flow and its yearning cadence Calling to me from the vanished years, While here by the Irish Sea I wandered And felt the rush of unbidden tears? I may not tell why it strangely moved me, Its magic pathos I may not tell ; But ever your song, O Marian Marlow, Shall hold my heart with its wondrous spell. VIII In the Cathedral Beyond the golden organ tones And silver horns of soft acclaim I seemed to hear your angel voice And dream upon your lovely name. They sent soft incense through the aisles, They raised on high the holy wine ; — I only seemed to scent your hair And dream upon your face divine. O am I pagan thus to kneel In this grey shrine with ardor faint. And 'mid the praying folk devout To dream upon my own sweet saint.'' 471 With Shakespeare in Warwickshire IX Vanished I watched you in the dreamy dance Beside the sunlit summer sea ; Your winsome grace, your pensive glance They thrilled the lonely heart of me. I watched you wander down the sand At eve beside the sunset sea ; And O, one touch of that soft hand What benediction 'twere to me ! You vanished round the curving shore Beyond the vast and moonlit sea ; And wistful yearning evermore Must fill the lonely heart of me. WITH SHAKESPEARE IN WARWICKSHIRE {¥or the students of West Chester Friends' School) "V/'OUNG friends of mine, here at the end of May, When Chester County's fields are bright and gay, Will you not sail in spirit o'er the sea And roam in Shakespeare's Warwickshire with me? Along about the first of June, When all the world is well in tune, Wlien buds and blossoms fill the fields And bird-songs fill the air — Who would not ramble hand in hand In Shakespeare's happy wonderland With Perdita and Imogen and Rosalind the fair! O, to ramble and amhle with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, In hours of early summer, when all the world is fair! 472 With Shakespeare in Warwickshire Then at the shearing-feast we'd haply hear These words of Perdita, warm-hearted, dear : "Give me those flowers, there, Dorcas, Reverend sirs. For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savor all the winter long: Grace and remembrance be to you both. And welcome to our shearing! * * * * Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim. But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath." So would she speak, this "queen of curds and cream," The sweet creation of the Poet's dream. Along about the first of June Who would not ramble 'neath the moon With Lorenzo and Jessica And hear their words of joy ; Or by a bank of sweet woodbine. Of muskrose and of eglantine. Hear Oberon rebuke his Queen about a bonnie boy ! O, to ramble and amble with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, In hours of early sumvier, when earth is full of joy! Then would the elves that round Titania throng Sing her "a roundel and a fairy song :" "You spotted snakes with do7ible tongue. Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong. Come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Never harm. Nor spell, nor charm Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby; So, good night, with lullaby." 473 Thankfulness Along about the first of June It would not be a bit too soon To roam with merry Touchstone adown the forest dales, Where Caliban and Ariel Should fool us with their fancy's spell And jolly old Autolycus should tell us merry tales. 0, to ramble and amble with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, In hours of early summer, adown the forest dales! And then as we sat in a random ring Our j oily Autolycus would sing : — " When daffodils begin to peer. Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year. The lark that tirra-lyra chants. Are summer songs for me and my aunts. ***** Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way. And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day Your sad tires in a mile-a." O, to ramble and amble with Shakespeare in Warwickshire, In hours of early summer, when all the world is gay ! May, 1916 THANKFULNESS "Soul of the beautiful! with upturned face, A world waits reverent in this holy place. Where is the secret land from which she fares, From sun to sun dissolving all our cares?" 'M'OT only on an appointed day of November, not only on the Sabbath-day of each week, should we pause and think of our blessings. — Every season, every day and hour, let us be filled with glad thankfulness, 474 Thankfulness Helping, if we may, to overcome the clouds of disap- pointment or grief with the sunshine of joy. Grief and the memories that abide in the stricken heart are holy and not to be put aside; Yet a calm and wise joyfulness, a rational striving for tranquil contentment, can soothe and cheer, and tenderly soften the bitterness of sorrow. As bright days outnumber stormy days, as gentleness and patience overcome hostility, — so should our days and hours of cheerfulness outnumber, in ever greater propor- tion, our intervals of gloom and discouragement. The spirit of gratitude, the deliberate thinking upon our blessings, will help us wonderfully to gain this cheer- fulness and contented tranquillity. II The good All-Father surely gave us this beautiful and radiant earth for our full enjoyment and high benefit. He sends more light than darkness, more warmth than cold, more friendliness than enmity. Then let us be thankful for our manifold blessings and gifts that make life noble; Thankful for the kindness of our friends and the glad- some faces of those who love us and wish us well; For the dear affection that binds the family circle close together and makes home the beloved place it is ; For the unending love of fathers and mothers for their little ones, and the devotion of children to their parents ; For the tender care of the stronger over the weak. The protecting and chivalrous regard of strength for beauty. Ill Let us be thankful for the responsibilities that urge us to wholesome and profitable labor. For the evidences of sober thrift that surround us ; For the towns and villages with their comfortable dweU- ings, — 475 Thankfulness The attractive cottages of the working-folk, embowered with honej'suckles and roses, — ■ The spacious and dignified mansions built by the an- cestors of those who maintain the family traditions of wise conservatism and old-fashioned courtesy and hos- pitality ; Thankful for the antique Quaker farm-houses that stand amid their venerable trees. With their sheltering roofs, holding so much that is precious and dear, — The portraits and relics of those who have gone, and their sacred memories intangible but beautiful. The living presences of their descendants, — the sturdy fathers, the gentle affectionate mothers, The happy and hearty children, rosy and bright-e3red, All gathered round the ruddy hearth in winter twilights, or beneath the orchard boughs in the blossomy days of spring, Or among the golden wheat in the warm ripe harvest season. Let us be thankful for the deep-seated patriotism of these kindly people, for their simplicity and quiet sin- cerity, For their sensible neglect of disturbing agitators who know not the foundations of true comfort and prosperity. IV When we roam through the countryside in our daily walks, let us think with heartfelt gratitude of the abun- dance yielded by the goodly earth to the tillers of the soil, the plowman and the reapers of the golden grain, Of the great stone barns with their mows heaped high with sweet hay for the cows and the mild-eyed oxen of mighty strength. Of the granaries with their rich stores of yellow corn and oats that have ripened on the breezy hill-sides. 476 Thankfubiess Let us think with gratitude of the mellow apples and pears, the downy peaches and the purple plums that grow in the olden orchards, That bend the branches with their luscious weight, and delight the heart of the thrifty farmer. Let us think with gratitude of the flowers that adorn the door-3'^ards and the green lawns and sunny garden- walks, — The old-time silken hollyhocks and the pungent mari- golds beloved by our grandmothers, and the lilacs beau- tiful and sweet-scented, The purple phlox that dreams in the drowsy sunshine of late summer. The red, red roses of June, and their sisters the white roses and the yellow, The spicy chrysanthemums that gladden the garden in the melancholy, late autumn days, — All the sweet, friendly flowers that have a charm de- lightful beyond words. Let us give silent gratitude for the spruces and hem- locks and the lofty pines. Green and fragrant trees that cheer us amid the white wastes of frozen winter; Gratitude for the cherry trees and apple trees that glow with white and rosy blossoms in the exquisite April hours ; For the oaks and sycamores, stately and magnificent, that hold the secrets of the old bygone years in their mighty hearts. That breathe forth from their murmuring leaves their nature-lore to all who will rightly listen. Let us be thankful of heart for the green wildwood silences. For the great peace of the shadowy forests, God's own cathedral aisles, 477 Thankfulness For the warm fragrance of ferns and the music of moun- tain streams, Thankful of heart when we hear the winds playing among the tree-tops their godlike harmonies ; Thankful for the august pageantry of the storm-cloud and the majestic symphony of the thunder; Thankful when we hear the gushing and jubilant song of the birds, The delicious joy of the robins and black-birds in the silvery mornings of spring. The pathos of the meadow-larks calling across the fields of nodding clover; Thankful when we hear the bells of churches chiming grandly from their heaven-pointing steeples, — Calling men to worship and pray, in the peaceful Sab- bath mornings or at the holy vesper hour; Thankful when we hear the lowing of cattle, the cooing of doves, The fairy song of meadow streams, and the laughter of merry children. The tinkle of sheep-bells, and the cheery voice of the farmer among his fields. VI For all noble books let us be eternally grateful, — Books that hand on to us the wisdom and glory of prophets and saints of olden time, Or that elevate and enchant us with the meditations and lyric melodies of more recent writers, — For the Psalms and the precious and comforting Beati- tudes, For the words of Socrates and of Buddha, For the stately cantos of Spenser and Milton, The heart-warming essa^^s of dear Charles Lamb, the sweet and moving poems of Wordsworth and Shelley. 478 Cecily VII For the goodness and nobility that environ us round let us be deeply grateful, — For the tranquil, unassuming people who perform their tasks cheerfully, and show patience in affliction, Who seem to make this earth a pathway to heaven by their Christian fortitude and their brotherly and sisterly kindness of manner and deed. Who are but humbler members of the immortal com- pany that includes Francis of Assisi and George Fox, Florence Nightingale and Leo Tolstoy, and all who have lifted humanity to nobler heights. * * * So shall the thankful heart prevail in us through every hour, And when the evening comes, we shall pause as at the summons of some unseen angelus bell. And thank the All-Father for his gift to us of home- coming and peaceful love and night-long rest from labor. CECILY ^ECILY, daughter of dreams, Sister of flowers and birds, What do the wind-voices sing To thy spirit musing apart Far in the Brandywine hills? What do the waterfalls sing Tumbling over cool rocks In ferny and shadowy dales.'' O miss not the message they bear, Voices primeval and sweet, Tliat speak unto those who will hear, And feed with their magical song Hearts that are tuned to their hearts, — Cecily, daughter of dreams. Sister of flowers and birds. 479 KartK s Fair Divinity EARTH'S FAIR DIVINITY rj^OR earth's fair divinity Grateful must the Poet be. He alone it is who knows All the beauty of the rose; He alone it is may hear The softest tones of rivers clear, And the passionate half-words In the fervent songs of birds ; He alone whose eye may see All the lily's purity, All the silver of the rills, All the glory of the hills, And Nature's universal face Clothed with beauty and with grace: And in heart rejoiceth he For earth's fair divinity. The cloud-strewn heavens to his sight Bring illusions infinite ; Wondrous shadow-shapes they show Fairer than the earth may know, — Drifting cities hung aloft Circled round by meadows soft. Forests of fantastic trees. Azure isles in silver seas, Argosies of airy shapes Coasting by the crystal capes. Filmy shallops zephyr-fanned Sailing out of fairy-land. Ever changing, ever new, To the Poet's raptured view All too brief their glory seems. Vanishing like faded dreams. Then in heart rejoiceth he For earth's fair divinity. 480 The Children s Fishi ng When the dying sun is low All the firmament doth glow, And a golden splendor sweeps Down across the lucent deeps. There are amber mountain sides Washed around by rosy tides, Crimson rivers rolling far Over the horizon's bar, Purple gulfs and irised bays Shimmering in lucent haze, Till their loveliness expires Melting far in fleecy fires. Then in heart rejoiceth he For earth's fair divinity. In his soul this thought hath birth, — All the loveliness of earth Is a syvibol and a sign Of the joy of the divine. Teaching man that beauty mortal Is hut as an outer portal. Paling zvhen the spirit's sight Resteth on the Infinite. Then in heart rejoiceth he For earth's fair divinity. THE CHILDREN'S FISHING "V\7E threw care away On that bright July day, For the weather was truly divine, And we all had been wishing To go off a-fishing In the sleepy old Brandywine. Our sweet girls and boys Love all country joys; But chiefly, as I opine, 481 The Children's Fishin 'g They love to leave home And go off to roam For a day by the Brandywine. So Georgie and Will Their baskets did fill, For they knew we should want to dine, And Peggy and Kate They put in some bait For the fish in the Brandywine ; And flaxen-haired Ellen And blithe-hearted Helen Brought the hooks and lots of line. And Stella she made Some good lemonade To drink by the Brandywine. Nor did we o'erlook Izaak Walton's old Book Where the sun seems ever to shine, For we knew we should need His dear pages to read 'Neath the trees by the Brandywine. We joyfully heard The song of each bird That lives in those meadows divine ; And merry and sweet In the acres of wheat They sang by the Brandywine. How lovely the gleam Of the sun on the stream Through the long afternoon's decline ! And how fragrant the hay In windrows that lay In the fields by the Brandywine ! Far away and aloft So dreamy and soft Cloud-islands in wavering line Melted down to the west 482 The Children s Fishing To their haven of rest O'er the hills by the Brandywine. As they sat in the shade What a picture they made, Sweet lassies and laddies fine! My words are too faint The picture to paint Of that scene by the Brandywine. But true joy is soon past, — Our day ended at last, And as farmers were calling their kine We sang a sweet lyric From old Robin Herrick And turned from the Brandywine. But what of the fish. And what of our wish To bring home a well-laden line Of perch and of bass. Each laddie and lass, That day from the Brandywine? Did we follow the rule Of the old Angler's school, Honest Izaak's, who tells every sign. Every pool and each nook, In his charming old Book Which we read by the Brandywine.? How much did we harp On that wondrous big carp That swallowed twelve feet of our line.'' And what did we say Of the fat bass that day That we — missed, in the Brandywine.? To give you a list Of the fish we just missed Would wear out your patience and mine. For with never an eel Or a fish in our creel 483 Epilog ue We returned from the Brandywine! But George says : "Don't laugh, For the littlest half Of such trips is to catch a full line ; But the long happy hours With the birds and the flowers — That's real joy for the Brandywine!" EPILOGUE T-T ERE at ending of my Book As I take a backward look, I remember youthful days When I loved and longed to praise Beauty round me everywhere; — All the world to me was fair. Bright with sunshine, music, flowers. Kindly friends and golden hours. Phrases frorn an olden song Haunted me for long and long; Deeply happy were my dreams, Wandering by country streams; And I loved the poets old Chanting numbers all of gold. Now at end of many days Still I love and long to praise Beauty, goodness, honor, truth, Still despairing as in youth Of recording justly well Half of all that I would tell Of the loving Father's care For His children everywhere. 484 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 905 782 3 E53?5?^5 „ J? \j '.ny-fT-"'^ alv^K