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POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. E. HUDSON 
 
 >) 
 
 /• 
 
 BOSTON : A 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknok & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 
 1874. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year IS?*, 
 
 BY JAMES R, OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Wasliiugton. 
 
 Univekstty Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Newsboy's Debt 1 
 
 A Golden Wedding 9 
 
 My Garden 23 
 
 Jean 26 
 
 La Muse Perdue 29 
 
 EPISODES. 
 
 Episode 1 35 
 
 Episode II. ' , 61 
 
 In Winter 97 
 
 March 99 
 
 April . . . 101 
 
 May . 104 
 
 June IO7 
 
 Chrysoprasus 109 
 
 Amethyst 112 
 
 In the Clover 115 
 
 The Little Lady 118 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 Dame Willow's Knitiing . . ... . . 120 
 
 Midsummer Day ........ 123 
 
 Three Ways ." 136 
 
 Nan's Houses 140 
 
 A Fragment 143 
 
 The Daisies 149 
 
 Singer and Song 152 
 
 A Conversation 154 
 
 Philosophy ......... 165 
 
 My Fairy 168 
 
 Madame . 171 
 
 The Pedler 174 
 
 Grandma 177 
 
 Chrysolite 180 
 
 Aunt Janet . 185 
 
 A Tradition 189 
 
 Snow 201 
 
 Word-Painting 203 
 
 Immortelles 213 
 
POEMS. 
 
 -*o^ 
 
 THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT. 
 
 NLY last year, at Christmas-time, 
 While pacing down a city street, 
 
 "* I saw a tiny, ill-clad boy, — 
 One of the thousands that we meet, — 
 
 As ragged as a boy could be : 
 With half a cap, with one good shoe; 
 Just patches to keep out the wind, — 
 I know the Avind blew keenly, too ; — 
 
 A newsboy, with a newsboy^s lungs, 
 A square Scotch face, an honest brow. 
 And eyes that liked to smile so well 
 They had not yet forgotten how ; — 
 
 1 A 
 
2 THE NEJFS BOY'S DEBT. 
 
 A newsboy, hawking his last sheets 
 With loud persistence; now and then 
 Stopping to beat his stiffened hands. 
 And trudging bravely on again; 
 
 Dodging about among the crowd, 
 Shouting his "Extras" o'er and o'er. 
 Pausing by whiles, to cheat the wind. 
 Within some alley, by some door. 
 
 At last he stopped — some papers left. 
 Tucked hopelessly beneath his arm — 
 To eye a fruiterer's outspread store : 
 Here products from some country farm. 
 
 And there confections ; all adorned 
 With wreathed and clustered leaves and flowers, 
 While little founts, like frosted sjjires. 
 Tossed up and down their mimic showers. 
 
 He stood and gazed with wistful face. 
 All a child/s longing in his eyes. 
 Then started, as I touched his arm, 
 And turned in quick, mechanic wise; 
 
THE NETFS BOY'S DEBT. 3 
 
 Raised his torn cap Avith purple hands, 
 
 Said, "Papers, sir? World! Hera hi ! Times'.^' 
 
 And brnshed away a freezing tear 
 
 That marked his cheek with frosty rimes. 
 
 "How many have von? Never mind, — 
 ])on^t stop to count, — I '11 take them all ; 
 And when yon ])ass my office, liere, 
 Witli stock on hand, give me a calL" 
 
 He tlianked me with a broad 8cotcli smile, 
 A h)ok lialf Avonderinc: and lialf i>'lad. 
 I fumbled for the proper " change," 
 And said, " You seem a little lad 
 
 "To rougli it in the streets, like this!" 
 " I ^m ten years old this Christmas-time." 
 "Your name?" " Jiui Ilanley." "Hcre^ a bill;. 
 I ^'e nothing else but this one dime; 
 
 "Two dollars. When von s^et it chanii-ed, 
 Come to my oifice, — that ^s the place. 
 Now wait a bit, there ^s time enough ; 
 No need to run a headlong race ! 
 
i THU NEWSBOY'S DEBT. 
 
 "Where do you live?^^ "Most anywhere. 
 Tliey let us in a loft to-day; 
 Me and two others/^ " So you thought 
 The fruiterer^s window pretty, hey? 
 
 " Or were you liungry ? " " Just a bit/' 
 
 He answered, bravely as he might. 
 
 " I could n't buy a breakfast, sir, 
 
 For there was nothing left last niglit.'' 
 
 " And you are cold ? '' " Ay, just a bit. 
 I don't mind cold." " Why, that is strange ! 
 He smiled, and pulled his ragged cap, 
 And darted off to get the "change." 
 
 So, with a half-unconscious sigh, 
 I souglit my office desk again. 
 V An hour or more my busy wits 
 Found work enough with book and pen. 
 
 But when a neighboring clock struck five, 
 I started, with a sudden thought. 
 For there, beside my hat and cloak, 
 Lay those six papers I had bouglit. 
 
 )) 
 
THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT. 5 
 
 (I 
 
 Why, where^^s the boy ? and where ^s the ' change ' 
 He should have brought an hour ago ? 
 Kh, well ! ah, well ! they "'re all alike ! 
 I was a fool to tempt him so. 
 
 "Dishonest. Well, I might have known; 
 And yet his face seemed candid, too. 
 He would have earned the difference 
 If he had brought me what was due. 
 
 " I find that caution comes too late.^' 
 And then I took my homeward way, 
 Deeming distrust of human-kind 
 The chiefest lesson of the day. 
 
 Just two days later, as I sat, 
 
 Half dozing, in my office chair, 
 
 I heard a timid knock, and called. 
 
 In my brusque fashion, "Who is there? 
 
 }} 
 
 An urchin entered, barely eight, — 
 The same Scotch face, the same blue eyes. 
 And stood, half doubtful, at the door. 
 Abashed at my forbidding guise. 
 
6 THE NEJFSBOY'S DEBT. 
 
 " Sir, if you please, my brother Jim, — 
 The one you give the bill, you know, — 
 He could n't bring the money, sir. 
 Because his back was hurted so. 
 
 " He did n't mean to keep the " change "" ; 
 He got runned over, up the street : 
 One wheel went right across his back. 
 And V other fore-wheel mashed his feet. 
 
 " They stopped the horses just in time. 
 And then they took him up for dead. 
 And all that day and yesterday 
 He was n't rightly in his head. 
 
 " They took him to the hospital, — 
 One of the people knew 't was Jim, — 
 And I went, too, because, you see. 
 We two are brothers, I and him. 
 
 " He had that money in his hand. 
 But never saw it any more. 
 Indeed, he did n't mean to steal ! 
 And never lost a cent before. 
 
THE NEIFSBOY'S DEBT. 
 
 " He is afraid that you will think 
 
 He meant to keep it^ any way. 
 
 This morning, when they brought him to, 
 
 He cried because he could n^t pay. 
 
 '^ He ^s made me fetch his jacket, here ; 
 
 It 's torn and dirtied pretty bad ; 
 
 It ^s oidy fit to sell for rags. 
 
 But then, you know, ^t was all he had ! 
 
 " When he gets well, — it won^t be long, — 
 If you will call the money lent. 
 He says he ""11 work his fingers off 
 But what he ^11 pay you every cent." 
 
 With this he laid upon my desk 
 A little bundle soiled and gray. 
 " No, no, my laddie ! keep the coat ; 
 Your brother ^s badlv hurt, von say ? 
 
 ^' Where did thoy take him ? Just run ont 
 And hail a cab ; then wait for me. 
 Why, I would i>'ive a thousand bills 
 And coats for such a bov as he ! " 
 
8 THE NEIVS BOY'S DEBT. 
 
 A half-hour after this we went. 
 Together, through the crowded wards. 
 The matron did not hush the steps 
 That fell too loudly on the boards. 
 
 I thought him quietly asleep, 
 
 And scarce believed her when she said, 
 
 Smoothing away the tangled locks 
 
 From brow and cheek, '^Tlie boy i^ dead.^^ 
 
 Dead ? dead so soon ? How fair he looked. 
 One streak of sunshine on his hair. 
 Poor lad ! Well, it is warm in heaven ; 
 No need of " change '' and jackets there ! 
 
 A strange contraction in my throat 
 Made it so hard for me to speak, 
 I turned away and left a tear 
 Lodged in a dhnple on his cheek. 
 
ijl 
 
 
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 1 
 
 l;;!!i,ftS»^ 
 
 
 34 
 
 Ai^ 
 
 iHii 
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 WAS a December day. 
 AViuter had looked with favor on the land 
 He came to ; so withheld awhile his hand 
 And waved his storms away. 
 
 The crisped, sear hills and fields 
 Lay bare and silent ''neatli the waning sun; 
 And warring with November, one by one, 
 
 The trees had lost their shields. 
 
 Mellowed and quiet shades 
 
 Of brown and gray replaced the brilliant glow 
 
 That decked all nature, — autumn^s boastful show 
 
 Of joy when summer fades, — 
 1* 
 
10 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 And, matching soberly 
 With the grave landscape, clustered buildings stood, 
 Low, hospitable, of time-darkened wood. 
 
 Shadowed by many a tree. 
 
 The door-yard, populous 
 With vehicles of quaint, old-fashioned style 
 Left standing in a long and straggling file. 
 
 Had space for overplus. 
 
 Rustling in grasses dun, 
 The busy fowls ranged slow from side to side; 
 And patient horses, blanketed and tied, , 
 
 Dozed in the pallid sun. 
 
 House-windows, half inwrought 
 With tangled skeletons of summer vines. 
 Were wreathed with oak and holly leaves, — the signs 
 
 Of festive time and thought. 
 
 Within, fi relit and wide. 
 The ancient " keeping-room '' was decked with green ; 
 A well-spread table, fair in damask sheen. 
 
 Was stretched from side to side; 
 
A GOLDEN WEBBING. 11 
 
 And, bounding its extent, — 
 In places somewhat crowded, like the fare, — 
 The lines of feasting guests knew how to share 
 
 Good cheer with merriment. 
 
 Plain folk were most of these, 
 Oood-natured, practical, hard-working folk. 
 Fond of a holiday and of a joke 
 
 And free and homely ease. 
 
 Mixed with them, here and there. 
 Were others more conventional in dress 
 And manner; owning grace and courteousness 
 
 That please with little care. 
 
 Matrons in calico 
 Were placed by ladies clad in rustling silk ; 
 Hands rough and brown and hands as white as milk 
 
 Passed dishes to and fro; 
 
 But all, of differing grade 
 And station, felt the equal influence 
 Of homelv kindness, sturdy common-sense. 
 
 And quiet worth, that made 
 
12 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 The low room^ drest with green 
 And boughs of scarlet that November baimed. 
 The scene of hospitality as grand 
 
 As that of king and queen. 
 
 This king and queen, twice wed, 
 An ancient, ha j)py -hearted, honored pair, 
 Royal in cheer and crowned with silver hair. 
 
 Sat at the tablets head. 
 
 The fifty busy years 
 That brought around their second wedding-day 
 Had given them joy, — and taken some away 
 
 In bartering faith for tears; 
 
 Had made him worn and bent, 
 Had withered him and shrunk his stout form spare, 
 Had left hun much the worse for work and care, 
 
 But with a fair per cent 
 
 Of his slow, hard-earned gain; 
 With honesty and soberness and truth. 
 More of the fire and humor of his youth 
 
 Than most men may retain. 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 13 
 
 Sitting, he stooped a bit; 
 Yet the keen glances roving here and there, 
 ''Neath brows that matched his sparse, white fringe 
 of hair, 
 
 The twinkles of swift wit 
 
 That brightened dim, blue eyes, 
 And smiles that grouped the wrinkles closer still, 
 Defied timers power, but first gained timers good-will, 
 
 So made the years allies. 
 
 His best coat, velveteened, 
 Bright-buttoned, sAvallow-tailed, immaculate. 
 Long saved for Sundays and for times of state ; 
 
 His vest of satin, screened 
 
 By damask^s flowered flock ; 
 His snowy shirt, and wristbands stiffly turned. 
 The tiny, heart-shaped, ruby pin that burned 
 
 On his alpaca stock ; — 
 
 Were tokens to agree 
 With the green mottoes set upon the wall. 
 Circled with immortelles, that said to all, 
 
 ^' Honor good memory/^ 
 
14 A GOLDEN WEBBING. 
 
 His wife sat by his side 
 In Quaker gray. The snowy frills of lace 
 Touched neck and wrist, and shaded a calm face 
 
 Pull of unspoken pride 
 
 Because around the board 
 Were gathered many children slie had reared 
 In the wise precepts of the God she feared. 
 
 Now, finding age restored. 
 
 Again, to youth and ])rime 
 In other lives that still it sought to bless, 
 She thanked God for the deal of tenderness 
 
 Withhi the heart of time. 
 
 At last a general stir 
 And settling brought a passing pause in speech. 
 And swift hands cleared the tablets littered reach. 
 
 Then, after some demur, 
 
 A chairman, new-elect. 
 Galled all to order, and, with aspect grave. 
 Reminded scattered children to behave; 
 
 Waited till noise was checked 
 
A GOLDEN WEBBING. 15 
 
 And made an opening speech, 
 Inviting some remarks to suit the day; 
 Hoping " their friends would have a word to say '^ ; 
 
 Interrogating each 
 
 By glance, complaisantly ; 
 And, so, sat doAvn. Tlien one in threadbare drab, 
 A rusty cousin with the gift of gab. 
 
 Seized opportunity 
 
 To speak ; and, eloquent 
 With long continuance, finished in set words : 
 " As cheerful and more constant than the birds, 
 
 You have lived long, content. 
 
 " May yoft still happier be ! 
 May your lives round, in ripe and golden joy. 
 Like this fair orange, which I here employ 
 
 In wav of shnile ! 
 
 " May figurative gold — 
 And literal gold as well, if that may be — 
 Fill hearts and pockets overflowingly 
 
 Till your last days are told ! " 
 
16 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 He paused. Ere he renewed^ 
 A neighboring guest arose deliberately ;, 
 A brother-farmer, upright, hale and free, 
 
 And said, " I ^m far from good 
 
 " At speeches and fine talk ! 
 I never made a speech till I was gray. 
 But broke square through the ice, the other day. 
 
 And did my best to chalk 
 
 "A colored candidate; 
 So, now, I hardly feel like goin^ by 
 A golden wedding-day, — we ''re comin^ nigh 
 
 That time, I and my mate, — 
 
 « 
 
 "Without I say a bit, ' 
 Some like the pith of what was said just now; 
 But after folks know what to say, the how 
 
 To say it, takes the wit ! 
 
 " Well, for my neighbor here. 
 And his good wife, I wish ^em happiness. 
 I wish ■'em all the good I know, or guess. 
 
 That is n^t bought too dear ; 
 
A GOLDEN WEBBING. 17 
 
 "Por I am bound to sav . 
 I M like the world new-stocked, from end to end, 
 
 # 
 
 As thick as whiteweed in the medder-bend, 
 With folks as good as thej ! ^^ 
 
 So, emphasizing all 
 With a sonorous blowing of his nose. 
 He ended suddenly ; then some of those 
 
 Around him kept the ball 
 
 Still spinning on its way 
 With pleasant gratulations, smoothly said; 
 Others, less cultured, with blunt humor wed 
 
 The wishes of the day. 
 
 And, last, a portly man, 
 A city banker, rising ponderously. 
 Said, with as ponderous utterance, "that he, 
 
 In latter days, began 
 
 i( 
 
 To see utility 
 In golden weddings. Since Ave had been told 
 That love was worth far more in heaven than gold. 
 Such times as this must be 
 
18 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 "The best of capital 
 To start new fortunes in another sphere 
 Where men will need less solid cash than here/^ 
 
 Then, in a little lull. 
 
 Beside the aged pair, 
 The pastor prayed for God^s continued grace. 
 The joyful faith that lit his upturned face 
 
 Was uttered in the j)rayer. 
 
 I will not here rehearse 
 His pious words/ that fitted such as he; 
 I cannot warp their rare simplicity 
 
 Into the shape of verse. 
 
 And when the prayer was done, 
 The ancient bridegroom rose ; the ancient bride 
 Standing in smiling silence at his side, 
 
 Listened as he begun : 
 
 " Good friends, I wnnt to try 
 To thank you for the kindness you have shown 
 Toward us, whose usefulness is near outgrown ; 
 
 And both my wife and I 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 19 
 
 (( 
 
 Respond most gratefully. 
 We are a hearty and old-fashioned pair, 
 With less of cash than rheumatism to spare. 
 But Avith tlie will to see 
 
 " The whole wide world content. 
 Of old, they say, 'i was counted half a crime 
 If men or A\()men lived beyond their time ; 
 
 But it is evident 
 
 That age, now, makes one rare 
 As russet apples that last on through spring. 
 And so are counted as a better thing 
 
 When withered than when fair. 
 
 " My friends, we both will trust 
 Your golden weddings, coming by and by. 
 May find you rich in floods that satisfy, 
 
 When we are only dust." 
 
 Then round the hickory flames 
 The elders drew, recounting joke and tale; 
 While juniors, finding reminiscence stale, 
 
 Revived time-honored games. 
 
20 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 Amid the sport begun 
 The old folks^ music ; and the " Auld Lang Syne " 
 Floated above the clamor, Ime by line. 
 
 When its last strains were done. 
 
 Came many a well-known tune, 
 Borne on united tones with force and power; 
 And hymns that seemed to consecrate the hour 
 
 Closed the short afternoon. 
 
 Meanwhile, by threes and fours, 
 Deserters joined the circles of the games, 
 And later still the candles^ branching flames 
 
 Shut twilio'ht out of doors. 
 
 A thin and vibrant sound. 
 As of a violin-string idly flicked 
 In preface of its sharper tuning, pricked 
 
 The ears of those around. 
 
 This sudden noise gave birth 
 To motley squares of dancers, young and old. 
 Demurs and ^atticisms manifold, 
 
 Provokins: constant mirth. 
 
A GOLDEN WEBBING. 21 
 
 Then^ led by violins, 
 Came a quadrille made antic by the twirls 
 Of former times; with ceaseless skips and whirls 
 
 To vary outs and ins. 
 
 Next, up and do^ii the room, 
 Were stretched the bnes of the "Virginia Eeel/' 
 The aged couple, fired with reckless zeal. 
 
 Consented to assume 
 
 The head ; grave veterans. 
 In caps and wigs, fell quickly into line. 
 And the queer rows began to intertwine ; 
 
 While, with wild trills and runs, 
 
 The merry music, free 
 To match odd motion, leapt along the tune; 
 And flying coat-tails and the wide balloon 
 
 Of skirts spun dizzily. 
 
 ■'T was such a jovial sight 
 The very fiddlers sighed, when, by and by. 
 Somewhere among the people standing nigh. 
 
 They heard the word, " Good night '' ; 
 
22 A GOLDEN WEBBING. 
 
 For, in its brazen way, 
 The steady kitchen clock had published nine; 
 And prudent deacons, sandwiched in the line. 
 
 Were stricken with dismay. 
 
 Then came a hasty stir, 
 Laughings and lingerings and prolonged good-byes. 
 Wheels and impatient voices to apprise 
 
 Those ready to defer. 
 
 Cloaked figures, three and three, 
 Were stored in wagons, where the flickering light 
 Shone out upon the dark and frosty night 
 
 And silvered bush and tree. 
 
 Their children round about. 
 The kindly host and hostess, at the door. 
 Said their good-byes and blessings o^er and o^er. 
 
 As one by one passed out. 
 
 So the last, merry loads 
 Rolled off beyond the circle of the light; 
 And noisy wheels made echoes in the night \ 
 
 On quiet country roads. 
 
MY GARDEN. 
 
 T is set by fields of clover 
 And sentinelled with trees, 
 Hosts of sunbeams range it over ; 
 'T is owned by birds and bees. 
 
 Friendly morns awake its flowers, 
 Still noon-times bring it gold, 
 
 Patron twilights grant it dowers 
 Of dews, when days are old. 
 
 Purple phlox and sunflowers trusty 
 Guard all its fair estates; 
 
 Dandelions, broad and lusty. 
 Like peasants, crowd its gates ; 
 
24 MY GARDEN. 
 
 Yiolets bloom in corners shady; 
 
 Upon the borders gay 
 Sits tlie stocky a crimson lady, 
 
 And pinks have holiday. 
 
 Larkspurs, leaning out of places 
 Where bashful myrtles creep, 
 
 Peep at monk-flowers^ hooded faces 
 And po2)pies gone to sleep. 
 
 There are wild and headstrong briers 
 And thistle knights and dames, 
 
 Bloomless weeds, like jovial friars, 
 Grasses with ancient names ; 
 
 Vagrant hops that court the clovers. 
 
 Prim lilacs in a row, 
 Gaudy beans groT\Ti wilful rovers. 
 
 Grand hollyliocks for show; 
 
 Quaint, bright pansies, foxgloves stately, 
 
 Lilies with petals wide, 
 Jasmine tinted delicately 
 
 And daisies, merry-eyed. 
 
Mr GARDEN-. 25 
 
 I am queen and lady in it, — 
 
 Queen over leaf and flower; 
 Crowned with sprays of purple spinnet, 
 
 I own no higher power. 
 
 Teems tlie world with fears and sorrows; 
 
 For me, I have no care ! 
 My good realm excludes to-morrows 
 
 And all I want is there. 
 
 Winds of heaven, ah, touch it lightly, 
 
 This garden that I love ! 
 Cover its dead blooms, unsightly. 
 
 And waft its seeds above ! 
 
JEAN. 
 
 EAN had lu) shoes to wonr, 
 
 And one poor f^own. 
 All day she sojd her llowers 
 About the town; 
 Crying them, here and there, 
 
 Where folk miglit he, 
 Tnidi'-ina' for hours and liours 
 Eight patiently. 
 
 A shed, half roofed with wood 
 
 And half witli sky, 
 Was all the home that J(\an's 
 
 Poor ilowers couhl buy. 
 Winters, when pence and food 
 
 Seemed like to fail, 
 When neither flowers nor greens 
 
 Would grow for sale. 
 
JEAN. 27 
 
 She earned a meal a day — 
 
 And sometimes more — 
 By selling tape and thread 
 
 At many a door. 
 She heard the people say, 
 
 Up in the sky 
 Some one had clothes and bread. 
 
 And, by and by. 
 
 Would give her, willingly. 
 
 All she could need. 
 Ah, that was joyful news 
 
 For Jean, indeed ! 
 One bitter day, when she 
 
 Could find no buyer. 
 And knew that she must lose 
 
 Supper and fire. 
 
 And get herself, somehow, 
 
 A dress to wear, 
 She asked the man in the sky, 
 
 ^^ If he would care 
 Whether she had it now. 
 
 Or afterward ? ^'' 
 
28 JEAN. 
 
 And, though he lives so high. 
 Yet the man heard. 
 
 In the dark night he sent 
 
 His people down; 
 Noiselessly they passed through 
 
 The sleeping town; 
 And, pausing as they went, 
 
 They dropped on Jean 
 A dress, all white and new. 
 
 Fit for a queen. 
 
 And all the people said, — 
 
 Finding her so, — 
 " Poor Jean ! she died last night 
 
 Under the snow." 
 Few cared that she was dead. 
 
 And none had seen 
 What the man, out of sight, 
 
 Had done for Jean. 
 
LA MUSE PERDUE. 
 
 WOULD liave written, if I might, 
 
 A poem like the summer day ; 
 I woukl have mated sound and sight 
 With words as rare as they. 
 
 But, when the day was past its prime, 
 When shadows grew and sunshine paled, 
 
 I tried to find within my rhyme 
 The mornini^^s charms, and failed. 
 
 Then counted mine a fruitless care 
 
 And, straying forth where chance might lead, 
 Saw poems written everywhere 
 
 In signs I could not read. 
 
30 LA MUSE PERDUE. 
 
 " Ah, mother Nature ! ^^ said my sigh, 
 "There is a key to sky and flower. 
 
 Give me a finer ear and eye 
 For one swift little hour ! 
 
 "I am a nameless, dowerless youth. 
 And poor in fancy as in purse; 
 
 Teach me to cull a single truth 
 From out the universe ! 
 
 " Tell me a secret of your own 
 
 That men have sought in vain to learn, 
 
 That neither thought nor dream have known. 
 And let me tell in turn. 
 
 "Translate the speech those robins use. 
 The gossip of the wind or bee; 
 
 Bid me interpret, if I chose. 
 Yon brook''s garrulity. 
 
 "Hint what it is this sky and earth — 
 This outer, sensuous beauty — screens. 
 
 What makes this tiny floweret's worth. 
 And what that sunset means. 
 
LA MUSE PERDUE. 31 
 
 " Speak with my lips ; — who would not hear ? 
 
 What wealth, what honor should I lack ? " 
 Then Nature, smiling far and near, 
 
 Gave me no answer back. 
 
 I only saw the fair repose. 
 
 The mute perfection of her face. 
 She was as one who feels and knows. 
 
 But cannot speak, some grace. 
 
 There came a swift, unbidden thought : 
 " I too, may know a like content ! 
 
 This Nature, in herself is nought. 
 She is God's instrument. 
 
 ^' He speaks in her, — he speaks in me. 
 
 Those scattered fancies cast aAvay 
 An hour ago, may grow to be 
 
 A poem of the day. 
 
 "I can but use the thought bestowed. 
 And show the truth that is revealed. 
 
 Only the Source, from whom they flowed. 
 Knows what their depth may yield." 
 
EPISODES. 
 
 2* 
 
EPISODES. 
 
 -♦o*- 
 
 EPISODE I. 
 
 O^rN in the blossomy orchard she sat 
 and sang to herself 
 An idle and ancient ballad of king and 
 giant and elf; 
 Set to a dull old measure, crossed by a weird re- 
 frain, 
 Yet the pulse of the singer^s gladness beat wild 
 in every strain. 
 
 Bird-songs floated above her; each gay breath of 
 
 the breeze 
 Made love to a world of blossoms already trothed 
 
 to the bees; 
 
36 EPISODES. 
 
 Shadows^ courted of sunshine^ flecked the leaves and 
 
 the ground^ 
 And the subtle odors of summer filled all the air 
 
 around. 
 
 Flouting the wealthy clovers and kingcups yellow 
 
 and fine, 
 A bit of a brook danced onward, nor recked of 
 
 shade or of shine. 
 Sky-heights flooded with brightness, lines of meadow 
 
 and hill, 
 Made the heart of a distant picture tinted at 
 
 May^s sweet will. 
 
 Busily working and singing, she wove the wreath 
 
 and the vine 
 Over the threads of the linen in many a fanciful 
 
 line ; 
 Busily working and singing of king and giant and 
 
 elf, 
 In the midst of the quaint old ditty, she softly 
 
 laughed to herself. 
 
EPISODES. 37 
 
 Slowly the notes of the ballad strayed into silence 
 and died, 
 
 Eobins and bees kept the chorus, shrill and cheery 
 and wide ; 
 
 Musing in that old fashion which maidens under- 
 stand, 
 
 Unheeded the folds of linen slid from her careless 
 hand. 
 
 " Ah, how lovely the world is ! I could never be 
 sad. 
 
 Why, the sun and the blossoms alone could make 
 me glad ! 
 
 I am so happy, so happy, I scarce have one re- 
 gret. 
 
 But I know that the coming morrow will make 
 me happier yet. 
 
 '^ Birdie up in the branches, sing me your prettiest 
 
 lay! 
 Don't grow weary of trilling your clear little songs, 
 
 to-day. 
 
38 EPISODES. 
 
 Sing sweeter to-morrow, birdie, — ah, now you 
 
 have taken Aving ! — 
 Tor, maybe, to-morrow, another will hear you 
 
 when you sing ! 
 
 " Somebody 's coming to-morrow ; I need not mind 
 
 if I tell 
 The leaves and the little flowers the name I love 
 
 so well. 
 I ^m sure he is coming to-morrow, and sure of 
 
 something more : 
 If a wish or a thought could bring him, he would 
 
 have come before. 
 
 "Only a week since Monday; the weeks are 
 
 getting to be 
 So long! — At the gate, last Mondny,.he said good- 
 
 by to me. 
 And then, — but I am forgetting something else 
 
 that he said, — 
 He said good-byes would be over when he and I 
 
 Avere wed. 
 
EPISODES. • 39 
 
 ^^ When Eoger and I are married ! the time will 
 
 be here so soon ! 
 To think of the long years waiting beyond this 
 
 afternoon, 
 Only a day ! so little, out of a whole long life ! 
 And a day half finished ; to-morrow, I shall be made 
 
 his wife. 
 
 " When I am wrinkled and feeble, and sit the most 
 
 of the day 
 Close in the chimney-corner, whiling the hours 
 
 away 
 With knitting and telling stories of all that used 
 
 to be, — 
 Of the old times and old people that were so dear 
 
 to me, — 
 
 ^^ Then I shall think how often I wandered doAvn 
 
 by the brook 
 To ponder over the future, alone in this green nook. 
 To plan and hope and conjecture, as girls so like 
 
 to do. 
 If the life that lay before me would make my dreams 
 
 come true. 
 
40 EPISODES. 
 
 " Well, I will thank life kindly — whatever else it 
 
 may bring — 
 Because it has brought me Roger — so says this 
 
 golden ring ; — 
 And not Aladdin^s genii_, with all their wondrous art, 
 Could find me a gift so priceless as is one loving 
 
 heart. 
 
 "There — my scissors and thimble have fallen 
 
 into the stream ! 
 Here I am idly losing half the day in a dream. 
 Hark ! the clock in the village is striking : One. 
 
 Two. Three. 
 (I wonder if Eoger is thinking about to-morrow — 
 
 and me ! — 
 
 " It will be strange to-morrow, the promises and 
 
 the prayer ; — 
 But then how many are married and never seem 
 
 to care ! — 
 Stranger still to be thinking that Eoger belongs 
 
 ft 
 
 to me 
 And I to Eoger, for lifetime, — and all eternity ! 
 
EPISODES. 41 
 
 " We shall be happy, happy if good or ill betide, 
 Because we love each other better than all beside, 
 Better than God, I wonder? I think God likes 
 
 to see 
 Just such a happy marriage as Roger's and mine 
 
 will be ! 
 
 " Some one '^ calling. Hist, birdie ! perhaps they 
 are calling me, 
 
 I think I will quit my dreaming awhile and go 
 and see. 
 
 Shadows are getting longer, — long as the after- 
 noon, — 
 
 Ah, you are lazy shadows, but night w[W. find you 
 
 soon.'' 
 
 Gathering up the linen, scissors, thimble, and thread. 
 
 She hastened across the grasses "with light and care- 
 less tread, 
 
 Out where the fields were sleeping in sunshine's 
 rich content, 
 
 Tossing the curls from her forehead, and singing 
 as she went. 
 
42- EPISODES. 
 
 Down in the blossomy orchard the shadows deep- 
 ened to-night. 
 
 And '■ the robins and the blackbirds sang all the 
 songs they might ; 
 
 Sunset faded to twilight, croA\iied with a crescent 
 moon. 
 
 And the night awaited the morning, coming, now, 
 so soou. 
 
EPISODES. 43 
 
 The sun was up^ the world was gay, 
 
 And only softest breezes blew; 
 Laden with many a bloomy spray, 
 
 She brushed aside the morning dew. 
 Her eyes were happy as the day 
 
 That shone upon the world anew; 
 Her wavy hair was bound aAvay 
 
 From brow and neck with ribbons blue. 
 
 Her gray-haired father, in its place, 
 
 Laid by the ancient Testament, 
 Glanced up and smiled to see her face 
 
 So bright with beauty and content. 
 Her mother, busiest of the race 
 
 Of housewives, in her aspect blent 
 With cheerfulness a quiet grace. 
 
 By simple ways and duties lent. 
 
 Her sisters, laughing in the door. 
 
 Were wreathing flowers with busy skill. 
 
 Upon the sunny steps and floor 
 
 The wind strewed leaves and blooms at will. 
 
44 EPISODES. 
 
 The blossomed boughs kept sweets in store 
 For bees that had their hives to fill^ 
 
 And peacefully the sky spread o^'er 
 The distant stretch of wood and hill. 
 
 The morning, like a happy child, 
 
 Seemed sent from heaven full of glee ; 
 Above the dew-wet world it smiled, 
 
 And made the noon and dawn agree. 
 The orioles, with trillings wikl. 
 
 Sang roundelays in many a tree; 
 In upper air the lark beguiled 
 
 The listener's heart with melody. 
 
 And saucy repartee and jest 
 
 Were tossed about among the girls : 
 '' See, here is rue for Roger's vest. 
 
 With dandelions to trim vour curls ! '' 
 " How beautifullv we 'd be drest, 
 
 If only grooms were knights and earls ! 
 Pray tell us, Mary, — you know best, — 
 
 If Roger cares for crimps and quirls ? 
 
EPISODES. 45 
 
 '' Remember, when you 're saying yes. 
 
 You must n^'t glance at Maud or me ! 
 Just count the ruffles on your dress, 
 
 Or blossoms on the apple-tree. 
 Roger ^11 be grave enough, I guess, — 
 
 Grave as a bridegroom ought to be, — 
 I 'm sure I wish you both success 
 
 In putting on your dignity/' 
 
 "Roger be grave?'' "Well, hardly that; 
 
 But graver than his wont, I trow. 
 I '11 give his arm a friendly pat, 
 
 If he forgets and answers, ' no.' 
 You '11 stand just here, where father sat 
 
 When James was married, long ago, 
 Right on the border of the mat, 
 
 BetAveen the door and window, — so ! 
 
 " And Roger, with his careless grace. 
 Will look as handsome as a king ; 
 
 And you ! — this rose would match your face 
 When first vou wear the marriaffe-rins: ! " 
 
46 EPISODES. 
 
 Thus chattering, all about the j)lace 
 They set the witnesses of spring. 
 
 And left a little, subtle trace 
 Of love and care on everything. 
 
 But she, half laughing at their talk. 
 
 Kept watchful eyes upon the gate. 
 The road^s far ^vindings, white as chalk; 
 
 Then Maud said gayly, " Roger ^s Lite. 
 Let ^s promenade along the walk 
 
 And scold, because he makes us wait; 
 Let ^s gather each a tansy -stalk 
 
 And wear a weed in widowed state ! " 
 
 The garnished clock upon the wall 
 
 Was pointing out the sign of ten, 
 And shaded parlor, shaded hall. 
 
 Seemed fit for haunt of fairy men. 
 The snoAvy blooms inwreathing all 
 
 Made shadows white; and^ now and then, 
 A passing breeze let odors fall. 
 
 And wandered into sun again. 
 
EPISODES. 47 
 
 '' Why, where is Eoger ? See hoAv late ! 
 
 At nine, we thought, he must be here/^ 
 "Well, time and tide can never wait; 
 
 The noon will bring him, do not fear ! " 
 But like a bird without a mate, 
 
 Eestless and finding naught to cheer. 
 Beside the door, beside the gate. 
 
 She lingered, straining eye and ear 
 
 To catch the first faint, distant sign 
 
 Of his approach. And, near and far. 
 The fields were fair in bloom and shine ; 
 
 No cloud the breadths of skv did mar : 
 The narrow, wayside paths were fine 
 
 With many a blossom-cup and star. 
 And, grouped beside the road^s white line. 
 
 The cattle grazed by wall and bar. 
 
 The morning hours passed, one by one, 
 
 Eeplete with duties manifold. 
 The petty household tasks were done. 
 
 And friends were gathered, new and old; 
 
t8 EPISODES. 
 
 And all the wedding mirth begun. 
 
 And jests were made and tales were told; 
 
 But still he came not, though the sun 
 
 Wrote the day^s prime on wood and wold. 
 
 Within her chamber, new arrayed 
 
 In laces' fairy gossamer. 
 She sat and wondered, half afraid. 
 
 And starting at the wind^'s soft stir; 
 And starting if a bird betrayed 
 
 Its nearness by a chirp or whir; 
 Dreading conjecture, and dismayed 
 
 By auguries that menaced her. 
 
 Her sisters, gay an hour ago, 
 
 Sought comfort in each other's eyes. 
 And filled the moments' tardy flow 
 
 With hasty questions and replies. 
 The wedding guests who sat below 
 
 Whispered their comments and surprise; 
 The mother, moving to and fro, 
 
 Still screened her fears with cheerful guise. 
 
EPISODES. 49 
 
 The ancient clock, bedecked with flowers, 
 
 Was pointing out the sign of two ; 
 The constant and mechanic hours 
 
 Pause not upon *their courses due. 
 The bridal presents, loving dowers 
 
 Of old aftection proved anew, 
 Lav underneath their tiny bowers 
 
 Unheeded; and disquiet grew 
 
 Within the hearts of all. The while 
 
 She wept, heart-sick Avith doubt and dread. 
 Alike they strove with liarmless guile. 
 
 To smooth the careful words they said; 
 And tried bv manv a ^^innincr wile 
 
 To scatter fears that silence bred ; 
 Still, with white lips, she tried to smile, 
 
 But hid a tearful face instead. 
 
 " He may be ill.'' '' If that were so. 
 He must have sent us some brief word. 
 
 ^^ We had the note two davs a^o — " 
 ^^ Perhaps some new delay occurred.'' 
 
 3 D 
 
 jy 
 
50 EPISODES. 
 
 " I never knew the time so slow ! " 
 Said one, in whispers scarcely heard, 
 
 " How strange ! If we could only know ! 
 How could his coming l)e deferred ? " 
 
 ''And then — Avhat will the people say?" 
 
 "O hush; speak lower; she may hear!" 
 "Is that a dust-cloud far away 
 
 Upon the road? 'tis coming near.'' 
 " It is ! it is ! I hope and pray 
 
 It may be Roger!" ''Little fear 
 But that it is; a wedding-day 
 
 Without a bridegroom, would be queer! 
 
 The noise of wheels reached every ear, 
 
 The tramp of horses driven fast. 
 How quickly, now, each brow grew clear 
 
 That clouds of doubt had overcast! 
 And, springing up with sudden cheer. 
 
 She cried, " Ah he is come at last ! 
 I knew I had no cause for fear. 
 
 But yet, thank heaven the fear is past ! 
 
EPISODES. 51 
 
 " I wonder what has kept him so ! 
 
 And see, — my eyes are swollen and red, — 
 They ^re only at the bridge — how slow ! — 
 
 Tell me when they are here/^ she said. 
 Then smoothed the laces^ tumbled snow, 
 
 Rewreathed the flowers that crowned her head, 
 Smiled at the mirror^s pretty show, 
 
 And paced the floor with restless tread. 
 
 " They ^re come, and there is Roger ! '^ " Nay, 
 
 That is not Roger/^ "Why, who then?'^ 
 "A stranger, and his hair is grny/^ 
 
 "But Roger ^s with him ! Look again ! ^^ 
 " No. NoAv he ^s at the door ; but stay, — 
 
 Listen ! Thev asked him ^ where ' ? and ' when ^'?.' 
 What was it that I heard him say ? 
 
 The Erie Railway ? Found at ten ? " 
 
 A knot of people in the door. 
 
 And voices loud, then hushed and low, 
 
 '' How many killed ? '' " You say at four ? 
 " A crowded train ! '''' " If she should know ! " 
 
 f} 
 
53 EPISODES. 
 
 " Dead when you found him ? '' ^' Long before ; 
 
 And killed, I think, by one hard blow. 
 He must have lain six hours or more, 
 
 Netted within the ruins, so. 
 
 " He had this letter in his hand ; 
 
 It said he was to wed to-day. 
 I thought — perhaps — you understand — 
 
 The news might come some harder way. 
 
 ij 
 
 Only a girFs despairing cry. 
 
 Hinging across the sunny air; 
 A murmur fading to a sigh. 
 
 Then sudden silence everywhere. 
 And none hid known that she was by; 
 
 And none had thought to save or spare 
 They stared, aghast. " Was she so nigh ? 
 
 "Did no one see that she was there ?^' 
 
 And still the gentle breezes fanned 
 Each tiny leaf and bloomy spray; 
 
 And still, throughout the happy land. 
 The blossoms told that it was May; 
 
 yy 
 
EPISODES. 53 
 
 For hearts may break and loves grow cold 
 
 Betwixt the morning and the eve, 
 And still the sunset gives its gold 
 
 To those who smile, to those who grieve; 
 And graves are filled and men grow old. 
 
 But still the busy seasons weave 
 New lives and loves ; and last yearns mould 
 
 Covers the dust of those they leave. 
 
54 EPISODES. 
 
 The blossomed boughs had faded and fallen in the 
 
 hall, 
 And the wreaths still himg unheeded, on window 
 
 ■ 
 
 and on wall. 
 AVitliin the little parlor, decked for her wedding 
 
 day. 
 She sat alone at evening when hills and fields were 
 
 The silence and the shadows held all the place in 
 
 thrall. 
 Sometimes across the meadows she heard a night- 
 
 bird^s call, 
 And sometimes, vaguely noted, as sounds that 
 
 break a dream, 
 The stamping of the cattle, the murmur of the 
 
 stream. 
 
 J3eside her, sharply outlined, touched with the moon's 
 
 first light, 
 An upturned face showed ghastly amid the gather- 
 
 inc^ night ; 
 
EPISODES. 55 
 
 And wreathed with withered flowers, above her 
 
 bended head, 
 The picture of the living smiled do^vn upon the 
 
 dead. 
 
 Sometimes a shrunken leaflet that wavered from its 
 
 place 
 Fell in the open coffin, upon the rigid face ; 
 Sometimes she almost started when passing breaths 
 
 of air 
 Tossed on the silken pillow some vagrant curl of 
 
 hair. 
 
 With vague and sad persistence, by whiles she 
 tried to pray, 
 
 Repeating with dull patience words she was wont 
 to say : 
 
 The childish prayers and verses that memory re- 
 claims 
 
 From days when death and sorrow seemed only 
 empty names. 
 
56 EPISODES. 
 
 And once, with timid finger, she dared to touch 
 
 the face 
 That lay, so weirdly altered, within the coffin^s 
 
 space ; 
 Then, seized with sudden terror of what had been 
 
 so nigh. 
 Startled the dark and silence with one (|uick, 
 
 bitter cry. 
 
 r 
 
 ^'^Ali, Christ in heaven, help me; and yet how can 
 
 I pray? 
 I know the time of miracles is past this many a 
 
 day. 
 If I should pray forever, as Mary prayed him 
 
 then, 
 AVould Christ come out of heaven and raise the 
 
 dead again? 
 
 ^'What have I left to pray for? What mockery 
 
 of prayer 
 To talk of faith and comfort, with Eoger lying 
 
 there ! 
 
EPISODES. 57 
 
 Just so a dying traveller might kneel, with lifted 
 
 hands, 
 And hope for springs of water from out the desert 
 
 sands. 
 
 '^They tell me it is Avicked for men to pray to 
 
 die : 
 What other hope of happiness is left to such 
 
 as I? 
 I am so young ! — God help me, — I have so long 
 
 to live ! 
 If such a prayer were sinful, he surely would for- 
 
 give. 
 
 "To live — and to remember! — To grow old all 
 alone, — 
 
 The present dark and joyless, the future still un- 
 known ; 
 
 This heaven and hell they talk of, who knows what 
 they may be? 
 
 Could hell with all its tortures be worse than life, 
 to me ? 
 
 3* 
 
58 EPISODES. 
 
 '^^ There is the river, winding so near me; if I 
 
 will, 
 In one swift, little moment, I may be cold and 
 
 still. 
 Only an instant^s strnggle beneath the waves — 
 
 and then, 
 Then I should be with Roger, with Eoger once 
 
 again ! . 
 
 He would come back to meet me, on that myste- 
 rious shore. 
 
 Though I were very wicked, — he loved me so 
 before. 
 
 And what if God condemn me because I would 
 not live? 
 
 If he but gives me Eoger, there ^s little else to 
 give ! 
 
 But should I be with Roger? I have no guide, 
 
 no clew, — 
 Ah, what if we were parted beyond this world, 
 
 anew ? 
 
EPISODES. 59 
 
 What does that Bible story I Ve read so often 
 mean, — 
 
 Two, set apart forever, — a great gulf fixed be- 
 tween ! 
 
 " There is no help, no comfort ; I dare not Hve or 
 
 die. 
 And he, — he cannot speak to me and cannot show 
 
 me why. 
 Come back one little moment, from out eternity ! 
 Come back one single instant, only for love of 
 
 me ! '' 
 
 The silence knew no answer. The distant stars 
 
 shone fair. 
 And peace that mocked unrest and pain brooded 
 
 within the air ; 
 And, like a benediction sent from a happier sphere. 
 The moonlight touched the shadowed world with 
 
 glory, far and near. 
 
60 EPISODES. 
 
 A GRAVE 'bedecked with summer flowers 
 Set in the city of the dead; 
 A wreath of marble immortelles 
 Amid the grasses at its head. 
 
 O parables of later time, 
 Faith^'s crude and first-formed parallels : 
 Beneath, the dead, the worm, the shroud, 
 Above, the sky and immortelles. 
 
EPISODE II. 
 
 NTENSE, wide afternoon 
 Shone over street and roof and dome ; 
 A few faint hints of breeze 
 Just lived to bring a thought of home. 
 
 The steady, sultry glow 
 Had shrmik each space of sickly shade, 
 And breadths and heiglits of sky 
 With solid light seemed overweighed. 
 
 Without, long lines of trees 
 
 Marked levels sear with sun-dried grass. 
 
 Within, on wall and floor 
 
 The sunshine lav, a molten mass. 
 
62 EPISODES. 
 
 Brown rafters, stretched above, 
 
 Cauglit gleams of brightness; wooden squares, 
 
 Half closed against the sun, 
 
 Shut off the breath of wandering airs; 
 
 Between the crowded beds. 
 
 Rough pallets lay on ledge and floor; 
 
 A laden ambulance, 
 
 Freighted with anguish, barred the door. 
 
 Surgeons and nurses toiled 
 Together, scattered here and there; 
 The sickening scent of blood. 
 And groans and cries, filled all the air. 
 
 She labored Avith the rest. 
 
 Intent to ease and cheer and aid; 
 
 Staying to comfort one, 
 
 Besouglit by others while she staid; 
 
 Forgetful of herself 
 
 Wliile watching life and death at strife, 
 
 Scarce shrinking at the sharp. 
 
 Stern healing of the surgeon^s knife. 
 
EPISODES. 63 
 
 But when the worst was past. 
 Wearied beyond disguise, at length, 
 Saddened so utterly 
 She lost the very hope of strength. 
 
 Sitting in simset light 
 
 To rest, she strove in vexed wise 
 
 To check the rebel tears 
 
 That gathered in her hidden eyes. 
 
 Close by, upon a couch 
 
 Touched with the vivid, level beams. 
 
 Lay a young volunteer 
 
 Whose brow was crossed by half-healed seams. 
 
 A boy, with frank blue eyes. 
 With Saxon tints of skin and hair, 
 And all a Southron's fire 
 Lurking in gesture, glance, and air. 
 
 One truer than his kin, 
 
 Who loved his country and his state. 
 
 And Qwned the stronger claim 
 
 When wish and duty would not mate; 
 
64 EPISODES. 
 
 Who left luxurious ease, 
 
 Dared hate and death for noble ends, 
 
 And sought the alien North 
 
 To hght his brothers and his friends. 
 
 Two long and dreary months, 
 
 Blank months of fever and of pain, 
 
 Had salved the fearful wound 
 
 That touched the life in frame and brain ; 
 
 - And now, impatiently. 
 He heard the news of battles won. 
 Or battles lost, perchance, 
 Within the passing of a sun; 
 
 Striving in vain to find 
 The passive patience of his mates. 
 And longing for the strength 
 To tempt, again, the fickle fates; 
 
 Sometimes, at adverse news, 
 Ready to curse his helplessness ; 
 Then happy as a child 
 At tales of daring and success. 
 
EPISODES. 65 
 
 His voutliful nurse, in turn, 
 Pitied, admired, ''coaxed, and plead ; 
 Her noiseless, busy feet 
 Paused long and often, by his bed ; 
 
 Or, if she passed him by. 
 
 She dropped some word of cheer, or sport. 
 
 Perhaps some stirring news, — 
 
 Tlie taking of a ship or fort \ — 
 
 And in her leisure tiines, ^ 
 
 She never failed to bring him flowers. 
 And brii>'liten with kind words 
 The wearisome and painful hours. 
 
 Often, as both were young 
 And lovers of the joy of earth, 
 Grave themes were overthrown 
 By onsets of aggressive mirth. 
 
 So, careful courtesy. 
 
 That charms all lighter intercourse. 
 
 Was merited in friendliness 
 
 By sympathy's quick, constant force. 
 
 E 
 
66 EPISODES. 
 
 She liked his chivalry^ 
 
 His eager faith in all things good ; 
 
 His very petulance, — 
 
 The boyish clianges of his mood : — 
 
 One moment overcome 
 By ennui; next, with careless wile, 
 Luring some homesick youth, 
 Or dismal veteran, to a smile. 
 
 , To him her earnest ways, 
 Her simple words, her ]\lay-flower face. 
 Her practical, fresh views 
 Of life and men, were full of grace. 
 
 The bits of wise advice, 
 
 The quaint, half-comic dignity 
 
 With which his girlisli nurse 
 
 Ruled him, yet seemed to leave him free. 
 
 Amused his wavward moods : 
 Then fascinated, then controlled. 
 Sometimes, when bars of light 
 Gave her stray curls a tint of gold. 
 
EPISODES. 67 
 
 He watched her silently. 
 
 And wondered why she seemed so fair; 
 
 " How many he had known 
 
 Had brilliant eyes and rippling hair ! '' 
 
 Then, weary of his dream, 
 
 With some odd fancy he would seek 
 
 To snare her truant thought, 
 
 That he might make her smile and speak. 
 
 To-night, the while she sat 
 Dejectedly, with bended head, 
 With eager kindliness, 
 (Divining all she felt), he said, 
 
 " See, I Ve a little book, 
 
 A souvenir the chaplain gave 
 
 When he was here to-day; 
 
 Of moral kind, I judge, and grave. 
 
 " He called it ' Flowers of Thought.' 
 The name, to say the least, is fine. 
 Pray tell me what it is. 
 You know I camiot read a line.'' 
 
08 EPISODES. 
 
 She idly turned its leaves, — 
 
 A pocket-volume, bound in red ; — 
 
 Poems with curious names 
 
 That seemed to stranger fancies Aved. 
 
 " ' Utopian Days ' comes first," 
 
 She said, '^and then ^The Golden Meed/ 
 
 Here is a shorter tale, 
 
 ^Ali Bachbara/ Shall I read?" 
 
 He did not care for books, 
 
 But smiled a quick and bright assent ; 
 
 For just to watch her face. 
 
 The while she read, brought much content. 
 
 '' Within his garden^'s brilliant bower, 
 Ali Bachbara found a flower 
 
 "Whose wondrous beauty made it seem 
 The vision of a favored dream. 
 
 " He nourished it with tender care, 
 And every day it grew more fair. 
 
EPISODES. m 
 
 " He passed full many a rapturous hour 
 Drunk with the beauty of the flower, 
 
 "And deemed that none like this had grown 
 In any country man had known. 
 
 " One morn betwixt the tapestry 
 He peeped with eager eyes, to see 
 
 " The blossom that his dreams had shown, — 
 Lo ! in the spot where it had grown, 
 
 " A sickly weed with poisonous flowers ! 
 Bachbara cried to all the powers 
 
 " For aid ; and wept the livelong day. 
 At night he heard a strange voice say : — 
 
 " ^ Go travel in the Christians' land. 
 And keep an open heart and hand. 
 
 "^If you can learn to find it, then 
 The flower shall be yours again.' 
 
 " In the swift times that will not stay, 
 Bachbara travelled far away ; 
 
70 EPISODES. 
 
 ^' On foot, alone, and meanly drest; 
 He left behind liis most and best. 
 
 " In his new need and sudden dearth, 
 Riches possessed but little worth. 
 
 " He journeyed through the strangers' land 
 And, journeying, saw on either hand 
 
 '^^Fair domes and spires and costly towers 
 Where there was prayer at certain hours; 
 
 " And learned tliat these were buihled to 
 The strange God that the people knew. 
 
 '' One bitter night, upon a street. 
 Crouched in a doorway, at his feet, 
 
 " He saw a child upon her knees. 
 And shivering in the sleety breeze. 
 
 " He lieard her praying, as he stood, 
 
 To that strange God, for warmth and food. 
 
 " And once, as he was passing by, 
 A mass of granite, poised on- high. 
 
EPISODES. 71 
 
 " Crashed down upon the forward path. 
 Stunned with the thought of Allah^s wrath, 
 
 " He veiled his face. One near him said, 
 ' God^s mercy that you are not dead ! ' 
 
 " Captured by robbers, many a day 
 He pined his useless life away 
 
 " With one companion, who, as he. 
 Longed day and night for liberty. 
 
 '^ At last the thieves, hard pressed for gold. 
 Doomed one to die, and one to hold 
 
 " As captive still, a meniaFs place. 
 Both longed for life's continued grace, 
 
 '^ Each meant to die. The other caught 
 The falling blow Bachbara sought. 
 
 " His flowing blood stained rock and sod ; 
 He said, ^I die, but trust in God.' 
 
 " Bachbara marvelled. Oft he thought 
 Of this strange God these aliens sought. 
 
72 EPISODES. 
 
 " Soon, set at liberty again, 
 
 He wandered far^ 'niongst many men, 
 
 " And heard, while seeking for his tloAver, 
 Tales of the strange God^s love and power. 
 
 " He saw men dying free of dread, 
 Because of words their God-book said. 
 
 " He saw men suffer cruel wrong. 
 
 Yet this God made them glad and strong. 
 
 " Bachbara, in amazed mood, 
 
 Said^ 'This new God is great and good; 
 
 " ' I would that any deed of mine 
 Might make his grace to me incline ! ' 
 
 " He heard again the tirst conunand, — 
 ' Keep thou an open heart and hand ! ' 
 
 " Then back, across the land and sea, 
 Bachbara travelled wearily, 
 
 " In pilgrim wise, that he might find. 
 The riches he had left behind. 
 
EPISODES. 73 
 
 " He brought gold to the stranger^s land, 
 And gave it forth with liberal hand. 
 
 " The sick, the poor, and the oppressed 
 With his unstinted gifts were blessed. 
 
 " He gave till he could give no more, 
 Till he himself, at last, was poor. 
 
 "Now disappointments manifold 
 Had left him worn and sad and old. 
 
 " Far past his vigorous prime and power. 
 He still sought vainly for his flower. 
 
 "There came a war upon the land, 
 
 x\ blaze that wmds of linte had fanned. 
 
 " Men died bv hundreds everv day. 
 Bachbara, now diseased and gray, 
 
 " Saw his most cherished friend depart 
 To battle, ^Y\ih. an aching heart. 
 
 " It was a youth, of purpose high. 
 Bachbara tried to satisfy 
 
 4 
 
74 EPISODES. 
 
 " His fears^ by following, near and far. 
 The varying fortunes of the war. 
 
 '''The youth fell 'mid a desperate fight. 
 Bachbara found him in the night 
 
 " Half dead, in fearful agony, 
 'Mongst many in such case as he. 
 
 *' Breathing his last, he smiled. ' You see 
 T is good to die ! God comforts me.' 
 
 yrv : 
 
 " Awe-struck, Bachbara spoke hi^; thought : 
 'This God is more than all. But naught 
 
 " ' Is mine, save this poor body, now, 
 And T can give but praise and vow.' 
 
 "Days passed. Within a croAvded street 
 Rose tumult ^vild. With hastening feet, 
 
 " He sought its cause. Red seas of flame 
 Inwrapped a mansion's lofty frame; 
 
 "The people, with distracted calls. 
 Cried, ' There is one within the walls ! 
 
EPISODES. 75 
 
 " ' A woman ! ^ But the bravest staid 
 Upon the bound of fire, afraid. 
 
 "Bachbara only, in the pride 
 Of high resolve, put fear aside, 
 
 " Plunged in the masterless, mad fire 
 
 And disappeared. The flames roared higher. 
 
 " He did not save the one he sought. 
 Yet was his own salvation wrought. 
 
 ^' Bachbara entered heaven. A space,, 
 His soul was overcome with grace; 
 
 (( r 
 
 Then, lifting up his dazzled eyes. 
 He saw the God of paradise. 
 
 " Bachbara, now supremely blest. 
 Heard His voice say, ' Lo, after test, 
 
 " ' Comes joy and peace. Reward is sweet. 
 Bachbara, look ! beside thy feet 
 
 " ' Grows the lost flower.' Now I wot, 
 Bachbara, kneeling, had forgot 
 
76 EPISODES. 
 
 "That aught in heaven or in earth. 
 Save God himself, had any worth. 
 
 " He did not look upon the flower 
 
 At first, but, prostrate, blessed the power 
 
 '^That set this blossom in the sod 
 To lead him to the very God/' 
 
 The reader ceased and smiled. 
 Glancing the last words o'er anew. 
 " A strange imagining. 
 But very beautiful and true ! '' 
 
 Then, thinking as she spoke, 
 
 Of what the story symbolized. 
 
 Forgetting with what mask 
 
 The inner thought had been disguised. 
 
 In hopes and memories 
 
 That still possessed her life, immersed. 
 
 She murmured, half aloud, 
 
 " / should have looked for Roger first ! " 
 
EPISODES. 77 
 
 He did but try to guess 
 Her meaning, far too delicate 
 To question words like these. 
 So left lier thought inviolate. 
 
 But that unwitting speech 
 
 Was quick to flush her cheek and brow; 
 
 And, rising hastily, 
 
 She said, " I must be wanted now/ 
 
 3) 
 
 He took the book again. 
 
 And as she hastened down the room 
 
 Where shadows, gaining ground. 
 
 Had filled odd nooks with hints of gloom, 
 
 He followed her swift steps 
 
 With puzzled, speculative eyes, 
 
 Wishing he held a key 
 
 To speech and blush and troubled guise. 
 
 Then pushed the pillow higher, 
 Seeking to ease his aching head. 
 And wondered, while he gazed 
 At streaks of sunlight by the bed, 
 
78 EPISODES. 
 
 If sorrow could have reached 
 
 A life that he had deemed serene; 
 
 Or, if she had not knov^-n 
 
 A sorrow, what her words could mean. 
 
 And thought it, somehow, strange 
 That grief should come to such as she ; 
 So tossed aside the book 
 That caused the thought, impetuously. 
 
 But as liis keen ear caught 
 Notes of a war-song, on the street, 
 His vexed and musing face 
 Cleared somewhat, and he idly beat 
 
 Quick time upon the wall; 
 And, fired by the bold refrain. 
 Sighed vainly to be back 
 ^Mid the wild risks of war again. 
 
EPISODES. 79 
 
 She sat beside the open door; 
 Without the roses climbed and swung; 
 Upon the rustic trellis near 
 The honeysuckle clung. 
 Shadow and sunshine Hecked the floor, 
 The bright, intrusive afternoon, 
 Wove round her seat an atmosphere 
 To fit the dainty June. 
 
 The garden-walk was bordered thick 
 With marigolds and stock-flowers gay. 
 And, populous with shades and tints, 
 The beds in order lay. 
 The bees' soft hum, the clock's slow tick, 
 Made silence dreamy; and the sound 
 Of scythe and voice, life's distant hhits, 
 Came from the fields around. 
 
 Upon the broad sill at her side 
 Sat one, with waves of yellow hair 
 Tossed by the wind across a brow 
 Whose whiteness seemed more fair 
 
80 EPISODES. 
 
 Because a scar-liiie, grim and wide, 
 Was branded on it. " Only one 
 Good scar/' he laughed, '^ suffices. Now, 
 I am a veteran ! " 
 
 She, looking in the merry eyes 
 
 Upraised to hers, and thinking o'er 
 
 News that had speeded north and south 
 
 From a tierce tield of war ; 
 
 News of a deed that thrilled surprise 
 
 Across the tumult of the time, 
 
 A deed that lame had loved to mouth 
 
 in many a speech and rhyme ; 
 
 A deed that stirred the people's heart, 
 Beating with anxious hope and dread. 
 And won its doer smklen rank 
 His youth scarce w^arranted ; 
 Said simply, with no thought of art_, 
 But giving praise where praise was due, 
 " The countrv has ""reat need to thank 
 Such veterans as you.^' 
 
 He smiled, but half impatiently. 
 Pulling apart the spray he held. 
 
EPISODES. Bl 
 
 "They call an impulse well obeyed 
 
 Courage unparalleled. 
 
 If I had dared to stand and see 
 
 The smallest chance of victory lost, 
 
 Then it were best that death had stayed 
 
 A craven, counting cost. 
 
 "The dullest soldier in the ranks, 
 
 If he had marked the chance, like me, 
 
 Could but have tried to win the spot 
 
 Where our flag used to be ! 
 
 The troops, the cannon, — they were blanks. 
 
 And death? Ah, death was easy then! 
 
 Times come when, if we will or not. 
 
 We do the work of men. 
 
 " And they who followed ! We forget 
 Half our dead heroes' bravery : 
 Twice, he who pressed next after, fell 
 Beneath blows meant for me ! 
 I sometimes think that flag was set 
 Upon those cannon-bristling towers. 
 Amid the deadly shot and shell, 
 By other strength than ours. 
 
 4* F 
 
82 EPISODES. 
 
 " It was reward enough, — tlie shout 
 That rolled its triumph up through space 
 When our men saw the stripes and stars 
 Set in their ancient place. 
 Of course I do not mean to flout 
 At fame ; it stirs the blood like wine. 
 But many a man earned oidy scars 
 By grander deeds than mine." 
 
 His listener laughed. " Your bold defence 
 Gets little aid," slie said, "from fact. 
 I here convict you solennily 
 Of an heroic act. 
 
 And I ^m both judge and evidence : 
 Before your name was lauded so. 
 When first the story came to me, 
 Far south, I hardlv know 
 
 "Wliether I laughed or cried the most 
 
 While I was reading, all alone ; 
 
 For I, a Avoman, lyas so proud 
 
 To think that I had known 
 
 A hero, who amid a host 
 
 Worn and half routed, fomid a way 
 
EPISODES. 83 
 
 To strike new courage in the crowd, 
 To win the hard-fought day!'' 
 
 She saw a slow flush creep across 
 The branded brow, the sunburnt cheek. 
 He did not raise his do\^Ticast eyes 
 When he began to speak : 
 " Wonhl vou have counted it a loss, — 
 Not to the world, to you, I mean, — 
 If I had crossed those batteries 
 Only to leave more green 
 
 "A memory that my nearest kin — 
 Yes, even my mother, it may be — 
 Would deem reproach to after years? 
 If you had read of me. 
 Instead, that ere I quite could win 
 The height, a ball had struck me dead, 
 Would you have given me any tears 
 For friendship's sake?" he said. 
 
 "Nay, better let me ask you more 
 Before you answer. I have learned 
 That love is sweeter far than fame. 
 And harder to be earned. 
 
84 EPISODES. 
 
 What need to tell ? You knew before 
 I loved you. Love is swift to show 
 Ere one has dared to speak its name 
 To oner's own heart. I know/^ 
 
 • 
 
 He said, and shook the waves of hair 
 
 Defiantly from off his brow, 
 
 '' That I am but a boy in years, 
 
 And war is ended now. 
 
 I am not askiu"- vou to share 
 
 Bright fortunes. My inheritance 
 
 Is changed to curses and to tears ; 
 
 I trust in toil and chance. 
 
 " I have my hands ; brains, scarce as keen 
 
 As was my good, old bayonet; 
 
 Courage enough ! A poor array 
 
 Against the world ! but yet, 
 
 If I may shrine you as the queen 
 
 Of heart and hope, a single smile 
 
 Shall teach me how to win my way ! 
 
 Ah, let me work awhile 
 
 " And come, more worthy, by and by 
 To bring you all that is your due ! 
 
EPISODES. 85 
 
 No toil, no trial, can be hard 
 
 If it is borne for you ! '' 
 
 He paused that she might satisfy 
 
 The eagerness of voice and face, 
 
 The anxious hope that doubt still marred. 
 
 By some slight sign of grace; 
 
 Half startled, 'mid the tide of speech. 
 By the blank wonder in her eyes. 
 Half reassured when cheeks, that paled 
 At first, gained rosy dyes. 
 And she? What subtle thought can reach 
 The secrets of a woman's heart, 
 To show why men have won, or failed 
 • To win, with love's best art? 
 
 She heard at first in sheer amaze. 
 Protesting mutely as he spoke; 
 Sorry, as if a pleasant dream 
 Had been too quickly broke; 
 But, then, his pleading words and gaze 
 Waked some swift pain within her heart 
 (And love and pity, it would seem, 
 Can scarce be told apart). 
 
86 EPISODES. 
 
 ' Remembering that he did not know 
 She was half wedded to the dead, 
 Lost in tlie sndden whirl of thought 
 That followed what he said; 
 Proud; conscious of a passing glow 
 Of pleasure, that a man like this 
 Loved her; touclied with quick feeling, caught 
 Unconsciously, from liis ; 
 
 Yet querying still, with mind distraught, 
 If this wei'e love ? if it were not ? 
 Brought face to face with that sad past 
 Whose pain was unforgot; 
 Slie answered, having vainly sought 
 For words that might seem fitly placed, 
 ''I want to think /^ And with the last 
 Low w'ord, she rose in haste. 
 
 ^^ Wait for me ! Let me be alone 
 
 A little while ! " then did not stay 
 
 For liis reply, but hastily 
 
 Ran down the garden way. ♦ 
 
 Ran till the lilacs, overgrown 
 
 And rank, had hidden gate and door; 
 
EPISODES. 87 
 
 Ran like a child at liberty, 
 With some ordeal o^er; 
 
 Sat down upon a patch of grass, 
 Beneath a blossomed chestnut-tree. 
 And tried to bring disordered thought 
 To continuity. 
 
 Watching a far-off, snowy mass 
 Of cloud, piled high amid the blue, 
 She pondered long on what she ought 
 To think, to say, to do. 
 
 " Can one love twice ? Can one love twice ? '^ 
 
 She ^sked the flowers, the trees, the sky, 
 
 She asked herself in earnest wise, 
 
 But trusted no reply. 
 
 The visioned future would entice 
 
 Her wishful fancy, though she tried — 
 
 As one whom effort satisfies — 
 
 To set it quite aside. 
 
 "Can love come back and comfort me?^' 
 Then far into a vanished May 
 Shrined in the past, her freed thought fled 
 And showed a bright spring day 
 
88 EPISODES. 
 
 When, underneath this very tree, 
 Upon the grass where she sat then, 
 Two lovers talked of being wed, 
 And planned the how and when. 
 
 She saw them, rich in glad content 
 That came because they loved so well, 
 They counted love itself a cure 
 If grief or loss befell. 
 And that last day, — the day he went, — 
 When they delayed, for this and that. 
 Beneath the vines, A\ithin the door 
 Where, now, another sat; 
 
 When Roi^er smiled awav her tears 
 And said, " I wish each coming day 
 Might brhig you only thoughts of me, — 
 While I must be away ! ^' 
 Freshly, across dividing years, 
 The words came back, the look, the kiss;- 
 And that was love. Half mockingly. 
 Roused memory asked, " Is this ? '^ 
 
 And answered No. There seemed no room 
 For question. Like the voice of fate 
 
EPISODES. 89 
 
 Came that stern answer; so she rose • 
 
 And sought, again, the gate. 
 
 But paused as if there were a doom 
 
 To utter on the other side; 
 
 Faltered as one who yet scarce knows. 
 
 Thus pausing, she descried, 
 
 Through the thick greenery, her guest 
 
 And Maud and Annie in the door. 
 
 Maud held her babe with matron grace, 
 
 And Amiie with a store 
 
 Of small-talk, strove to interest 
 
 The stranger for the passing while. > 
 
 He, with the flush still on his face, 
 
 Answered, and tried to smile. 
 
 She wavered. Could she have the heart 
 
 To give such pain? "And yet,''^ she thought, 
 
 " I could not give him, if I would, 
 
 The love that he besouscht.^^ 
 
 Waiting, she pondered, half apart 
 
 From graver themes, on coming life : 
 
 An old maid ! once almost a bride, . 
 
 Never to be a wife. 
 
90 EPISODES. 
 
 An old maid ; dressed in black or gray, 
 Hiding with caps her spindling hair, 
 With wrinkles and white locks to sliow 
 For each yearns toil and care ; 
 Poor, lonely, sometimes wished ' away 
 From the glad firesides of her friends. 
 Taught by her bounded life to grow 
 In love with selfish ends ; 
 
 Pitied by careless, happy folk, 
 
 Passed by, more often ; grown precise, 
 
 A gossip, laden with small needs, 
 
 Haggling about a price. 
 
 But this last picture could provoke 
 
 A smile that ended in a laugh. 
 
 She nmsed, " As .all experience reads. 
 
 Pain is joy^s better half. 
 
 " What matters outward circumstance 
 If, in our seventy years, or seven, 
 That pass so soon, we but commence 
 To live the life of heaven ? '' 
 Again she made some slow advance ; 
 Her guest had strolled along the ridge 
 
EPISODES. 91 
 
 Of road that showed beyond the fence, 
 And paused upon the bridge. 
 
 Bent o'er the rail with knitted brows. 
 He did not hear her as she came ; 
 Her light steps quickened by resolve, 
 Till, flushing with the shame 
 Of speaking first, she strove to rouse 
 Her courage by the act of speech. 
 (This problem that they sought to solve, 
 Was full of pain to each.) 
 
 She said, beginning timidly, 
 Twixt pity and reserve at strife, 
 I never told you anything • 
 About my former life. 
 If you will hear it now " ; and he, 
 Erect with sudden eagerness, 
 Lost hope her voice had seemed to bring, 
 So, baffled, answered, " Yes.'' 
 
 Then, as they paced from end to end 
 Of that old bridge, in simple words 
 Which, as a steady undertone 
 Blent with the notes of birds, 
 
 }r 
 
 <( 
 
92 EPISODES. 
 
 She told, as one would tell a friend, 
 The sad, short story of the past ; 
 The tale of sorrow half outgro^^^l, 
 Fully, from first to last. 
 
 And finished, that slie might not leave 
 
 His doubting still unsatisfied, 
 
 " T tliink T lost the power to love 
 
 Again, when Roger died. 
 
 If it were easy to deceive 
 
 One^s heart, I might have dreamed anew, 
 
 Even after what I told you of. 
 
 And tliought that I loved you ; 
 
 " For vou are like a brother, — more. 
 Indeed, than that ! ^' He did not speak, 
 But turned away impetuously, 
 Moved, first, by boyish picjue; 
 And pulled his cap more firmly o'er 
 His moody brows; then, quickly shamed. 
 Merged his liurt pride in charity 
 That her sad story claimed. 
 
 Turned back again and tried to smile. 
 And say some words of sympathy; 
 
EPISODES. 93 
 
 But quick disguise of look or word 
 
 Is hard for such as he; 
 
 So, all unskilled in ready guile, 
 
 And overpowered by regret, 
 
 He could but say, in tones half heard, 
 
 " But if you might forget — " 
 
 Then, with a little change of mood 
 
 Went on, " Yet I have too much pride 
 
 To ask or wish for less regard. 
 
 If love must be denied. 
 
 I would not thus have vainly sued 
 
 And wronged the dead ! I ^vill but stay 
 
 For one good-by; yet it is hard — . 
 
 So hard — to go away ! 
 
 " Think of it : I am so alone, — 
 
 No hope in all the world, but you; 
 
 Few friends, no home, — ay, worse than none, — 
 
 What would you have me do ? 
 
 Ah, pardon me ! I will disown 
 
 All thoughts, all pleas, save that of love ! ^' 
 
 So waited, in the level sun, 
 
 AVhile birds sang on above. 
 
94 EPISODES. 
 
 What i^ould she say ? It seemed so weak 
 
 To have no answer but her tears ; 
 
 Her sad refusal, like a knell 
 
 To end all hopes and fears. 
 
 Per])]exedly she tried to speak 
 
 Some of tlic thouLrhts that came to her 
 
 So lately, (they were liard to tell; 
 
 She scarce knew what they were.) 
 
 Said some vague words, but, stopping short 
 
 Because they seemed so cold and poor, 
 
 Just sobbed, '' \ am so sorry ! ^^ then 
 
 I lad voice to say no more. 
 
 He, like a rliild who has besought 
 
 A favor in untitting way, 
 
 And wants to be forgiven again. 
 
 Half doubting if he may. 
 
 Stood for a space, irresolute. 
 
 Her hand in his ; then, while his cheek 
 
 Burned crimson underneath the flush 
 
 That crossed it, dared to speak : 
 
 "Will y(m just kiss me?^^ and was mute 
 
 And fearful of a new offence ; 
 
EPISODES. 95 
 
 But she, too earnest even to blush, 
 Asked, "As an evidence 
 
 " That we are friends ? " In grave assent 
 He kissed her, turning hastily,. 
 In time to hide a single tear 
 He would not have her see. 
 Then, with a low "good by,'^ he went 
 Down the long windings of the road ; 
 Slanting with shadows, golden clear. 
 The late, rare sunshine gloAved. 
 
 Straight on, amid the carnival 
 
 Of scattered bloom and light and wind. 
 
 But paused upon a hilFs high ridge 
 
 For one last look behind ; 
 
 Where eastern shadows, low and dull, 
 
 Made wooded nooks and hollows dim. 
 
 Where the white figure on the bridge 
 
 Once, waved her hand to him. 
 
 She, left alone, — and lonely, too, — 
 Watched the far sunset fade away. 
 Still musing, till the last fair light 
 Had blended with the gray. 
 
96 EPISODES. 
 
 The old life, taken up anew. 
 Seemed somewhat dreary, somewhat sad. 
 Present and future looked less bright 
 For what she miu'ht have had. 
 
 But something in the hush and calm 
 Of nature, lulled her pain to rest. 
 "Life is but striving,^^ said her heart, 
 "To do, to be, one's best.'' 
 Murmurs that seemed to voice a psalm 
 Were in the river's monotone, 
 Slow music : "It is life's best art 
 To live for heaven alone." 
 
IN WINTER. 
 
 HE winter lingers long 
 
 And, ever, in niv dreams, 
 I hear the robin''s song, 
 I listen to the streams 
 And live in April days- woven of mists and gleams. 
 
 I wTary of my books, 
 
 Bnt snows m^sk tield and wood, 
 And nil the little brooks 
 
 Forget their hardihood ; 
 And every sjiot I love is still a solitude. 
 
 Spring does not haste to come; 
 
 I watch and wish in vain. 
 Her prophets all are dumb, 
 
 Or, if tliey speak, complain 
 And fill the dreary days with noise of wind and rain. 
 
 5 G 
 
98 IN WINTER. 
 
 But still the changeful sky 
 
 Wears crimson morn and eve, 
 The south-winds pass^ and sigh 
 
 For something that they leave, 
 And sturdy evergreens forbid the land to grieve. 
 
 And still the slow days move 
 
 To bring a fairer time 
 When hours and days shall prove 
 Better than dream or rhvme : 
 Slowly tlio infant year grows toward his wondrous 
 prime. 
 
 And, thinking how the years 
 Drift on to the unknown. 
 How fast the future nears. 
 How soon it is outgrown, 
 I strive to make the patience of the time my own. 
 
MARCH. 
 
 INTEU leaves a legacy 
 
 To the Spring's first days, 
 March, the heir, is bold and free 
 And of thriftless ways: 
 
 Dowered by Sprhig with winds enough, 
 
 And a sunshine dole ; 
 Ear too frolicsome and rough 
 
 For her mild control; 
 
 Dressed in white at Winter's cost, 
 
 Little to his mind, 
 Laden with the snow and frost 
 
 Winter left behind; 
 
100 MARCH. 
 
 Yet so wild with liberty, 
 That, though fate "s austere, 
 
 Still he '^ over-glad to be 
 Beckoned in the year. 
 
 Decorous Tune can seldom see 
 
 Such hilarious play 
 As when madcap Winds and he 
 
 Take a holiday. 
 
 Like a peal of merriment 
 His bkiff life appears; 
 
 'Twixt the Winter^s discontent 
 And the ApriFs tears. 
 
 ^T is the boyhood of the year ; 
 
 In its storms we trace 
 Auguries of springes late cheer. 
 
 Hints of summer's grace. 
 
APRIL. 
 
 PEIL has searched the winter land 
 And found her petted flowers again; 
 She kissed them to unfold their leaves, 
 She coaxed them with her sun and rain, 
 And filled the grass with green content, 
 And made the weeds and clover vain. 
 
 Her fairies climb the bare, brown trees. 
 And set green caps on every stalk ; 
 
 Her primroses ])eep bashfully 
 
 From borders of the garden walk. 
 
 And in the reddened maple tops 
 Her blackbird gossips sit and talk. 
 
 She greets the patient evergreens, 
 
 She brings a store of uncoined gold. 
 
102 APRIL. 
 
 Gives tasselled presents to the breeze, 
 And teaches rivers songs of old ; 
 
 Then steals March winds and shakes the trees, 
 And laughs to hear the cuckoo scold. 
 
 Sometimes, to fret the sober Sun, 
 She pulls the clouds across his face; 
 
 But finds a snow-drift in the woods, 
 GroAvs meek again and prays his grace; 
 
 Waits till the last white wreath is gone 
 And drops arbutus in the place. 
 
 Her crocuses and violets 
 
 Give all the world a gay "Good year." 
 Tall irises grow tired of green. 
 
 And get tliemselves a purple gear; 
 And tiny buds that lie asleep 
 
 On hill and field her summons hear. 
 
 She plays with saucy meadow-cups. 
 The sunset^s heart anew she dyes ; 
 
 She fills the dusk of deepest woods 
 
 With vague sweet sunshine and surprise. 
 
 And wakes the perimnkles up 
 
 To watch her with their wide, blue eves. 
 
APRIL. 103 
 
 At last she deems her work is done, 
 And finds a willow rocking-chair, 
 
 Dons spectacles of apple-bnds, 
 
 Kerchief and cap of almonds rare. 
 
 And sits, a very grandmother. 
 
 Shifting her sunshine needles there. 
 
 And when she sees the deeper suns 
 
 That usher in the happy May, 
 She sighs to think her time is past. 
 
 And weeps because she cannot stay; 
 So leaves her tears upon the grass. 
 
 And turns her face and glides away. 
 
MAY. 
 
 FIE apple-trees stand naked 
 
 Where their dead leaflets lie; 
 They dreani^ through all the winter, 
 About the morning sky. 
 
 For rosy hues of sunrise, 
 
 The passing months they pray; 
 
 And all the months deny them, 
 Save one, the gracious Mdy. 
 
 But she, Springes youngest darling. 
 
 Has pity on the trees 
 Whose rugged boughs yearn mutely 
 
 The distant glow to seize. 
 
MJ'F. .105 
 
 From out monies eastern palace, 
 
 She brings red mantles, laced 
 With pink; but plundered morning 
 
 Collects the clouds in haste. 
 
 " See her blue pinions sweeping ! " 
 She cries. " Pursue her liight ! 
 
 She carries crimson mantles 
 
 In which I shroud the night ! '' 
 
 And the white clouds, May's hunters, 
 
 Charmed by her eyes so fair. 
 And curls all woven of sunlight. 
 
 Are captives unaware. 
 
 These hosts of tintless lovers 
 
 She binds with scarfs of red; 
 With clouds and lia'ht she dresses 
 
 The boughs that seem so dead. 
 
 And when she goes, lest morning 
 
 Should call lier colors back, 
 And lest the trees she garnished 
 
 Their beauty's use should lack, 
 5* 
 
100 
 
 MJiY. 
 
 She hides ^mid morning^s crimson 
 The sunsef s red and gold, 
 
 That Autumn's careful fingers 
 Shall uito fruit unfold. 
 
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 JUNE. 
 
 ^^g?f|HY should I care to count the time? 
 I know the moments flee too fast; 
 I know the day has seen its prime_, 
 And I shall lose it in the past. 
 
 What if the whole of happy June 
 Is full of just such days of bliss? 
 
 I would not have them come too soon, 
 I would not lose an hour of this ! 
 
 The world has made m^ laugli — and weep; 
 
 And dreams have been its only boon. 
 I ^d give the world away to keep 
 
 The gold of this one afternoon ! 
 
108 JUNE. 
 
 To lose all memory and all care 
 
 And lie forever^ at my ease^, 
 Fanned by a faintly scented air_, 
 
 Wandering across such fields as these; 
 
 To need no more, to wish no more, 
 Than buttercups and columbine; 
 
 Nursed by the davs that came before. 
 And hapjw if the sun but shine; 
 
 To be as wealthy as the grass^ 
 
 (lay as yon brook (and not know why), 
 Idle as those white clouds, that pass 
 
 Across the quiet of the sky. 
 
 Why should I care to count the hours? 
 
 Too fast, too fast, they f>*lide away; 
 Too soon to-morrow will be ours, 
 
 And we shall call this yesterday. 
 
 Fade, phantoms of the busy year ! 
 
 June days shall be my providence. 
 Pass by me, thought ! and leave me here 
 
 In this charmed region of the sense. 
 
CHRYSOPRASUS. 
 
 SAT and heard him in the little church ; — 
 Without^ the maples glowed in red and 
 brown, 
 
 And heights of sunny sky, that mocked the search, 
 Were beautiful, above the quiet town ; — 
 
 A grave, bent man, with care-worn brow, nnd eyes 
 That told the secrets of an earnest life 
 
 Lived in God^s fashion ; seeking to h? wise. 
 Guarded in purity, through peace and strife. 
 
 He knew the beauty of simplicity, 
 
 And told his thouglit in plain and common speech ; 
 Making the message of -God^s mercy free, 
 
 Laden with full significance to each. 
 
110 CHRYSOPRASUS. 
 
 The quiet words had power to bring to me, 
 
 In vision, one who taught such truths as these. 
 
 I stood beside the Gahlean sea, 
 
 And felt the noonday sunshine and the breeze. 
 
 Amid the little group of fishermen 
 
 I saw the Christ; and wondered at his face. 
 
 (I have no power to show, with tongue or p(^n, 
 One half the vision^'s blessedness and grace.) 
 
 I heard again words uttered long ago, 
 
 "Feed thou my lambs.^^ And, floating far and clear, 
 
 The kindly echoes lived and seemed to grow 
 An undertone within each noisv year; 
 
 Eeaclimg the ear and heart of many a one. 
 Simple and wise, of high and low degree; 
 
 Telling of farther heights than yet are won, 
 Translating life as loving charity. 
 
 Methought I saw them in a glorious throng. 
 The saints, the heroes of the ages gone, 
 
 Whose names have lived in memory and song. 
 From whose grand lives all faith is newly bom. 
 
CHRYSOPRASUS. Ill 
 
 It was as if time lingered as it willed, 
 Charmed by a whisper from eternity; 
 
 And all the quaint and dusky church was filled 
 With hints of glory I could almost see. 
 
 Keen virtue touched my senses, stirred my thought, 
 Strange brightness shone within the autumn air ; 
 
 Sweet echoes, fresh from angel songs, seemed caught 
 From space and prisoned in the closing prayer : 
 
 "Give to thy children, tossed by trials here. 
 
 Blessed foregleams of their immortal dower. 
 Of the souFs spring-time in a higher sphere. 
 
 Of that eternity where lives shall flower/' 
 ^ ^ ^ -5^ 
 
 The voice had done. The organ's deeper tone 
 
 Ended the service with its loud amen; 
 And, as a voyager, to shores unknoAvn, 
 
 I came upon the present time again. 
 
AMETHYST. 
 
 TTEPiE came to me from natu^e^s calm, 
 From years of joy and sadness blent. 
 Hidden in every prayer and psalm, 
 The revelation of content. 
 
 A lesson from each bird and flower, 
 Erom common life and common men. 
 
 To teacli the nses of tlie honr. 
 
 The harmony of ^*^now^^ and "then/^ 
 
 It bade mv ancient sorrow cease, 
 
 And taught my stubborn lips to say, 
 
 '^ He was my friend, — my years increase, 
 He died before his hair was gray. 
 
AMETHYST. 113 
 
 '^And thongli I cannot clasp his hand, 
 Or see his face, my prayers were wrong; 
 
 Whoever seeks a better land 
 In living, cannot live too long. 
 
 " Let me live on, till I can earn. 
 For my long past, a little leaven; 
 
 Let me stay in the world and learn 
 To say the alphabet of heaven. 
 
 "Why should I place my happiness 
 
 Li being equal witli my friend? 
 Why fret if men accomplish less 
 
 Than angels, for a common end? 
 
 " We are like two that sit nnd Aveave 
 On the same fabric, dav bv dav : — • 
 
 Why should the brother ^Aorker grieve 
 If one has learned an e:T»sier way? 
 
 "Far better — with the earnest heart 
 
 That makes the humblest labor grand — 
 
 Study the secrets of his art 
 
 Until he, too, shall understand.'^ 
 
 II 
 
114 AMETHYST. 
 
 Capricious aTitumn^ here and there, 
 Droj^s color Avith a careless hand. 
 
 The sunshine and the morning air 
 Are freshening all the quiet land. 
 
 Gay asters fringe the garden-walk ; 
 
 Beyond, the reddening apples fall; 
 Above the dahlia^'s ruined stalk 
 
 The woodbine crimsons roof and wall. 
 
 I am content to sit and guide 
 My needle, deftly as I may, 
 
 Glad as the hour, and satisfied 
 To merge to-morrow in to-day; 
 
 To make my deeds and hopes agree; 
 
 Whatever guise the days may wear. 
 The sunshine of eternity 
 
 Eests on Ihe time and makes it fair. 
 
IN THE CLOVER. 
 
 TIE crimson-hearted clover flowers 
 Filled all the fields with bloom and scent ; 
 Far off, in spaces of the sky, 
 
 The day and night in snnset blent. 
 
 She sat and watched the sinking snn. 
 
 And tAvined the whiteAveed in her hair. 
 
 ^^And what if he should love?^' she said. 
 
 " If he should love, why need I care ? 
 
 The wind stirred in the gleamy grass,, 
 
 A purple hill rose far away. 
 
 The distant woods were golden-veiled 
 
 To see the twilight wed the day. 
 
 }i 
 
 " Let all who will, be wed ! " she sang. 
 " Let those who Avill, be wed, or free ! 
 
116 IN THE CLOVER. 
 
 ■ While I am young and strong and fair, 
 The world is beautiful to me. 
 I care not for the gallant looks 
 The farmer lads will cast at me; 
 For I love liberty/^ she said; 
 " I and my heart, we will be free ! 
 If Reuben loves ^t is nothing strange ; 
 Otliers, beside, have loved, 1 know ! 
 He lingered at the door last night. 
 Turning away, yet loath to go. 
 
 "The scarlet roses, overhead. 
 Were scarcelv redder than his cheek : 
 He counted seamings on the floor. 
 He looked at me, but could not speak. 
 When he was at tlie little gate. 
 He plucked a creamy locust spray ; 
 Then, ^ Will you put it in your liair,"* 
 He plead, ' before I go away ? ^ 
 I put the blossom in my curls. 
 Twined Avith the roses growing near. 
 He whispered, ^If you wear the flower. 
 Wear it because the giver ^s dear ! "' 
 
IN THE CLOVER. 117 
 
 ^^Ah^ Reuben^ Reuben, what care I 
 
 For all jour flowers and whispered love? 
 
 You cannot bind a heart that ^s free, 
 
 Unless the tie ^s decreed above ! 
 
 Take back your heart, if e^er you gave 
 
 A heart ; for wliat is that to me ? 
 
 Par rather than your heart, I \1 have 
 
 This flower I plucked so carelessly. 
 
 For I care not what others say; 
 
 The present time is sweet to me. 
 
 Let those who will, be wed," she sang, 
 
 ^^ I and my heart, we mil be free ! " 
 
THE LITTLE LADY. 
 
 HAVE a little ladv, 
 
 Eight merry and right fnir, 
 AVith tiiiv feet and fini^crs 
 And curls of silkv hair. 
 
 Tis an important lady; 
 
 And, through the livelong day, 
 The fingers are not idle. 
 
 The feet can seldom stay. 
 
 At times a wilful ladv ; 
 
 Then I ^m a very slave ! 
 The fairy ^s wand controls me 
 
 Whenever it chance to wave 
 
THE LITTLE LADY. 
 
 "Papa, please buy some candy!" 
 "Papa, let's take a ride!" 
 Papa, just tell a story ! " — 
 A dozen wants beside. 
 
 119 
 
 (C 
 
 The world is on her shoulders, 
 The world of dolls and toys. 
 
 And I'm the grave Grand Yizier 
 Whose counsel she employs. 
 
 Such duties are not weighty 
 
 To me. I only sigh, 
 Because my little lady 
 
 Will grow up, by and by. 
 
DAME WILLOW'S KNITTING. 
 
 ITIES of sunshine, rivers of sliade, 
 
 Were mapjied upon the sanded floor; 
 The ancient clock a finger laid 
 Over against the sign of four. 
 A sunflower close b\ the Avindow, west, 
 Kept all the gold the sun could spare 
 Hoarded u}) in its yellow breast 
 
 Behind l1ie good dame's cross-h'ggcd chair. 
 There, where she sat, the slant, warm light 
 
 Made bronze gloAvs on her bond^azine; 
 A higli, frilled cap of softest white 
 Shaded her countenance serene. 
 
 Erect she sat, as in younger days. 
 
 Her needles clicked to a stendy tune; 
 
 For she held (good woman) " 't was shiftless ways, 
 In folk, to sleep of an afternoon ! " 
 
DAME WILLOW'S KNITTING. 121 
 
 Was it the drowsy warmth and shade, 
 
 
 
 Or the sound of the locnst^s song? 
 Sometimes the busy hands were stayed 
 
 While she nodded; but never long; 
 Hardly the needles had time to pause, 
 
 Ere the dame would open a jealous eve 
 And straighten up with a murmured, " Laws ! 
 
 When one gets thinking, the time does fly ! '' 
 
 A small voice said, " Yes, time still flies ^^ 
 
 (i\. voice from somewhere near the dame), 
 '^^ Time hastens ; so a mortal is Avise, 
 
 On his distant goal, to gain a claim. 
 Time is knittinsc the days to days. 
 
 The months to months and the years to years. 
 While man, in God^s mysterious Avays, 
 
 Knits an existence of joys and tears. 
 Though times be bright, though times be murk, 
 
 Tlie earth^s slow changes are never done ; 
 For the earth is heaven's knitting-work. 
 
 And the ages seam it, one by one. 
 
 " All good acts are knitting the heart 
 
 To God, 1!! loops of faith and prayer; 
 6 
 
122 DAME WILLOW'S KNITTING. 
 
 Evil is cutting the stitches apart;, 
 
 Breaking the fibres everywhere. 
 Beauty and wisdom/^ the small voice said, 
 
 " Are casting the stitches for purer life ; 
 While thoughtlessly, pleasure, passion-led, 
 
 Minifies the whole in a tanc-led strife. 
 Death casts liglit on the darkened past 
 
 To show wliere the Avork was poorly wrought; 
 All the labor is judged at last. 
 
 Whether faithful, or good for nought. 
 
 ''^ Angels will help, in the stronger light, 
 
 To take uj) loops that were dropped before ; 
 Each lifers pattern shoAv, broad and bright, 
 
 While the work progresses more and more.^^ 
 Dame Willow looked up. The voice had ceased, 
 
 Down at her feet the knitting-work lay; 
 The frill of her cap was a trifle creased, 
 
 The kitten had rolled her ball away. 
 Sunshine slanted on leaves and grass. 
 
 Bees flew slowly to seek the hive. 
 Cooler breezes began to- pass ; 
 
 The clock was pointing the hour of five. 
 
MIDSUMMER DAY. 
 
 IS fairy courtesy 
 
 Leaves us ourselves ; 
 For all authority 
 Is given to elves ; — 
 The tiny folk that count their time by twelves. 
 
 T is their red-letter day 
 (The rest are blanks). 
 Nature gives license, gay, 
 For all their pranks. 
 To-day they hire the world and pay with thanks. 
 
 They ^re rulers by the right 
 
 Of their own glee; 
 Therefore, from night to night, 
 Frolic is free, 
 And the broad earth laughs at their drollery. 
 
124 MIDSUMMER BAY. 
 
 When night is at its noon 
 
 And earth is dumb 
 Under the watchful moon. 
 With stir and hum, 
 From heights and depths, from wave and air, they 
 come ; 
 
 From many a crease and crack 
 
 Where, through tlie year, 
 They work and never lack 
 For luck and cheer. 
 From tiny liiding-places far and near. 
 
 In forests and on seas. 
 
 O^er plain and hill, 
 Tliey swarm like hiving bees. 
 
 And, gathering still. 
 Each welcomes each, again, ^nth all good-will. 
 
 The clocks are striking. Hark ! 
 
 To left and right 
 The fields are still and dark, 
 The moon^s faint light 
 Is shed but dimly from the sky^s far height. 
 
MIDSUMMER DAY. 125 
 
 And — hark ! — now near at liand^ 
 
 Now far away^, 
 The cocks, a wakeful band, 
 
 Begin to say 
 Their loud good-morrows to the coming day. 
 
 An elfin shout replies 
 
 From wave and lea; 
 For, while the swift day flies, 
 
 All elves are free 
 To fill the land mth sport and jollity. 
 
 Thev scatter far and wide. 
 
 On earth, in air, 
 Speeding where chance may guide, 
 
 Now here, now there ; 
 And working merry mischief everywhere. 
 
 No bird that ^s fast asleep 
 
 Where shadows mass, 
 No insect, hidden deep 
 In leaves or grass, 
 Is safe from elvish visit, when they pass. 
 
126 MIDSUMMER DAY. 
 
 owl, persistently 
 
 Crying, " Whoo ! whoo ! " 
 The elves are wise ; mavbe. 
 As wise as you ! 
 Tli-y range your gloomy hiding-places through ! 
 
 IIo, feathered chanticleer ! 
 
 What makes you proud? 
 For elves and elves are here, — 
 A waggisli crowd, — 
 And every one can crow, though not so loud ! 
 
 O clock, perched in a tower, 
 
 Elves are about ! 
 And in the day^'s first hour 
 
 They found you out. 
 Not all your din and clang puts them to rout. 
 
 Despite your tick and hum. 
 
 They climb your side. 
 Upon your pendulum 
 Gayly they ride. 
 Along your solemn hands they perch with pride. 
 
MIDSUMMER DAY. 127 
 
 Through crannies and through cracks 
 
 They make their way, 
 They leave no tell-tale tracks. 
 Go where they may. 
 Locks bar no treasures from such folk as they ! 
 
 O^er clean-scoured pantry-shelves. 
 
 Polished in spring, 
 These wicked, busy elves 
 
 Go rummaging. 
 Taking a peep and nip at everything. 
 
 No covers keep them out, 
 
 They push and pry. 
 They haul odd ends about 
 
 With hoot and cry; 
 And romid the jars and jugs they play ^' I spy ! 
 
 >) 
 
 Now, in a mimic fight 
 
 They leap and race. 
 Mocking pursuit and flight, 
 
 Li sorry case. 
 Pelted with pepper, cinnamon, and mace. 
 
128 MIDSUMMER DAY. 
 
 No liousemaid^ neat and trig^ 
 
 Is there to look 
 AVhile fairies dance a jig 
 
 III nianv a nook, 
 And wiiirl on tables sacred to the cook. 
 
 Before the first faint dawn 
 
 Brightens the sky, 
 The lawless fays are gone ; 
 And, if you try, 
 You ''ll lind no box or bottle left awry. 
 
 The sun is up at last; 
 
 His wandering gleams 
 Gain strength and color fast, 
 
 Grow golden streams ; 
 And all the elves are happy in his beams. 
 
 Astride their beetle steeds, — 
 
 New plumed, for show, 
 With flags of all gay weeds, — 
 
 Betimes they go 
 Piiding through grass and clovers, in a row. 
 
MIDSUMMER DAY. 129 
 
 Their shrill, small laughter wakes 
 
 The toad from naps; 
 Rings out ^neath dewy brakes, 
 And stirs, perhaps, 
 The ancient dandelions, in their caps; 
 
 Rings out by many a brook, — 
 
 That ^s journeying 
 And never stops to look, — 
 
 Scares many a ring 
 Of yellow-aproned daisies, gossiping. — 
 
 Thev ^re clad in flower-leaf vests 
 
 Dainty to see; 
 They ''re grand in crowfoot crests ; 
 Complaisantly 
 They give "good morrow ■'^ to each bug and bee. 
 
 And some, on blue-flies^ backs. 
 
 Dart here and there; 
 Wasps fear their swift attacks. 
 
 And bees beware ; 
 
 The winged tribes flee and tremble everywhere. 
 6* I 
 
130 MIDSUMMER BAY. 
 
 For where the fishes rise 
 
 To smi themselves. 
 Behind the butterflies, 
 Where the worm delves, 
 Swarming o^er tree and bush, there are the elves ! 
 
 • Ah, how these graceless fays 
 Eansack and seize ! 
 Using all elfin ways 
 To fret and tease 
 And spoil economy of bugs and bees. 
 
 They claim the motli^s bright vest 
 
 As property; 
 They storm the hang-bird's nest 
 In antic glee; 
 They steal what ants and slugs put by for tea; 
 
 They harness grasshoppers 
 
 With fibrous strings. 
 Prick them with thorny spurs 
 
 And nettle stings. 
 And shout with laughter at their frenzied springs ; 
 
MIDSUMMER DAY. 131 
 
 Tliere ^s not a spider dwells 
 
 Afar or near^ 
 That does not weave its cells 
 
 In deadly fear 
 Lest elves should make its spiiming cost it dear. 
 
 With all the hornet race 
 
 War is declared; 
 The elves brook no disgrace, — 
 
 A wasp once dared 
 To sting an elf Avho met him unprepared ! 
 
 Armor of holly leaves 
 
 They buckle on, 
 With meadow-pipes for greaves. 
 
 Stars, quickly won; 
 Por casques, the burrs and acorn-cups they don. 
 
 They capture bumblebees; 
 
 They mount,, each one. 
 Naught can their wrath appease. 
 
 Each, ere he ^s done. 
 Steals, from some houscAvife^s case, a needle-gun. 
 
r'32 MIDSUMMER DAY. 
 
 In zeal to front the foe. 
 
 They all agree. 
 In noisy ranks they go. 
 
 Each on his bee, 
 And storm the hornets^ castles valiantly. 
 
 What desperate war ensues ! 
 
 Buzzini' and cheers ! 
 They gahi, and now they lose, — 
 
 They ''ve met their peers ! 
 (Flies, toads, and birds look on, all eyes and ears.) 
 
 They batter walls and doors 
 
 With scream and shout; 
 Through every breach there pours 
 A rabble-rout ; 
 At the sword's point they drive the vanquished out. 
 
 Each elf is fierce and brave; 
 
 War cannot cease 
 Till every hornet-knave 
 
 Cry out for peace. 
 " Hola ! " " No quarter now!'^ their shouts increase ; 
 
MIDSUMMER DAY. \f6 
 
 And when the foemen yield, 
 
 Eull sorely pressed. 
 They, on each battle-field, 
 
 Victors confessed. 
 Make fast their wearied bees and sit and rest. 
 
 In nooks of luxury 
 On field and fell. 
 Each hero, boastfully. 
 
 His deeds will tell, ^ 
 
 Eeclined in humbird^s nest, or lily-bell. 
 
 I thought I knew them well, 
 
 When I begun. 
 But I can never tell 
 
 What things are done 
 Beneath the great, gold circle of the sun; 
 
 Wliat tricks are played by elves 
 
 That work no good ; 
 How fays disport themselves 
 
 In field and wood; 
 How populous is every solitude. 
 
]^4 MIDSUMMER DAY. 
 
 The luckless^ human race 
 
 They travesty, 
 Mocking, before one^s face. 
 
 Invisibly 
 Whatever odd conceit they chance to see. 
 
 In city streets we know. 
 
 They congregate : 
 Each mincing belle and beau 
 They imitate; 
 They mimic wisdom^s pride and fashion's state. 
 
 They swing from ribbon loops. 
 
 With dangling limbs ; 
 They sit in clamorous groups. 
 On harness-rims, 
 They race round beavers' highly j)olished brims. 
 
 They hide in furbelows. 
 
 In nooks unguessed; 
 Pockets and beard and bows 
 
 Attract their quest. 
 And chignons have, to-day, an elfin crest. 
 
MIDSUMMER DAY. 135 
 
 When four-o^clocks shut up_, 
 
 Upon the leas, 
 In heath or buttercup, 
 
 They sit at ease 
 And sway and rock and chatter as they please; 
 
 And when the sunset yields 
 
 To evening^s shade, 
 Citizens of the fields 
 
 Are still afraid 
 Of elvish tyranny and fairy raid. 
 
 But when the deep midnight 
 
 Stills sky and earth, 
 When sleep and faint moonlight 
 
 Have followed mirth. 
 They vanish in the air that gave them birth; 
 
 Vanish, from wave and ground. 
 
 To be soothsay 
 Until the year brings round 
 
 Their holiday 
 And earth becomes a toy with which they play. 
 

 
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 THREE WAYS. 
 
 HEEE sat three youths, at sunset, 
 Oh cliffs that watched the sea : 
 One read an ancient volume, 
 And two talked, fitfully. 
 
 Said one, " Beyond the morrow, 
 Our life-paths lie apart : 
 I would that days far distant 
 Might find us one in heart ! 
 
 "Those dim years in the future. 
 Dim as yon bound of sea, — 
 Have separate use and honor, 
 I trow, for you and me. 
 
THREE WAYS. 187 
 
 "I ask an artistes laurels. 
 His toil, his glorious fame ! 
 Half king, half slave of beauty, 
 He weds her to his name. 
 
 '' And vou ? " '' Nav,'' said the other, 
 " I ask all gifts in one : 
 To sing the song of a poet 
 Before my life is done. 
 
 '^ Better than brush or pencil. 
 Can simple words portray. 
 Fancy — a rare step-mother — 
 Can charm the saddest wav.^^ 
 
 ^' Ave so ? but words lack color. 
 No higher dream have I 
 Than this : to keep yorj ocean, 
 To own yon sunset sky. 
 
 "The painter^s skilled hand gathers 
 
 The truths of sky and sod ; 
 
 He finds his inspiration 
 
 In very thoughts of God ! " 
 
138 THREE WAYS. 
 
 The other smiled. "The poet 
 Hoards in his inmost thought 
 The happy reveLitions 
 With which his days are fraught. 
 
 "The gift to hear tlie music 
 Of discords^ is his dower; 
 To find the germ of heaven 
 Set in each passing hour. 
 
 " What say you ? ^'' — to the reader. 
 He lifted quiet eyes. 
 " You M marvel if I asked you 
 To make vour dreams more wise ! 
 
 " Your aims are one. Nay, listen, - 
 The poet seeks to write, 
 Tlie painter strives to picture, 
 One thought, — the infinite. 
 
 " So proud ? Why, you but labor 
 For what the world^s heart strives ! 
 Who dares bound truth by beauty, 
 Or count loves more than lives? 
 
THREE WAYS. 
 
 139 
 
 " Has heaven no rarer guerdon 
 Than dreams^ or fame, to give? 
 Tell me, — which is the noblest. 
 To rhyme, to paint, or live ? '^ 
 
NAN'S HOUSES. 
 
 AN has houses everywhere ; 
 Kept to look at^ not to use ; 
 All so dainty and so fair, 
 She is puzzled Avhich to choose. 
 
 Houses far and houses near, — 
 In the world and in the sky ; 
 
 Sometimes grand and sometimes queer ; 
 Cheap enough for Nan to buy ; 
 
 Grand enough for any queen. 
 
 Built upon the stars and clouds ; 
 Built in woods and grasses green. 
 
 Built among the flowers in crowds. 
 
NAiY.'S HOUSES. 141 
 
 Built in shade^ at evenfall, 
 
 Built in sunshine^, just at noon; 
 
 But the noblest one of all, 
 
 T/mt is standing in the moon ! 
 
 Sitting quiet as a mouse, 
 
 When the long day^s work is done, 
 She will build a scarlet house 
 
 In the fire, just for fun ! 
 
 When she wakes, in frosty light, 
 
 Through the wdndow, very far, 
 Only tAvinkling into sight, 
 
 She can sometimes see a star. 
 
 And she wonders, while she ties 
 
 Her poor dress of calico. 
 
 If, when she grows old and dies, 
 
 God will ever let her' go 
 ♦ 
 
 Out of heaven, across the sky, 
 
 Where the clouds and sunsets are, 
 
 To the house that 's built so high 
 In that tiny, sparkling star ! 
 
142 
 
 NAN'S HOUSES. 
 
 Nan is poor, and. only eight; 
 
 Gets a living here and there; 
 Yet she owns more real estate 
 
 Than the richest millionnaire. 
 
 Well she may be glad and gay ; 
 
 For, you know, she is so grand I 
 She has castles far away 
 
 In the heart of Wonder-Land ! 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 iVLTING at noontime, tired and hot. 
 Upon a high and open space, 
 They gatliered in a shaded spot 
 A tiny spring had chosen to grace, 
 And spread impromptu tents above, 
 And sang the songs that Yankees love. 
 
 Then two or three, as fancy led. 
 Wandered away in vagrant wise; 
 
 One clambered to a crag's rough head. 
 And looked afar with dreamy eyes. 
 
 The wide and suUry land below 
 
 Seemed withered, in the sun's dull glow. 
 
 Dwarfed, misty lines of wood and hill 
 Were blent like shadows, far away; 
 
144 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 And all the great air space was still 
 
 And vaporous^ isled and filmed with gray; 
 White_, distant cumuli were curled 
 Uj)on the boundary of the world. 
 
 So still ! so hot ! Day seemed to lag. 
 
 No breeze, no motion anywhere. 
 The very weeds that plumed the crag 
 
 Scarce quivered in the breathless air; 
 The busy crickets chirped around 
 On mosses that the sun had browned. 
 
 New, fairer nooks than yet were shown, 
 Still lured lier heedless footsteps higher. 
 
 Rare treasures, of the mountain's own. 
 Graced every rocky cleft and spire ; 
 
 So, idly sauntering at her will. 
 
 She wandered, tempted ouAvard, still. 
 
 At last she found a sheltered slope 
 
 Where mats of grass had leave to grow. 
 
 And Howering weeds took heart and hope, 
 iVs if the mountain meant to show 
 
A FRAGMENT. 145 
 
 Even such a surly pile as he 
 Was prone to hospitality. 
 
 She laid her treasures on the ground, 
 Assorting all with dexterous care ; 
 
 Then, in old, childish fashion, bound 
 A tiny wreath about her hair; 
 
 Nor noted, as the time went by, 
 
 The sinister and threatening sky. 
 
 But, when a distant flash of light 
 Passed bodingly across her view, 
 
 Aroused, she saw, with sudden fright. 
 The sunshine paled to sickly hue ; 
 
 And, swirled in vaporous masses, grand, 
 
 A cloud that dimmed the under-land. 
 
 She left her gatherings where they lay, 
 And hastened do\m the mountain-side ; 
 
 But faltered doubtful of the way. 
 
 And sought some hint or clew to guide; 
 
 For, now, the weird, blanched atmosphere 
 
 Changed all things subtly, far and near. 
 7 J 
 
146 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Great heads of cloud, like living things, 
 E/oUed up from out an angry mass. 
 
 Only the birds' scared twitterings. 
 The shiver of the leaves and grass. 
 
 Stirred the wide hush ; so deep, so dead. 
 
 It touched even nature's self with dread. 
 
 She cast one startled glance around, 
 Then sped along the narrow^ path ; 
 
 But, as she ran, the sky and ground 
 Grew livid witli a light of wrath ; 
 
 And when it passed, the sullen shock 
 
 Of thunder shook the very rock. 
 
 Then, rushing from tumultuous space, 
 A fierce wind struck the mountain-side; 
 
 She sprang within a sheltered place 
 That barred its fury ; fain to bide 
 
 The passing of the tempest, so ; 
 
 Tlie wliile, above her and below. 
 
 Was spread the shadow of the storm : 
 A vague, wild blank of wind and rain 
 
A FRAGMENT. ' 147 
 
 That overflowed all hue and form. 
 
 Save when the gloom was made more plain 
 By tides of blue, electric light 
 That flamed upon her dazzled sight. 
 
 Crash followed crash. The rain's broad sheets 
 Weighted the wind in rushing mass; 
 
 She heard her own hearths quickened beats 
 As, momently, the crags and grass 
 
 Were whitened by the awful glare 
 
 Of fires that burned the storm-tossed air. 
 
 Awe-stricken, dumb and cold with fright, 
 She cowered close and hid her face. 
 
 Each shock, each flash of fearful light. 
 Had all death's terror in its space. 
 
 The world had vanished in a breath. 
 
 And she was all alone with death. 
 
 " And such a death ! and now — and here — ■ 
 Alone — great heaven, what a glare ! " — 
 
 Hurling its thmiders far and near, 
 A bolt had rent the upper air. 
 
148 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 A vividj fateful fork of red 
 Shivered the crag above her head. 
 
 She lost the world; she lost all thought. 
 In bouudless chaos_, black and wild, 
 
 Where mammoth shapes of horror fought. 
 And toppling heights on heights were piled. 
 
 Slow ages seemed to pass her by, 
 
 While, torn and tossed, she could not die. 
 
 Then tumult fahited, far away. 
 
 Like distant echoes from the past. 
 She heard remembered voices say, 
 
 ^*^ Some cordial ! ^^ ^SSho is warm at last.^' 
 A line of iirelight redly shone, 
 And kind hands softlv chafed her own. 
 
 Slowly the world grew plain again. 
 
 She saw one stirring up the fire. 
 Another steaming off the rain. 
 
 Grouped, anxious faces bending nigher; 
 And, overhead, a bright blue sky 
 That bore no trace of storm passed by. 
 
THE DAISIES. 
 
 HEN the good year is old 
 And somewhat weary. 
 Yet hath enough of gold 
 To keep him cheery; 
 When earth, clad in her best, 
 
 Sits by her neighbor 
 The sun, and has a rest 
 
 From summer labor; 
 When prudent skies array 
 
 The world in hazes. 
 There eomes the holiday 
 
 Of all the daisies. 
 
 They are the folk that won 
 September's graces, * 
 
 And charmed the jovial sun 
 With their bright faces. 
 
150 THE DAISIES. 
 
 He let them linger late; 
 
 When they grew sober^ 
 He gave them leave to wait 
 
 And see October; 
 Tor all the quiet land 
 
 (Ere days were duller) 
 Would haste to make it grand 
 
 With dear-bought color; 
 
 So all, ill fi(>lds and towns^ — 
 
 And each new-comer, — 
 Dressed in old-fashioned gowns 
 
 Thev wow, in summer, 
 Stay yet awhile, behind 
 
 Blooms that w^re stronger. 
 And play with sun and wind 
 
 A little longer; 
 Still happy, still alert. 
 
 Still merrv-hearted, — 
 * Dropped from September's skirt. 
 
 When she departed. 
 
 Till Winter comes so near 
 His shadow chills them. 
 
THE DAISIES. 151 
 
 And they lose half the cheer 
 
 That Summer wills them; 
 Till their old friend, the sun, 
 
 Becomes forgetful. 
 And Autumn has begun 
 
 To grow regretful; 
 Then they make haste to hide 
 
 Their altered faces, 
 And lie down, side by side, 
 
 In grassy places. 
 
SINGER AND SONG. 
 
 HE rapture of a song 
 Rose over crowded ways 
 And thrilled the passive days,, 
 And stirred the idle throng. 
 
 I sought the singer long, 
 And found — a grass-grown grave ; 
 With naught to mark it, save 
 The memory of a song. 
 
 The w^oodland flowerets, wed 
 To June, were blooming nigh; 
 Infinite heights of sky 
 Were glad above the dead. 
 
SINGER AND SONG. 
 
 153 
 
 Low in my heart, I said, 
 "What need of lettered stone? 
 The singer died unknown, 
 And the song lives, instead/^ 
 
 7* 
 
A CONVERSATION. 
 
 A.Y strains of music moclced the night, 
 
 The gas-light^s misty sheen 
 
 Mixed with the moon^s soft, dreamy white 
 In bowered and blossomed green ; 
 And brilliant vistas, framed in vines, 
 Showed the swift dancers^ waving lines. 
 
 Tavo ladies, wrapped in converse grave. 
 Sat on a balcony ; 
 
 Beneath, unstirred by wind or wave, 
 Was spread the moonlit sea ; 
 Behind, an arch of wreathed bloom 
 Gave breaths of sweetness to the gloom. 
 
 The face of one bore lines of thought. 
 Though she was young in years 
 
A CONVERSATION. 155 
 
 And gay, complaisant time had brought 
 
 Few cares and fewer tears; — 
 Slight, bright-robed, fair, with shrinkmg guise, 
 And sensitive and sweet blue eyes. 
 
 The other, of a grander mould. 
 
 And scarcely past her prime. 
 Had charms that cannot well be told 
 
 In light and passing rhyme: 
 An Indian- summer atmosphere, 
 A largess of hfe's hoarded cheer. 
 
 The first was saying earnestly. 
 
 In her impulsive way, 
 "I wish that you would read with me 
 
 A book I found to-day. 
 I felt as if its words were meant 
 Eor my own hidden discontent. 
 
 "Like me, you stand beyond the creeds; 
 
 I think you, too, must see 
 Beliefs are born of strongest needs, 
 
 And so faiths disagree. 
 
156 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 I have been wont to sav, in jest, 
 ' I am a Pantheist unconfessed/ 
 
 " My fatlier asked me, long ago, 
 ^ Do you love God ? and why ? ' 
 
 I said, ' Because he made the snow, 
 The mountains, and the sky/ 
 
 I think, deplore it as he might. 
 
 That I should answer so, to-night. 
 
 " Ah, this God-Manifest, the eartli 
 
 Each aspect gives content; 
 Its least and poorest charms have worth 
 
 And joy and wonderment. 
 The love of the unseen must grow 
 Out of a love for what we know. 
 
 "All my life long, the suns and moons, 
 The autumns, gay and vain, 
 
 Sunset and twilight, dawns and noons, 
 Have brought a strange, vague pain; 
 
 Before they vanished in the past, 
 
 I grieved because they could not last. 
 
A CONVERSATION. 157 
 
 ^^It seems that half of death^s regret 
 
 Will be the loss of these; 
 I cannot think that we forget 
 
 The things that used to please. 
 E'en heaven will not be heaven to me, 
 Unless the heaven and earth agree. 
 
 '^^This book, — it seeks to harmonize 
 
 All that we love below 
 With those vague hints of paradise 
 
 That baffle reason so. 
 It calls the future, dim and vast, 
 A gladdened and perfected past. 
 
 "It makes the blankness bright and warm 
 
 With beauty and with love. 
 Delights of motion, color, form, — 
 
 All I could tell you of. 
 Mirth, music, odor, sunshine, flowers, — 
 Whatever gifts this world of ours. 
 
 " Perhaps you think such visions vain ? '' 
 The other answered naught. 
 
158 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 But waited for a little^ fain 
 
 To counsel with her thought. 
 She said at last^ " Why question so 
 Concerning what we cannot know? 
 
 " It seems to me^ — I sometimes think 
 What heavenly life may be, — 
 
 That beauty is a single link 
 With all infinity; 
 
 A link that we can see and touch. 
 
 And therefore value overmuch. 
 
 ^' I have a doll-house, set away 
 
 Upon an attic shelf; 
 (I see myself again at play, 
 
 A noisy, happy elf ! ) 
 Its china, gilt, and drapery 
 Seemed fit for kings and queens, to me. 
 
 " I took it down awhile ago. 
 And looked vA{\\ curious eye 
 
 At all the bits of tawdry show 
 That used to satisfy. 
 
A CONVERSATION. 159 
 
 Poor dusty dolls! I loved them well, 
 Better than I should care to tell. 
 
 " I looked, and mixed a smile and sigh, 
 
 But then, right carelessly, 
 I said, the while I put them by, 
 
 ' Why, what are dolls to me ? ' 
 I had outgrown my love of toys, 
 And tiny, mimic cares and joys. 
 
 '' So, when I am an angel, what 
 
 Will all this luxury 
 Of outward beauty, scarce forgot 
 
 In heaven, be to me? 
 Just like old playthings we outgrow; 
 For we are children yet, you know.'^ 
 
 The other filled her earliest pause, 
 
 Begmning eagerly, 
 ^^Do you not see you help my cause 
 
 By your own simile? 
 With those old dolls, now laid away, 
 You mocked our present life, in play. 
 
160 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 " May not such natural, pleasant ties 
 Exist ^twixt heaven and earth? 
 
 And some familiar, friendly guise 
 Greet the souFs higher birth? 
 
 Why need the coming life be strange ? 
 
 Perhaps death only seems a change/^ 
 
 Iler friend replied, " God's tenderness 
 
 May govern things like these. 
 Perchance the lower and the less 
 
 Meet first the souls he frees, 
 And lead them gently, through their dreams. 
 Into the heart of his grand schemes/'' 
 
 The first, half smiling, shook her head. 
 
 "Nay, is not heaven to be 
 Perfection of the three, God-wed, 
 
 That grand, old trinity, — 
 The true, the beautiful, the good? 
 Could we rise higher if we would? 
 
 " God makes me love his. suns and birds. 
 As I love virtue, here; 
 
A CONVERSATION. 161 
 
 This rosebud, like grand deeds and words 
 
 Makes heaven seem more near; < 
 
 And will he give ns, np above, 
 Only one half of what we love?"*' 
 
 "Nay, — shall we love, or shall we not? 
 
 Our question first, alone; 
 ^T is n£)t what he will give us, but 
 
 What we shall care to own. 
 To want the things of eartli, appears 
 Like wanting dolls at fifty years. 
 
 "I have my childish toys to-day. 
 My books, once loved and read. 
 
 ^T was my old self God took away ; 
 This self was left instead. 
 
 Your future self will hardly care 
 
 For much that now yon count so fair, 
 
 }} 
 
 "Ah,^^ said the first, "such words are cold, 
 
 And I am not like vou. 
 I should be homesick for the old 
 
 Amid your wondrous new ; 
 
162 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 Earth-sick, let heaven be what it might; 
 Haunted by some old song or sight. 
 
 " Oy these abstractions ! faith and lio])e 
 Can give them little worth. 
 
 This breath of dewy heliotrope 
 Could lure me back to earth ! 
 
 And that low music^s throb and rest 
 
 Could stir the calmness of the blest ! " 
 
 The other answered, as before, 
 " But these belong to sense. 
 
 And we must find them small and poor 
 When higher lives commence; 
 
 For sense is — under God's control — 
 
 The lowest thing that feeds the soul. 
 
 '^I, too, have felt the passing pain 
 
 That beauty often gives ; 
 The dread of loss that makes us fain 
 
 To sorrow while it lives. 
 Yet why ? for beauty is not real, 
 ^T is but a hint of the ideal. 
 
A CONVERSATION. 163 
 
 ^*A hint of something rare and strange, 
 
 Too high to reach by thought; 
 A truth above our reason^s range, 
 
 Yet mth our Hves inwrought. 
 At times I — ahnost — want to die. 
 There 's so much coming by and by ! " 
 
 The hearer tossed her flowers away, 
 
 Far doAvn into the sea. 
 Just saying, " Ponder as we may. 
 
 Can Ave \xvo^\ what shall be ? 
 I must believe that God will heed 
 And satisfy, at last, all need. 
 
 " Why, you would kill one half my hopc^ 
 
 And joy, Avith views like this ! 
 And set me in the dark, to grope 
 
 For something you call bliss ! 
 Suppose I told 1/ou that, above. 
 We want no friendship and no love ! 
 
 " That, like the stories and the play 
 Our childhood^s days have known. 
 
164 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 So our old loves are put away, 
 Our friendships are outgrown ! 
 You, too, might say that Avhat we lost 
 Was worth far more than heaven^s cost/^ 
 
 The other, paling as she heard. 
 
 Yet raised imfaltering eyes. 
 And answered lower, " Y'ou have erred. 
 
 To think 1 would disguise 
 The weakness of my human heart 
 By using any wordy art. 
 
 " I thiuk that, in some future time. 
 Some coming state, unknown, 
 
 When lives shall reach their fullest prime, 
 The soul wants God alone." 
 
 Then her companion's wondering eyes 
 
 Half made her deem her words unwise. 
 
 Before the last could make reply, 
 A gay voice called her name. 
 
 The busy hostess, hastening nigh, 
 Was saying, as she came, 
 
 "Where have you ladies stayed so long? 
 
 Madame, we want another song ! " 
 
PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 P on the ver.y topmost shelf 
 Of Susie''s doll-house, a brown, peaked elf. 
 In a corner, sitting quite by himself, 
 
 Is Nutcracker Joe; 
 
 And I very well know 
 
 He watches what ''s going on below. 
 
 When all the dolls are taking their tea. 
 
 He peeps through a chink above, to see 
 
 The doings of folks more gay than he; 
 
 And then, " So, ho ! '' 
 
 Says Nutcracker Joe, 
 
 " They ^re having pretty good times below ! 
 
 " They Ve got a table and curtains there, 
 
 And every doll a separate chair. 
 
 They 're eating pies, too, I declare ! — 
 
166 PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 But tlien, I knoAv/' 
 
 Says Nutcracker Joe^ 
 
 '' Their pies and cakes are nothing but dough ! '' 
 
 When the dolls are riding, he looks to see 
 
 The wheels wliirl round so merrily, 
 
 And the carriage, grand as a box can be; 
 
 Then, '' Ho, ho, ho \" • 
 
 Grins Nutcracker Joe ; 
 
 " Did ever poor dolls get tilted so ? " 
 
 Nutcracker Joe is ugly and brown ; 
 
 The dolls are white from sole to crown ; 
 
 So he is never invited down. 
 
 " AVell, it 's better so,'' 
 
 Says Nutcracker Joe ; 
 
 '^ I 'm higher up in the world, you know ! 
 
 }y 
 
 Nutcracker Joe is merry and bright. 
 
 Though he stays alone all day and night. 
 
 Though neither his face nor his dress is white. 
 
 Often below. 
 
 We hear, "So, ho' 
 
 I 've a whole room to myself, you know ! " 
 
PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 167 
 
 Nutcracker Joe does n^t dance or sing 
 
 (His legs and arms are too stiff to fling) ; 
 
 But he looks at the best of everything. 
 
 And, if all did so. 
 
 Like Nutcracker Joe, 
 
 The world would be happier far, I know. 
 
MY FAIRY. 
 
 ROM heaven to earth 
 I jburneyed, at my birth^ 
 Lonesome and wee ; 
 So a kind-hearted fay 
 Came with me, all the way, 
 For company. 
 
 I brought no wealth, 
 No beauty, love, or health. 
 And had but store 
 Of days, for property; 
 I think she pitied me, 
 I was so poor. 
 
 Only a throne, 
 
 Though worlds were all her own, 
 
 Had this good elf; 
 
Mr FA TRY. 161) 
 
 So, in great charity, 
 Finding naught else for me, 
 She gave herself. 
 
 With feAV to share, 
 With everything to spare, 
 I am so grand 
 That I can pay earth-rates 
 With tithes of great estates 
 In fairy-land. 
 
 If I am sad, 
 
 My fairy makes me glad 
 
 Whenever she will. 
 
 She finds all life has lost. 
 
 She pays all life has cost. 
 
 And lulls pain still. 
 
 She sings a song 
 
 Sometimes ; it is not long, — 
 
 I know the words. 
 
 I think she learned the tunc 
 
 When April, come too soon, 
 
 Surprised the birds. 
 8 
 
170 
 
 MF FAIRY. 
 
 '^ Great loyalty 
 Hath faith. Great royalty 
 Have dreams/^ it saith ; 
 " Beauty gives wonderment. 
 And duty gives content 
 To life and death/' 
 
MADAME. 
 
 HERE 'S the picture on the wall, 
 Madame a'^ she used to be. 
 There were few, in cot or hall, 
 Eair as she. 
 
 Jettj braids are wound away 
 
 Erom the browns unshadowed space; 
 Dark eyes, pensive, yet half gay. 
 
 Light the face. 
 
 Sixteen years had come and gone 
 Past the maiden pictured there. 
 Sphered around with life's briglit morn. 
 
 Mocking care. 
 
172 MADAME. 
 
 Since the artistes subtile skill 
 
 Set her on the canvas so. 
 Time has brought her, at its will, 
 
 Joy and woe. 
 
 Since he drew her thus, I trow. 
 Words that lovers' lips may speak 
 
 Must have brought a deeper glow 
 To her cheek; 
 
 And her merry marriage-bells. 
 
 Echoing in foreign air. 
 Held, in magic falls and swells. 
 
 Music rare. 
 
 Ah, the bells have sadder chimes ! 
 
 Suiting lives whose sunny ways 
 Come at last on dreary times. 
 
 Darker days; 
 
 And she hears their notes, perchance. 
 Sounding through lier waking dreams 
 
 Over graves in far-off France; 
 Yet it seems 
 
MADAME. 173 
 
 Half the tears, shed long ago, 
 Eormed fair halos for the smiles 
 
 That — like lifers broad overflow — 
 Came by whiles. 
 
 Sorrow brought a graciousness 
 That her joy had never known; 
 
 Made the will and power to bless 
 Both her o\m. 
 
 Would some painter, skilled to show 
 Heart and face, might draw her now, 
 
 When the jet is turned to snow 
 On her brow. 
 
 For her face is like the light 
 
 Lingering in a sunset sky, 
 Fading brightly as the night 
 
 Draws more nigh; 
 
 And her life is like a psalm 
 
 Born within a careless song ; 
 Deepening into wondrous calm. 
 
 Grave and strong. 
 
THE PEDLER. 
 
 LO\^LY a pedler^s wagon 
 
 Creaked up the liill^ 
 
 Upon an afternoon in autumn, 
 Sunny and still. 
 
 The cnrt had lost its crimson^ — 
 Its stripes of green ^ — 
 Permanent brown gave ridge and panel 
 A dinffv mien. 
 
 A dearth of grease filled motion 
 With discords dire ; 
 The record of old storms was on it, 
 And last yearns mire. 
 Eusty tins clanked dully. 
 Hanging around. 
 
THE PEDLER. 175 
 
 And barricaded brooms made noddings 
 
 ^Twixt sky and ground. 
 
 Stained and ragged garments 
 
 The pedler wore; 
 
 Their youtliful days, like his, had ended 
 
 Some time before. 
 
 Dobbin dozed while drawing, 
 
 His master, draim. 
 
 Perchance the master dreamed of money, 
 
 The horse, of corn. • 
 
 Methinks each found; in dreaming. 
 
 His own good thing; 
 
 Even as the woodlands dreamed, around them, 
 
 Concerning spring. 
 
 The land was all enchanted 
 
 That they went through. 
 
 I could have wished the cart and pedler 
 
 Enchanted too : 
 
 A fairy prince, with chariot 
 
 Like sumach dyed, 
 
 A fairy steed, with trappings yellow 
 
 As elms beside. 
 
 I might have mused forever. 
 
 But they were gone; 
 
176 
 
 THE FELLER. 
 
 Mixed with the brown of russet Avoodlands 
 
 And stubble corn. 
 
 I solaced me with thinking, 
 
 " Slow time will bring 
 
 Millennium for horse and pedler, 
 
 And next year's spring/' 
 
GRANDMA. 
 
 HE is lying, fast asleep, 
 
 In her Sunday cap and go^ii; 
 Bells are tolling, loud and deep. 
 In the towTi. 
 Sunny field and sunny wood 
 Are so quiet and so fair. 
 That the bells seem almost rude, 
 Echoing there. 
 
 Overhead is naught but blue; 
 
 All so still that Jem and I 
 Wonder if 't is Sunday, too. 
 
 In the sky. 
 Circled near us, hushed and bowed. 
 
 Hearing prayer, the neighbors stand. 
 Jem and I creep through the crowd. 
 
 Hand in hand; 
 
 8* 
 
 L 
 
178 GRANDMA. 
 
 And we hear the pastor say, 
 
 With raised eyes and earnest face, 
 ^' Death, like sunshine, floods our way 
 
 Witli God's grace/' 
 Grandma does not hear, or stir, 
 
 Only lies there \Y\i\\ a smile. 
 Nothing seems to trouble her 
 
 For the while. 
 
 Her gray hair is smoothed away 
 
 Underneath her cap's starched band, 
 And she holds a white bouquet 
 
 In her hand. 
 After song and prayer are done. 
 
 She is shut from Avarmth and light, 
 Carried forth, through shade and sun. 
 
 Out of sight. 
 
 Jem and I would follow her. 
 
 But the pastor, tenderly 
 Lifts us, Avhile the bells yet stir. 
 
 To his knee; 
 Comforts us with words of cheer: 
 
 *"' Little ones, you must not cry ! 
 
GRANDMA. 
 
 You can go to her from here, 
 If you try/^ 
 
 And Jem whispers, very low. 
 
 As the pastor turns away, 
 "Did he say that we might go 
 
 Any day? 
 ^rell, — you see the road they took. 
 
 Heaven is pretty near, I know; 
 Get your hat from off the hook. 
 
 And we ^11 go/^ 
 
 179 
 
CHRYSOLITE. 
 
 1 HEARD a little bird 
 Singing, in the tasselled corn, 
 Such a rote as seemed to float 
 From the heart of happy morn. 
 And it seemed to say that the coming day 
 Would bring more joy than most days may. 
 
 All the land is green and grand 
 
 With the summer^s majesty; 
 Far and near the skv is clear. 
 Not a cloud that eye can see; 
 And the lazy sun has just begun 
 To gild the hill-tops, one by one. 
 
 And the brook, within a nook 
 Overshadowed by the trees, 
 
CHRYSOLITE. 181 
 
 Tries a song, but gets it wrong, 
 Ruffled by tlie mocking breeze. 
 When the grasses nap, however it hap, - 
 Each blade wakes up in a dew-drop cap. 
 
 There ^s a crest above von nest, 
 
 Touched with sun ''twixt swaying leaves ; 
 
 Swallows peep where shadows sleep 
 
 • Underneath the mossy eaves. 
 O, I wish I knew a word or two 
 Of what birds sing the whole day through ! 
 
 Yonder lad seems rarely glad. 
 
 Whistling through the meadow so ; 
 And the cock recalls his flock 
 With a sudden, cheery crow; 
 And the morning moon will have vanished soon, — 
 Why, the birds have scared it with their tune ! 
 
 Ah, my heart, what magic art 
 
 Makes your throbs so glad and gay ? 
 
 Eills you quite with new delight ? — 
 This is but a summer day ! — 
 
182 CHRYSOLITE. 
 
 One bright day more^ just like a score 
 Of days, as bright, that came before. 
 
 Yet the prime of summer time 
 
 Never seemed so fair as now. 
 No such glows of gold and rose 
 Ever touched that hilPs high brow ; 
 And no such bloom has shed perfume 
 On sunlight woven in fairy loom. 
 
 Everywhere, on earth, in air, 
 
 Set on every form and hue. 
 Just a hint, in gleam and tint, 
 Is a beauty that is new. 
 There's something more than there was of yore. 
 For the world was not so fair before. 
 
 Why, it seems as if my dreams 
 
 Had been realized suddenly. 
 And tlie guise of paradise 
 Given to all that I can see ! 
 As if God meant all discontent 
 To die of joy and wonderment ! 
 
CHRYSOLITE. IS:) 
 
 " Some swift change has made it strange 
 
 To be weary, to be sad ; 
 Showering grace, on time and place, 
 That the past has never had. 
 Ah, if each stray mood might be endued 
 Like this^ 'i were easy to be good ! 
 
 ^' All the strife and care of life 
 Are like visions passed away ; 
 Griefs, that were, can hardly stir 
 The full gladness of the day ; — 
 They seem so old, like a story told 
 Just for the moral it Avill hold. 
 
 " And I know it must be so 
 
 When the soul looks back, at last. 
 On the years, the joys and tears. 
 That have made the long, slow past. 
 O, it all will seem like an ended dream, 
 A problem solved, a settled theme. 
 
 (( 
 
 I have read, or heard it said, 
 *^ After grief, as after sin. 
 
184 CHRYSOLITE. 
 
 There ^s a race, — despair and grace, 
 Each contending which shall win ' ; 
 Well, for me, I find, though the race be blind, 
 That grace can leave despair behind ! 
 
 " O, you wren, begin again 
 
 That old tale you like to tell; 
 Sunbeams, fill the air at will ! 
 I have work to do, as well; 
 So you and I will say good by. 
 I leave you here, to shine and fly/"* 
 
AUNT JANET. 
 
 DREAM of ruffled caps, 
 Of populated laps. 
 Of hose with yarnless gaps. 
 Of green stutfed chairs grown yellow in the sun. 
 And think I see her yet, 
 My ancient Aunt Janet, 
 Benign and cat-beset. 
 Adding her careful stitches, one by one. 
 
 Again the chamber low 
 
 I see, where sunbeams, slow 
 
 To come, were loth to go 
 
 And leave the carpet^s hues and figures quaint; 
 The curtains neatly tied. 
 The stand with legs spread wide. 
 The work-bag hung beside, 
 
 The footstool with its flowers of yellow paint. 
 
186 AUNT JANET. 
 
 I mind the hour I spent 
 
 (All for a promised cent) 
 
 In darning up a rent. 
 One of a thriving family of tears ; 
 
 I mind her anxious brow, 
 
 Her zeal to tell me how, 
 
 Her sa3'mg haunts me now : — 
 " The more you darn a gown, the more it wears, 
 
 }) 
 
 ^T is a remembrance blent 
 With thoudits of times I went 
 On grave researches bent. 
 
 To ponder ^neatli her picture on the wall ; 
 The twelve-year-old Janet, 
 With eyes and hair of jet. 
 That one, — did she forget? 
 
 Mv brain could never fathom it at all. 
 
 This one wore scarlet ties. 
 Had brilliant, saucy eyes. 
 And lips of reddest dyes 
 That seemed at once to laugh and pout at me ; 
 
AUNT JANET. 187 
 
 That one was thin and white. 
 With gray locks hid from sight, 
 Though her smile, too, was bright, 
 Yet were the smiles unlike as smiles could be. 
 
 Oft ere my thought was done, 
 When shadows had begun 
 To troop in, one by one. 
 
 To crayon corners o^er, Avith lines of gray 
 And on the light to climb. 
 Would come a silver chime. 
 Announcing supper-time, 
 
 And warnmg me to take a homeward way. 
 
 " Lizzie,^^ my aunt would say, 
 
 '^ Don^t loiter on the way ! 
 
 You know the proverb, hey? 
 ' His castles fall, who builds them on the air."* 
 
 These proverbs tell the truth; 
 
 I \e proved ^em for good sooth. 
 
 I learned ^em in my youth. 
 And worked ^em on a sampler, pair by pair."^ 
 
188 AUNT JANET. 
 
 Ah me, those times are old ! 
 Her days long since were told, 
 Her lips long since were cold; 
 
 Long since her life was made forever fair. 
 Long since, one summer morn, 
 She left her cats forlorn, 
 Left paths her feet had worn, 
 
 And she, too, found her castles hi thg air. 
 
 Yet now so vividly 
 
 Her memorv comes to me. 
 
 Her very look I see. 
 
 Was that the rustle of her garments near ? 
 Ah, no ! The sunbeams fall 
 Broadly on floor and wall, 
 And time has changed it all ; 
 
 Still I half wonder that she is not here ! 
 
A TRADITION. 
 
 [The writer's only authority for this story is hearsay.] 
 
 OFT breezes wandered from the south, 
 Like heralds of a fuller spring; 
 Robins and jays, a gleeful choir, 
 Taught hurrying echoes how to sing. 
 
 The early sunshine touched the green 
 Of leafing trees with golden light, 
 
 And sparkled on the dewy grass. 
 And made the river shallows white; 
 
 It shone upon the clustered roofs 
 And winding roadways of the town. 
 
 It gleamed on gilded vane and spire, 
 
 And brightened time-worn walls of brown. 
 
190 A TRADITION. 
 
 When it had risen and shone, before, 
 
 On other gracious April days, 
 None hut the farmer^s steel — long dulled 
 
 By toil — had mirrored back its rays. 
 
 Now, on the river^s eastern bank 
 
 Were flashing metals, brilliant hues; 
 
 Eed-coated infantry, loose ranked. 
 
 Or groujoed in scattered threes nnd twos ; 
 
 And, opposite, beyond the bridge 
 
 That spanned the river^s sluggish tide. 
 
 Ranged on a narrow line of road, 
 Ranged in the fields along its side, 
 
 Were men, assembled hastily. 
 
 In uniforms of clumsy make ; 
 Some in their common, rustic garb. 
 
 And only armed with scythe or rake. 
 
 Strong men were there, with faces stern. 
 Old men, weighed down by toilsome life. 
 
 Rash, headstrong youths and eager boys 
 Excited at the thought of strife. 
 
A TRADITION. 191 
 
 That mom, a hundred years ago, 
 
 Witnessed the dawn of liberty. 
 That rudely armed and anxious band 
 
 Dared to proclaim a people free. 
 
 An old house, gambrel- roofed and gray, 
 
 Behind an ash-tree avenue, 
 Beset with lilacs, hanging low 
 
 Their purple plumelets, starred wdth dew, 
 
 Stood by the river, close at hand, — 
 The scene of sudden stir and talk ; — 
 
 Grave comers crowded door and gate. 
 And thronged the clover-bordered walk. 
 
 Faces that mouldered long ago — 
 That live in many a picture still — 
 
 Looked forth from ^\indow or from door, 
 And paled with fear of threatened ill. 
 
 No heed was there for common tasks, — 
 The cares that come with dawning day; 
 
 Housemaid and mistress left their work. 
 The children had forgot to play. 
 
19£ A TRADITION. 
 
 One noise of daily toil alone. 
 
 Scarce noted by the gathered folk, 
 
 Broke throngh the silence, now and then, — ■ 
 A steady, loud, and measured stroke. 
 
 Prom out a woodshed, jutting toward 
 A bloomy orchard, came the sound 
 
 Of axe-blows, mixed with whistled tunes. 
 In which the robins^ notes were drowned. 
 
 A youth, — of fifteen years perhaps, 
 Or older, — tall and stoutly formed. 
 
 His cheeks aglow with healthy blood 
 That sunshine and exertion warmed. 
 
 Worked just beside the open door, 
 
 And glanced, at times, across the field, 
 
 The while he poised, Avitli upstretched arms. 
 The heavy axe he well could wield; 
 
 Glanced, half in curiosity 
 
 And half in scorn, at road and bridge. 
 The lines of British close at hand, 
 
 The town's folk on the hill's low ridge. 
 
A TRADITION. 193 
 
 A shrewd and independent glance^ 
 That suited well his manly guise; 
 
 Yet all a boy's quick interest 
 Was lurking in his eager eyes ; 
 
 And more than once he threw his axe 
 
 Aside, as if to join the crowd; 
 Then picked it up and fell to work 
 
 More briskly, muttering, half aloud : 
 
 " Good lack, the show those red-coats make ! 
 
 I 'd wager half this mornmg''s pay — 
 And throw my axe in, for a cent — 
 
 They will not fire a shot to-day. 
 
 " They seem to like to strut and dress. 
 
 And make parade of dignity, 
 As well as any set of fools 
 
 I ever had the luck to see ! 
 
 " You might think any one, the king ! 
 
 I don't believe the leader there, 
 With that fine rifle at his side. 
 
 Could shoot a hawk a mile in air ! 
 
 9 M 
 
194 A TRADITION. 
 
 " Pooh, Eben Stevens, soldier- rigged 
 And following yonder company 
 
 With his old musket in his hand, 
 Looks twice as much a man as he ! 
 
 " Our people seem in earnest, there ! 
 
 I guess King George^s folk woukl find. 
 If they should chance to kill a man, 
 
 A nest of hornets raised behind ! 
 
 "1 see at least five companies 
 
 Eanked in the road, beside our own. 
 
 They look as grim as if they meant 
 
 To pull King George from ofi" his throne. 
 
 '^ Fight ? Pooh ! I wish they might begin 
 An honest fight ! I M do my share ! 
 
 They call it fighting nowadays 
 
 To get in line and stand and stare." 
 
 The w^ords and axe-blows ceased at once. 
 Because his next impatient glance 
 
 Showed British forming closer ranks, 
 And, opposite, a swift advance. 
 
A TRADITION, 195 
 
 A flash of vivid interest 
 
 Swept all his unbelief aAvay, 
 And left him wild with haste and zeal 
 
 To reach and mingle in the fray. 
 
 He heard loud battering on the bridge^ 
 Heard shouts resounding far and wide^ 
 
 And, as he gained the orchard wall. 
 Two shots upon the hither side. 
 
 He tossed his axe and jacket down 
 
 Upon the river's bushy bank, 
 Swam through the stream with rapid strokes, 
 
 And joined the band's approaching flank ; 
 
 Then with no weapon in his hands, 
 Shirt-sleeved and dripping, yet content 
 
 To knoAv that he was facing fire. 
 On with the moving lines he went. 
 
 'T was like a dream, the rush, the cries. 
 The shots upon the left and right. 
 
 The quick pursuit across the bridge. 
 The red-coats hurrying out of siglit. 
 
1()6 A TRADITION. 
 
 Within five minutes' lapse, the field 
 That had been fidl of noise and rout 
 
 Was left in quiet, only stirred 
 
 By distant sounds of shot or shout. 
 
 The bov — turned backward like a hound 
 A moment hindered in the chase — 
 
 Ban like an Indian down the slope 
 And sprang withhi the reedy space 
 
 Where he had dropped his trusty axe, — 
 The only weapon he could boast; 
 
 Then seized and swung it pridefully, 
 As if prepared to meet a host; 
 
 Leaped up the bank again; but paused: 
 A soldier, prostrate on the grass 
 
 And bleeding, struggled half erect. 
 And signalled as he sought to pass. 
 
 A British soldier, — swarthy browed, 
 Gasping for breath in painful wise, 
 
 And putting all his speech within 
 
 Half-threatening, half-beseeching eyes. 
 
A TRADITION. 197 
 
 ft 
 
 His pallid li]3s could only frame 
 
 The single sentence^ " Give me drink ! " 
 
 The boy turned back in pitying haste, 
 And, stooping by the river's brink. 
 
 Filled his own cap, for nothing else 
 Was near to serve his purpose then; 
 
 And, in his nervous eagerness. 
 Spilled half the water out again. 
 
 The Briton drained the offered draught. 
 So found a moment's strength to speak, 
 
 And with a hostile, desperate look. 
 While sudden color stained his cheek, 
 
 Measured the lad who stood beside. 
 
 As if he queried scornfully 
 How any soldier of the king 
 
 Had asked a draught of such as he. 
 
 Then, struggling somewhat more upright. 
 Before the boy could stay his hand. 
 
 He flung the cap with all his force 
 Across the shallows and the sand. 
 
198 A TRADITION. 
 
 Out on the river's rippling breast, — 
 
 Fell back and gasped, when that was don; 
 
 " I wish your slimy stream would drown 
 The G d Yankees, every one ! " 
 
 Eire flashed from out the boy's blue eyes, 
 Fire fierce as when the fight began. 
 
 With angry and determined mien 
 He turned upon the wounded man. 
 
 And answered, iu a sturdy Avise 
 
 That made his frowning listener shrink : 
 
 "I call tlie water good enough 
 
 For British hounds like you to drink ! '' 
 
 A curse, but half articulate. 
 
 Was breathed through lips of livid hue ; 
 Eage gleamed wiihiw the Briton's eyes. 
 
 And braced his failing powers anew. 
 
 One hand, thrust in the trampled grass. 
 Jerked his entangled rifle free. 
 
 And aimed it at the Avatchful lad 
 With swift and fierce maliscnity. 
 
A TRADITION. 199 
 
 • 
 
 The boy sprang sidewise, like a deer, 
 And struck the rifle as he sprang; 
 The harmless bullet cut the reeds_, 
 ' And loud the startled echoes rang. 
 
 No thought save that of stern revenge 
 Could suit the boy's roused spirit, then ; 
 
 Ere the slack hand could grasp the gun, 
 He raised his heavy axe again. 
 
 That moment saw the blade descend 
 
 Upon the bent, uncovered head; 
 The next, prone in the bloody grass 
 . Beside his feet, the man lay dead. 
 
 To-day, beneath the tasselled pines 
 That murmur by the river's flow, 
 
 Rough stones still mark the nameless graves 
 The town's folk dug so long ago. 
 
 Three British soldiers lie beneath 
 The grasses_, near the water-side. 
 
2UU 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 The vague tradition of the past 
 Alone has told us how they died. 
 
 One sleeper, who, a century long, 
 Has slumbered by the river^s lull. 
 
 Bears — if we trust the ancient tale — 
 Marks of an axe-blow on the skull. 
 
SNOW. 
 
 HE snow was floatin£c downward 
 Into the city street^ 
 Melting on dusky pavements^ 
 Trodden by many feet. 
 
 Here, like a crowd of shadows, 
 Crossing the lines of light; 
 
 There, like a host of fairies. 
 Starring the dark with white. 
 
 Gathered close by the window, 
 Chatting in childish wise. 
 
 With childhood^s easier wonder 
 Looking from laughing eyes, 
 
 9* 
 
J} 
 
 202 SNOW. 
 
 The children watched it falling, 
 Wavering, far and near. 
 
 Over the streets and houses, — 
 The first snow of the year. 
 
 Pour were watching together, — 
 Lou and Harry and Paul, 
 
 And, mounted on Harry^s shoulder, 
 Susie, the youngest of all. 
 
 '^ Wliere does it come from, Harry ? 
 
 " O, from the sky, you know ! ^^ 
 " I guess it wanted to stay there. 
 
 It ^s coming down so slow ! '' 
 
 *' I wish I knew what the snow is ? 
 
 And whv it falls so far ! ''■' 
 Then came a pause and a whisper : — 
 
 ^^ I ^m going to ask papa ! '' 
 
 " Wait ! ^^ cried Harry, the guesser, 
 A new thought in his brain ; 
 
 " I ^11 tell you just what the snow is ! 
 I know ! — God pops the rain ! " 
 
WORD-PAINTING. 
 
 HE shadows and the firelight gleams 
 Made war within the dusky room ; 
 We sat and talked of plans and dreams, 
 Unmindful of the gathering gloom, 
 
 Till Carl laughed out : " The very fire 
 Makes pictures ! See the touches there ! 
 
 How art and nature both conspire 
 To help the painter, unaware ! 
 
 " You poets, now, are idle folk. ■• 
 
 You only need a little wit 
 In morals, — eggs must have a yolk, — 
 
 Some care that rhymes and notions fit; 
 
^04 WORD-PAINTING. 
 
 " But we ! — we study lines and tints. 
 
 I spent a week, awhile ago_, 
 Painting a broom. We want no hints 
 
 In art_, and truth is hard to show.^' 
 
 ec 
 
 (( 
 
 Ay, with your climisy instruments, 
 You make the truth a clown/^ I said, 
 
 Set up for sale, at fifty cents. 
 
 In daubs of yellow, green, and red ; 
 
 "But words are finer tools; they give 
 A meaning, hid in form and hue ; 
 
 In them a subtler truth may live 
 Than brush or pencil ever drew. 
 
 " Truth ? We but name it, you and I ! 
 
 Who, of you, wins art's noblest meed ? 
 Does any painthig satisfy? 
 
 Does any painter, then, succeed ? 
 
 " What painter puts the sunset's glow 
 Upon his canvas ? or l^as power 
 
 To keep the simplest weed that grows, — 
 To give next year a suigle flower ? 
 
 f) 
 
WORD-PAINTING. 205 
 
 Carl sighed : '' The truth God deigns to teach 
 Is past the bound of mortal skill. 
 
 That bound is what we strive to reach 
 Throughout a lifetime's work and will. 
 
 " What better can the poets do 
 
 With sunsets? ponder every line 
 And write a labored verse or two, 
 
 Beflowered mth ' gorgeous/ ' grand/ ^ divine ' ? 
 
 " Nay now, I mean it soberly ; 
 
 Find me a verse, a line, a phrase. 
 Even a word, that holds, for me. 
 
 This boasted truth you so much praise. 
 
 " Why, you are too severe — by half ! '' 
 I glanced at laden shelves close by, — 
 
 Angered a little by his laugh, — 
 
 Then stirred the fire and made reply : — 
 
 " I '11 find you pictures ; better done 
 
 Than many hung in costly halls ; 
 Fit to be printed — every one — 
 
 In generous type, upon your walls ! 
 
206 JFORD-PAINTING. 
 
 " To reproduce reality 
 
 Is art^s true aim ; its separate ways, 
 To copy parts, fastidiously, 
 
 Or set the picture in a phrase. 
 
 " To find the words that give the scene 
 Supreme expression ; with a touch, 
 
 To mass the scattered truths they glean. 
 Who deal in detail overmuch. 
 
 " Why, I have sometimes burned a book, 
 First cutting out and making mine 
 
 A word, that most would overlook, 
 A terse and comprehensive line ! 
 
 " Stray sentences that shall endure, 
 
 Like rare stones in mosaic set; 
 Stray hints of grander literature 
 
 That only lives in hints as yet. 
 
 " There will be books, in coming time. 
 
 Whose thoughts and words shall so be wed 
 
 To nature, that their prose or rhyme 
 May even stand in nature^s stead ! 
 
WORD-PAINTING. 207 
 
 " I own that truth is cov, if wooed 
 In words^ or wooed in color; still 
 
 She has been gracious^ when long sued, 
 And I can make you here, at will, 
 
 " xV list of favors she confers 
 
 On chosen votaries, new and old, 
 Historians, poets, romancers. 
 
 Who seek herself, not fame or gold. 
 
 " I ^11 take you through my gallery. — Hark 
 And hear my pictures for a while ! 
 
 I cannot see you, in the dark ; 
 
 I shall not know it, if you smile." 
 
 Carl gave assent ; I did not care 
 How lightly, since assent was won ; 
 
 Lolled backward in his easv-chair 
 With half a laugh ; and I begun : — 
 
 Haze. 
 
 " Sun-dust.'' 
 
 Thoeeau. 
 
>y 
 
 'ZOS irORD-PAINTING. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 " Reach of primrose sky 
 With heaven^s pale caudles stored.^ 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 "Light a little trembling in the gray, 
 
 Above the folded hills. ^^ 
 
 Mrs. Browning. 
 
 THE MORXING MOON. 
 
 "The stars burned out in the pale blue air, 
 And the thin, white moon lay withering there. 
 
 )i 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 "The level smi, like ruddy ore, 
 Lay sinking in the barren skies. 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 THE VIRGIN^S FACE. 
 
 " Strong in grave peace ; in pity, circumspect. 
 
 ROSSETTI. 
 UPLAND FIELDS. 
 
 " Realms of upland, hoary to the wind."*' 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 )) 
 
(( 
 
 WORD-PAINTING. 209 
 
 DISTANT LANDSCAPE. 
 
 " All green, in the sky shine tinted gray/'' 
 
 William Barnes. 
 
 SWEET PEAS. 
 
 "On tiptoe for a flight; 
 
 With wings of tender flush, o'er delicate white.'''' 
 
 Keats. 
 
 WINTER SUNSHINE. 
 
 O'er the bare upland, and away 
 
 Through the long reach of desert woods. 
 
 The embracing sunbeams chastely play 
 
 And gladden these deep solitudes.'' 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 COMBAT IN THE LISTS. 
 
 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 
 
 The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
 The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly. 
 
 And horse and rider reel. 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists ; 
 
 And when the tide of combat stands, 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers 
 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands 
 
 (C 
 
 S. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 N 
 
210 W^ORD-PAIXTING. 
 
 " His volant touch, 
 Instinct through all proportions,, low and higli, 
 
 Fled and pursued, transverse, the resonant fugue." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 WOODS AT NOON. 
 
 ^' A summer crisp with shining woods." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 ARBUTUS. 
 
 " Tinged ^\\{\\ color faintly 
 
 Tiike the morning sky, 
 
 Or more pale and saintly, 
 
 Wrapped in leaves ye lie. 
 
 Even as children sleep, in faith^s simplicity." 
 
 Rose Terry. 
 
 " And through them smote the level sun 
 
 In broken lines of splendor; 
 
 Touched the gray rock and made the green 
 
 Of the shorn grass more tender." 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 " White moonlight comes 
 
 And takes the inert landscape by surprise." 
 
TFORD-PAINTING. 211 
 
 I paused and sat in silence here ; 
 
 And Carl was silent. By and by 
 I said, " Well ? '' with a little fear, — 
 
 A new-born doubt of his reply. 
 
 " Well/' — and his tone was touched with ruth, 
 " The words are pretty ; yet, you know, 
 
 They are but mirrors of the truth 
 As poets' fancy makes them so. 
 
 " I 'm not a poet ; and, to-night, 
 
 I feel it. My opinion is 
 Tliat you, unconsciously, were right 
 
 To call them hints and prophecies. 
 
 " They are no more. I do not own 
 
 Their supar-excellence, like you. 
 I do not think that words alone 
 
 Can show the beautiful and true. 
 
 ^^They have a province that is theirs j 
 
 But still, let colors supplement 
 Description. Given equal shares. 
 
 Let either artist be content. 
 
2ia word-painting: 
 
 ^' We will not measure work again." 
 I answered only, half in shame 
 
 At my intolerance, "It is plain 
 
 We know the ends at which wc aim ! 
 
 " Well, each endeavor has its wortli 
 To workers, hoping for the time 
 
 When art shall have a noble birth 
 In perfect color, perfect rhyme. 
 
 "To-morrow I will come and see 
 Your picture. Eead my book again. 
 
 If failures teach us charity. 
 
 We surely shall not fail in vain ! " 
 
IMMORTELLES. 
 
 RAY flowers, whose weird, pale faces 
 Look up on field and hill, 
 Like ghosts, of summer^s old, sweet graces 
 That linger still. 
 
 Ye bring me dreams unbidden 
 Of forms long still and cold. 
 
 In dust of hallowed places hidden, 
 ■'Neath churchyard mould; 
 
 Sealed eyes, meek brows untroubled, 
 Closed lips and folded hands; 
 
 Chill generations, — slowly doubled, 
 On seas and lands. 
 
214 
 
 IMMORTELLES. 
 
 Are ye but wraiths of beauty. 
 Set on the year's sere bound ? 
 
 Or pledges of the next year's duty 
 To years discrowned? 
 
 Or prophets of the season 
 
 When these brown fiehls are green; 
 And of that spring — past human reason 
 
 In spheres unseen? 
 
 Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.