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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 
 
THE WITCH IN THE GLASS 
 
 ETC. 
 
The Witch in the Glass 
 
 ETC. 
 
 BY 
 
 SARAH MfB^HATT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'A VOYAGE TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES, ETC. 
 • CHILD'S-WORLD BALLADS,' ETC. 
 
 3S 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 m)t 3Riter0ine pre^gi, CamliriDgc 
 
 \\ 
 

 Copyright, 1888, 
 By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
*5 
 
 ^^^M^.^*i*^^ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Witch in the Glass, .... 9 
 
 My Neighbour's Ring, . . . .10 
 
 The Answer of the Gardener, . ,. . 11 
 
 Two Hunters, . . . . . .12 
 
 The Sermon of a Statue, . . . .14 
 
 After Her First Party, . . . .16 
 
 The Child Mozart and St. John of Bohemia, 19 
 
 Passing the Gipsy Camp, . ., . .24 
 
 The Watch of a Swan, . . . .27 
 
 The Thought of Astyanax beside Iulus, . 29 
 
 A Triumph of Travel, . . . .31 
 
 The Story of a Storm, . . . . .33 
 
 The Coming out of her Doll, . . .35 
 
 In Street and Garden, . . . .37 
 
 The Little Cowherd, . . . .39 
 
 Their Heroic Lesson, . . . .41 
 
 A New Knight, . . . . .43 
 
 The Story of Little Henry, . . .45 
 
 The Old King's Atonement, . . .47 
 
 The Christening, . . . . .51 
 
 Comfort through a Window, . . .53 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 His Mother's Way, . 
 A Tragedy of the Night, 
 The Confession of My Neighbour, 
 Fred's Mother, 
 A Strange Country, . 
 A Neighbourhood Incident, 
 Questions of the Hour, 
 -Two Visions of Fairyland, 
 The One of Two, 
 A Coin of Lesbos, 
 Two Babies in Bed, 
 It is not Yesterday, 
 Requiescat, 
 
 The Story of a Shawl, 
 The First Red-bird, 
 At the Grave of a Suicide. 
 "Stop the Clock," . 
 The Fairy's Gift, 
 The Little Stockings, 
 The Night Cometh, . 
 The Master of the House, 
 Counsel, 
 
 Her Doubtful Compliment, 
 The Sultan's Confession, 
 The Night-Moth's Comment, 
 The Gift of Tears, . 
 A Rainy Day, . 
 Let us go to Fairyland, 
 Notes, .... 
 
THE WITCH IN THE GLASS. 
 
 My mother says I must not pass 
 
 Too near that glass ; 
 
 She is afraid that I will see 
 
 A little witch that looks like me, 
 
 With a red, red mouth to whisper low 
 
 The very thing I should not know ! " 
 
 Alack for all your mother's care ! 
 
 A bird of the air, 
 
 A wistful wind, or (I suppose 
 
 Sent by some hapless boy) a rose, 
 
 With breath too sweet, will whisper low 
 
 The very thing you should not know ! " 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR'S RING. 
 
 I NEVER envied his fair, fruitful lands, 
 
 His stately house, his slaves, nor anything, 
 
 In the old days, for on his too- white hands 
 I saw and knew the ring. 
 
 To-night there is strange news abroad, I 'm told. 
 
 — The ring, the ring ! It is the same, ah me ! 
 That to their lord the fishermen of old 
 
 Brought back from the deep sea ! i 
 
 10 
 
THE ANSWER OF THE GARDENER. 
 
 He leant, at sunset, on his spade. 
 
 (Oh, but the child was sweet to see, 
 The one who in the orchard played !) 
 
 He called : " I 've planted you a tree ! " 
 
 The boy looked at it for a while. 
 Then at the radiant woods below ; 
 
 And said, with wonder in his smile — 
 
 " Why don't you put the leaves on, though 1 " 
 
 The gardener, with a reverent air, 
 
 Lifted his eyes, took off his hat — 
 "The Other Man, the One up there," 
 
 He answered, "He must see to that." 
 
 11 
 
1^^^^;^^^ 
 
 TWO HUNTERS. 
 
 [anecdote of victor EMMANUEL, KING OF ITALY.] 
 
 They met in the heat of a Southern sun. 
 And how did they look ? Oh, I fancy one 
 Was a picturesque peasant, such as you may 
 See in a lover's part, at the play. 
 
 This hunter was nothing at all, you see, 
 And the other was^every thing ! But he 
 Was none too handsome, let us suppose, 
 Although his face out-reddened the rose. 
 
 These two Italians met, as I said, 
 In a lonesome place where a hare lay dead. 
 " It is mine — I shot it," one stormily cried ; 
 "It is mine — I shot it," the other repHed. 
 
 So the beautiful youth went home that night 
 With his black eyes blacker yet from the fight. 
 "Now," the genial gentleman said, "it is mine — 
 And" (this to himself) "by the right divine." 
 
 12 
 
TWO HUNTERS. 13 
 
 At morning a carriage was sent to bring 
 
 The wondering peasant before the king. 
 
 "Do you know me, sir ? " "I 'd the honour to fight 
 
 With your Majesty, as I fear, last night." 
 
 " And I saw by the shot, when the hare was dressed, 
 That it was not mine — forgive me the rest : 
 There 's enough for us both — and it was not mine ; 
 Come in, I beg you, with me, and dine." 
 
THE SEEMON OF A STATUE. 
 
 [in WESTMINSTER ABBEY.] 
 
 Suddenly, in the melancholy place 
 
 With sculptured king and priest and knight 
 assembled, 
 The music called us. Then, with kindly grace. 
 
 On a gold head was laid a hand that trembled : 
 "You little stranger, come," the verger cried, 
 " And hear the sermon." " No," the child replied ; — 
 
 A moment standing on his New-World will, 
 There in the Corner of the Poets, holding 
 
 His cap with pretty reverence, as still 
 As any of that company, he said, folding 
 
 His arms : " But let that canon wait." And then : 
 
 " I want to stay here with these marble men ; — 
 
 " If they could preach, I 'd listen ! " Ah, they can, 
 Another thought. It pleased the boy to linger 
 
 In the pale presence of the peerless man 
 
 Who pointed to his text with moveless finger. 
 
THE SERMON OF A STATUE. 15 
 
 Laughing with blue-eyed wonder, he said : "Look, 
 This one (but do you know him ?) has a book ! " 
 
 ... I know him. Ay, and all the world knows him, — 
 Among the many poets the one only ! 
 
 On that high head the stained gloom was dim ; 
 In those fixed eyes the look of gods was lonely. 
 
 Kings at his feet, to whom his hand gave fame, 
 
 Lay, dust and ashes, shining through his name. 
 
 I heard him. With the still voice of the dead 
 From that stone page, right careless of derision. 
 
 Sad jesters of a faithless age ! he read 
 
 How the great globe would vanish like a vision, 
 
 With all that it inhabit. . . . And hath he 
 
 Then writ but one word, and that — Vanity ? 
 
AFTEE HER FIRST PARTY. 
 
 "It was just lovely, acd, mamma, my dress 
 Was much the prettiest there, the boys all said : 
 
 They said too that I looked — my best. I guess 
 These ribbons suited me. You see, that red, 
 
 You did not fancy, lighted up so well. 
 
 Somebody told me I was quite a belle. 
 
 " I wish you didn't want me to wear white. 
 With just a flower or two. Rose wears such 
 things. 
 
 They 're so old-fashioned. She was such a fright ! 
 I wish that I had fifty diamond rings, — 
 
 I 'd wear them all at once ! I 'd almost paint, 
 
 Before I 'd look like Rose. She 's such a saint." 
 
 "I thought you were the best of friends." " 
 are, — 
 
 Only we hate each other ! That is what 
 The best of friends do — in our school. How far 
 
 Away you look ! Forgive me. I forgot. 
 
 We 
 
AFTER HER FIRST PARTY. 17 
 
 I 've made you sad. / 'II love the whole world too, 
 I guess, mamma — when I 'm as old as you ! 
 
 " Why don't you listen, mamma ? You must be 
 Thinking of Adam. Here 's a bud he gave 
 
 You once in Eden — shut up here, you see, 
 
 In this old book ! " " That grew upon a grave." 
 
 " Oh, I '11 not touch it, then. I wish that pearls 
 
 Would grow on trees — but not for other girls. 
 
 *' Now, mamma, please to hear me to the end. 
 
 The handsomest of all the boys last night 
 Looked like that picture of — your brother's friend. 
 
 He hardly spoke to Eose. (Oh, I 'm not quite 
 An angel yet. I shall be, I suppose. 
 Sometime.) I 'm glad he hardly spoke to Eose. 
 
 " I wonder, mamma, did you ever go 
 To a first party. And what did you wear ? 
 
 How odd you must have looked ! But tell me, 
 
 though. 
 About your dress. How many girls were there ?" 
 "Fifty, perhaps." "There were some boys, I 'd guess?" 
 
 "Yes, there was one " " And he was handsome 1 " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 B 
 
18 AFTER HER FIRST PARTY. 
 
 " Where is he now, do you think ? " " I do not know. 
 
 (In some sweet foreign country, it may be, 
 Among the palms.") "He might have written, 
 though, 
 
 In all these years." " He cannot write." " I see. 
 What a strange party ! Fifty girls — oh dear ! 
 And one boy — and he couldn't write 1 How queer ! " 
 
THE CHILD MOZART AND ST. JOHN OF 
 BOHEMIA. 
 
 The two stood in a faery place 
 
 On some Bohemian hill. 
 The boy seemed not of our own race, 
 
 He was so slight and still ; 
 
 A lovely alien, who had strayed 
 When some strange star went by. 
 
 Out of its shining ways, and stayed 
 On earth, he knew not why. 
 
 Bare-headed, on that lonesome height. 
 Where yet the dew was cold, 
 
 He took, as by some gracious right, 
 The sun's salute of gold j 
 
 19 
 
20 THE CHILD MOZART AND 
 
 With lambs, above the world of men, 
 
 There in the world of birds, 
 So looked the young Apollo, when 
 
 He — quite forgot the herds. 
 
 Perhaps it was the winds and bees, 
 
 Perhaps his sweet ears rung 
 With snatches of the melodies 
 
 The morning stars had sung. 
 
 Yet this fair little foreign guest, 
 
 Born somewhere in the sky, 
 Knew — (if the truth must be confest) 
 
 The boy knew how to cry. 
 
 "Look, sister, look," he sadly said. 
 
 While great tears gathered slow, 
 " There is no butter on my bread." 
 
 She answered him : " I know. 
 
 " We are so poor, and that is why." 
 
 " Well, what do people do 
 When they are poor ? " " Sometimes they cry.' 
 
 (Their mother did, she knew.) 
 
ST. JOHN OF BOHEMIA. 21 
 
 *' But don't they pray, too, sometimes ? " " Yes.'* 
 
 " Then, good St. John, I say 
 My mother needs a prettier dress ; — 
 
 Please send one right away." 
 
 (St. John, hurled from a parapet 
 
 At some wild Emperor's frown : 
 Five stars brood on the Moldau yet, 
 
 Five stars that saw him drown.) 
 
 " We want a new piano, too ; 
 
 Our old one used to play, 
 But it forgets its music. You 
 
 Are kind to all who pray 1 
 
 " And there 's the butter, too. But see, — 
 
 Why, here he is ! " And then 
 Came laughing from behind a tree 
 
 The handsomest of men, 
 
 Clothed in dark forest-green, his head 
 
 High as an oak's need be, 
 And shadowed by a plume. He said : 
 
 " Come, little ones, with me. " 
 
22 THE CHILD MOZART AND 
 
 And so the children's saint, the blest, 
 
 The beautiful St. John, 
 Walked with them — (rather oddly drest 
 
 You think. Of this anon). 
 
 That day a sudden dinner, such 
 
 As they had never seen, 
 Came to their table. And how much 
 
 They thanked the saint in green ! 
 
 Bright as an autumn-leaf in bloom 
 Their mother moved, and yet 
 
 That night — the absence in her room 
 Made cheek and pillow wet. 
 
 That night the old piano, too. 
 Grieved like a living thing, — 
 
 For the blonde boy, right well it knew, 
 Had vanished with the King. 
 
 (The King, I said, but, on my word, 
 It 's quite another thing, — 
 
 Somewhere in history I have heard 
 The Queen was then the King.^) 
 
 1 ''Long live our King— Maria Theresa!" 
 
ST. JOHN OF BOHEMIA. 23 
 
 Into a place of shining state 
 
 The child-musician went, 
 In violet velvet, to await 
 
 Court-kiss and compliment. 
 
 . . . And lo, a palace maiden bright, 
 
 A vision to admire, 
 A creature made of rose and white 
 
 And gold, in brave attire ! 
 
 The boy raised his flower-face as she 
 
 Passed him with slow regret : 
 " I say, and will you marry me. 
 
 Miss Marie Antoinette ? " 
 
 *' I dare not ; what would mother say 1 — 
 
 I mean the Empress, child," 
 The enchanted princess answered. They 
 
 Who listened. stared and smiled. 
 
 She tossed her shining head a bit, 
 With one bright backward glance ; 
 
 And Wolfgang Mozart wept when it 
 Gilded the axe of France. 
 
PASSING THE GIPSY CAMP. 
 
 So, here they are on the hills again ; 
 
 They always come with the robins hither. 
 But where do they stay when the wind and rain 
 
 Make the women's faces wither ? 
 
 They come from Egypt, as I have heard. 
 
 (Didn't Pharaoh look like that brown fellow ?) 
 Yes, picturesque is a right fine word 
 
 For rags in scarlet and yellow. 
 
 See the wide straw hats, the purplish hair, 
 The doubtful eyes, and the graceless graces ; 
 
 The tents, and the wild fires, here and there, 
 In the greenest, shyest places. 
 
 The oldest, wisest of all comes here. 
 
 Last May her promise was sweet as honey, — 
 (I wish, with the interest of a year. 
 
 She would give me back my money !) 
 
 24 
 
PASSING THE GIPSY CAMP. 25 
 
 What did she say 1 Why, she only said, 
 Frowning a trifle, and bending double, 
 
 (Never a star had the grey cheat read,) 
 "Wait, lady, you have seen trouble." 
 
 How did she know ? (Why, I think she knew, 
 For this one reason, and many others :) 
 
 Oh, she knew, at least, that I had seen you 
 At war with your valiant brothers ! 
 
 She said my trouble would end, forsooth, 
 And so it will — when the moon is ready 
 
 To light my grave. So, it was the truth. 
 But — you look at me too steady ! 
 
 If you are afraid, then speak her fair 
 
 (She isn't a witch like Macbeth's witches ;) 
 
 But — what should the rosiest children care 
 For glory and sorrow and riches 1 
 
 My good, weird woman, (0, what a noise 
 
 Of crowing, neighing, babbling and snarling !) 
 
 What will become of some poor little boys ? 
 
 Yes, the youngest is a darling ! 
 
26 PASSING THE GIPSY CAMP. 
 
 . . . There ! she will turn one's head with the stuff 
 That dreams are made of, if one will let her ! 
 
 / can tell you, and true enough, 
 Something as good, or better. 
 
 Never the President will you be, 
 
 None of you — not if you do grow older ; 
 
 Nor the greatest of generals — bright with three 
 Stars or so, on the shoulder. 
 
 But the pretty summers will come to you. 
 With blossoms to find and wings to follow ; 
 
 And I 'd say a world where strawberries grew. 
 Of a truth was not quite hollow. 
 
 Sometimes you will come to grief, no doubt. 
 
 Most of us do. But we have to take it. 
 , . , Oh, I should have left the trouble out 
 
 Of this world — had I helped to make it ! 
 
 At last you will shut your eyes and forget 
 That red-birds fly, or that cow-bells tinkle ; 
 
 And sleep, though the suns shall rise and set, — 
 Oh, longer than Eip Van Winkle ! 
 
THE WATCH OF A SWAN. 
 
 I READ somewhere that a swan, snow-white. 
 In the sun all day, in the moon all night. 
 
 Alone by a little grave would sit 
 Waiting, and watching it. 
 
 Up out of the lake her mate would rise, 
 And call her down with his piteous cries 
 Into the waters still and dim ; — 
 With cries she would answer him. 
 
 Hardly a shadow would she let pass 
 Over the baby's cover of grass ; 
 Only the wind might dare to stir 
 The lily that watched with her. 
 
 27 
 
28 THE WATCH OF A SWAN. 
 
 Do I think that the swan was an angel 1 Oh, 
 I think it was only a swan, you know. 
 That for some sweet reason, winged and wild, 
 Had the love of a bird for a child. 
 
THE THOUGHT OF ASTYANAX BESIDE 
 IULUS.(2) 
 
 (after reading Virgil's story of andromache in exile.) 
 
 Yes, all the doves begin to moan, — 
 But it is not the doves alone. 
 Some trouble, that you never heard 
 In any tree from breath of bird, 
 That reaches back to Eden lies 
 Between your wind-flower and my eyes. 
 
 I fear it was not well, indeed, 
 Upon so sad a day to read 
 So sad a story. But the day 
 Is full of blossoms, do you say, — 
 And how the sun does shine 1 I know. 
 These things do make it sadder, though. 
 
 You 'd cry, if you were not a boy. 
 About this mournful tale of Troy "? 
 Then do not laugh at me, if I — 
 Who am too old, you know, to cry — 
 Just hide my face a while from you, 
 Down here among these drops of dew. 
 
 29 
 
30 THE THOUGHT OF ASTYANAX BESIDE itJLUS. 
 
 . . . Must I for sorrow look so far t 
 This baby headed like a star, 
 Afraid of Hector's horse-hair plume 
 (His one sweet child, whose bitter doom 
 So piteous seems — oh, tears and tears ! — ) 
 Has he been dust three thousand years 1 
 
 Yet when I see his mother fold 
 
 The pretty cloak she stitched with gold 
 
 Around another boy, and say : 
 
 *' He would be just your age to-day, 
 
 With just your hands, your eyes, your hair "- 
 
 Her grief is more than I can bear. 
 
A TRIUMPH OF TRAVEL. 
 
 AT EDINBURGH. 
 
 There rose the tragic palace towers 
 Against the moon. (The tale was true !) 
 
 The Prince's Gardens faint with flowers 
 And still with statue-spectres grew. 
 
 There, on its rock, the Castle lay, 
 An awful shadow-shape forlorn, 
 
 Among the night-lamps, and, by day — 
 The place where James the First was born. 
 
 There, for the Covenanters' sake, 
 
 One haunts the grasses of Grey Friars ; 
 
 There grim John Knox had loved to shake 
 His right hand full of ghostly fires. 
 
32 A TRIUMPH OF TRAVEL. 
 
 There, changed to marble, Walter Scott 
 Eeceived the world. And Burns of Ayr, 
 
 With all his loves and debts forgot, 
 A bronze immortal met you there. 
 
 No whit the seven-years' stranger cared ; 
 
 As under gables high and still 
 Through immemorial dust he fared. 
 
 He spoke his heart out with a will : 
 
 " I 'm tired of Holyrood, that 's what ! 
 
 And all the other things," he said ; 
 " There 's nothing in it ! She is not ; — 
 
 I mean Queen Mary. She is dead. 
 
 "I'm glad I did just one thing there." 
 
 (In vain they showed him "Rizzio's bluid.") 
 
 " I put my hand on every chair 
 
 That said ' Don't Touch ' at Holyrood ! " 
 
THE STORY OF A STORM. 
 
 [told by a little boy who had heard "stories 
 from homer."] 
 
 " Things floated away and the day turned dark 
 And papa he wasn't at home, you know ; 
 
 And we didn't have any dove or ark, 
 Nor mountain where we could go. 
 
 Like they used to have, one other year, — 
 
 That time when the other flood was here. 
 
 " Then, the wind kept blowing the oak-tree down, 
 (The Lord didn't know about the nest !) 
 
 And I thought this world was going to drown. 
 Did Louis tell you the rest 1 
 
 Well, if he didn't — well then — well, 
 
 I think — Somebody will have to tell. 
 
 " Now, this was the way : One other night 
 (I wish that Louis had told you then) 
 
 When the moon was red — why, we had a fight 
 About one of Homer's men. 
 c 
 
34 THE STORY OF A STORM. 
 
 (That is the reason we didn't speak.) 
 He said that Hector wasn't a Greek ! 
 
 " But I thought it wouldn't do to die 
 And not say even one single word 
 
 To Louis before I went to the sky, — 
 So I told him about the bird^ 
 
 And the other birds out there in the nest 
 
 That their mother hadn't even dressed ! 
 
 " If it hadn't been for the rain, you see. 
 We never could have been friends again. 
 
 And, who would I have to play with me — 
 If it hadn't been for the rain ? 
 
 And Louis said he was glad to speak. 
 
 For he thought that Hector wasn't a Greek ! 
 
THE COMING OUT OF HER DOLL. 
 
 YOUNG GIRL-GRADUATE TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 " Now I begin to think it 's time that Rose 
 Should wear a train. She 's a young lady now. 
 
 You really cannot guess how much she knows. 
 (She 's read some charming novels, anyhow.) 
 
 " How sweet she 'd look in a Commencement dress, 
 White satin and illusion, and some pearls. 
 
 Her gloves must have six buttons, and — I guess 
 She 'd get more flowers than all the other girls. 
 
 " I fancy she should have some company. 
 
 (Papa, he always comes home late and tired.) 
 And if she only had — some one, you see, 
 
 To take her out, she would be much admired. 
 
36 THE COMING OUT OF HER DOLL. 
 
 ** Oh, you forget. You brought her home to me 
 Once on my birthday, years and years ago. 
 
 She could not be a baby yet, you see ; — 
 
 Why, then I was a child myself, you know !" 
 
IN STEEET AND GARDEN. 
 
 A CHILD'S CONCLUSION. 
 
 " Mamma," he said, " you ought to know 
 The place. It 's name is wicked, though. 
 Not China. No. But if you fell 
 Through China you would be there ! Well. 
 
 " Fred said somebody very bad, 
 Named Satan, stayed down there, and had 
 Oh, such a fire to burn things ! You 
 Just never mind. It can't be true. 
 
 " Because I 've digged and digged to see 
 Where all that fire could ever be, 
 And looked and looked down through the dark, 
 And never saw a single spark. 
 
 " But Heaven is sure ; because if I 
 
 Look up, I always see the sky — 
 
 Sometimes the gold-gates shine clear through — 
 
 And when you see a thing, it 's true !" 
 
 37 
 
30 IN STREET AND GARDEN. 
 
 11. 
 
 SELF-COMFORTED. 
 
 The ragged child across the street 
 Stared at the child that looked so sweet : 
 
 " I '11 have a whiter dress than you, 
 And wear some prettier rosebuds, too ; 
 
 " And not be proud a bit," she said, 
 " I thank you, miss, — when I am dead." 
 
 III. 
 LITTLE GUIDO'S LOST PICTURES. 
 
 The world may keep the best he gave to it. 
 
 That may be worth the world itself. AVho knows 1 
 Here, you who are his namesake, come and sit, 
 
 And read about him, by this budding rose. 
 
 The world may keep the Aurora. As for me, 
 I 'd rather see the pictures that he drew 
 
 In the divine dust, there, of Italy, 
 
 When Guido was a sweet, dark boy like you. 
 
THE LITTLE COWHERD. 
 
 " Come, look at her and you will love her. 
 
 Go, lead her now through pleasant places, 
 And teach her that our New-World's clover 
 
 Is sweet as Jersey Island daisies. 
 
 " Yes, you may do a little playing 
 Close to the gate, my pretty warder; 
 
 But, meanwhile, keep your cow from straying 
 Across the elfin people's border." 
 
 So to the boy his mother jested 
 
 About his light task, lightly heeding. 
 
 While in the flowering grass he rested 
 The magic book that he was reading. 
 
 39 
 
40 THE LITTLE COWHERD. 
 
 At sundown for the cow's returning 
 
 The milkmaid waited long, I 'm thinking. 
 
 Hours later, by the moon's weird burning, 
 Did fairy-folk have cream for drinking ? 
 
 . . . What of the boy ? By hill and hollow, 
 Through bloom and brier, till twilight ended, 
 
 His book had charmed him on to follow 
 The cow — the one that Cadmus tended ! 
 
THEIR HEROIC LESSON. 
 
 [learned from HOMER.l] 
 
 I LET the sun stand still, this lonesome day, 
 And hardly heard the very baby coo, 
 
 (Meanwhile the world went on — the other way !) 
 That I might watch the siege of Troy with you. 
 
 The great Achilles (whom we knew) was there — 
 His shining shield was what we knew him by ; 
 
 And Hector with his plume of horse's hair 
 
 Frightened his child and laughed to hear it cry. 
 
 Poor Hector ! Never sorrow for the dead, 
 In these three thousand piteous after years, 
 
 Breathed into sweeter words than Helen said 
 Beside him, through the dropping of her tears. 
 
 We grieved with Priam for his gracious son. 
 
 Much-wandering Ulysses with his craft 
 Cheated us through strange seas — and every one 
 
 Came straight to grief with him upon his raft. 
 ^ Stories from Homer, by Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
 
 41 
 
42 THEIR HEROIC LESSON. 
 
 Not one among you but could draw his bow, 
 
 After its rest in Ithaca, and bring 
 A suitor down ! — In the dark backward, oh, 
 
 How sad the swallow-twitter of its string ! 
 
 Now, that it 's time to shut the shadowy book, 
 (Ah me, they clash together, left and right, 
 
 And Greek meets Greek — or Trojan ! Only look !) — 
 What have you learned from it 1 You say : "To 
 fight!" 
 
A NEW KNIGHT. 
 
 TO A SCHOOLBOY. 
 
 Here you sit with a picture-book, 
 
 And stare at a knight with his armour on, 
 
 While the bird that waited for you to look 
 At his scarlet coat is surely gone. 
 
 He sings too low and he sings too near ? — 
 
 It is Roland's horn you would like to hear 1 
 
 Why, the horn of Eoland was only blown 
 
 Because there was something wrong, you know. 
 
 When the world was dark. But the world has 
 grown 
 A trifle brighter since then, and so 
 
 We are looking around for some new knight 
 
 Whose horn shall tell us of something right 
 
 43 
 
44 A NEW KNIGHT. 
 
 You like the one in the picture best ? 
 
 Oh, he does look well in his plume and steel ; 
 But only fancy if you were dressed 
 
 In that odd fashion, how you would feel — 
 ' Riding along, while the boys looked through 
 The schoolroom windows and laughed at you ! 
 
 You would storm some fortress? — You never will. 
 You sleep and you dream too much for that. 
 
 Take care lest the boy below the hill. 
 
 With the one wild rose in his torn straw hat, 
 
 Who climbs the rocks, while they 're dim with 
 dew, 
 
 To bring you milk, make his squire of you ! 
 
THE STORY OF LITTLE HENRY. 
 
 [an incident from the newspaper.] 
 
 Yes, brown and rosy, perhaps, like you. 
 
 Was the little child they have not found ; 
 Or perhaps his eyes, like yours, were blue, 
 And his poor sweet head faint-golden too — 
 The little child who was drowned. 
 
 T hardly think his mother was right — 
 
 Did she have it ? — not to give him the bread ; 
 But he shut the door, and then — " Good night ; " 
 (Yes, he went alone and without any light) — 
 " I '11 never come home," he said. 
 
 Poor little child, he was seven years old. 
 
 Why, the bird's wild nest was new in the tree ; 
 There were roses enough for him to hold 
 In his two small hands. But the river is cold 
 
 In the summer, even, you see. 
 
 45 
 
46 THE STORY OF LITTLE HENRY. 
 
 From the trouble of tears where did he go 1 — 
 
 Where did he go with his two bare feet 1 
 That life was bitter he seemed to know, 
 (What manner of bread did he think to eat 1) — 
 Did he know that death was sweet 1 
 
THE OLD KING'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 TOLD TO A BOY ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 This is the story that a dead man writ — 
 Five hundred years ago it must be, quite ; 
 
 Worlds full of children listened once to it, 
 Who do not ask for stories now at night. 
 
 Worlds full of children, who have followed him, 
 The King they learned to love and to forgive, 
 
 About whose feet the North-snows once lay dim, 
 To the sweet land where he has gone to live. 
 
 He was a boy whose purple cap could show 
 As true a peacock's-plume as ever fanned 
 
 Bright royal hair, but in the gracious glow 
 
 Of his fair head strange things, it seems, were 
 planned : 
 
 47 
 
48 THE OLD king's ATONEMENT. 
 
 " To be a prince is well enough," thought he, 
 " But then would it not be a braver thing 
 
 To be — my father, only young ! To be," 
 
 He whispered, oh, so low — "to be the King ! — 
 
 "My father, who may live for years and years. 
 
 And I meanwhile ? — Prince Henry to the last ! 
 Sin, by God's grace, may be washed out with tears. 
 
 And some day I'll have time to pray and fast." 
 
 He blew a blast that wailed from field to field ; 
 
 Then, with his sword's point hurled his father 
 down. 
 And bared his own dark forehead, and revealed 
 
 Thereon the sudden lightning of the crown. 
 
 But soon that fire of jewels round his head 
 
 Burned to his heart. He sat forlorn with grief : 
 
 " We '11 send across the mountains there," he said, 
 " To our great Priest in Italy for relief." 
 
 His Holiness sat thinking in his town 
 
 Of Eome five minutes, or, it may be, more ; 
 
 His scarlet Cardinals pulled their brave hats down, 
 And thought as Cardinals never thought before. 
 
THE OLD KING S ATONEMENT. 49 
 
 "Tell him," the reverend Father said, "to build 
 Strong churches, and give freely of his gold 
 
 To our poor brothers." So his realm was filled 
 With monks and abbeys. But — shall truth be 
 told ?— 
 
 His father's shadow would not let him be, — 
 Till, one fine night, out of the pleasant skies, 
 
 Mary looked down, remembering that he 
 
 Was once a child, with sweet half-human eyes : 
 
 " He shall be glad again, for he shall make 
 The little ones glad in memory of my Son," 
 
 She said. Her aureole flashed the King awake ; 
 He thought, " Let my Lord's Mother's will be done.'"' 
 
 So from his head the cruel crown he shook, 
 And from his breast the ermine cloak he tore, 
 
 And, wrapped in serge, his lonesome way he took 
 In the weird night from dreaming door to door. 
 
 A very Saint of Christmas in the moon. 
 
 Followed by glimmering evergreens and toys, 
 
 The old King looked. And did they wake too soon, 
 Those blonde-haired, blue-eyed, far-back girls and 
 boys ? 
 
60 THE OLD king's ATiONEMENT. 
 
 I only know that still the peasants say, 
 
 In his far country, that a strange King walks 
 
 All night before the Lord Christ's glad birthday, 
 And leaves no track — a King who never talks ! 
 
 And sometimes children, stealing from their bed, 
 To look if the slow morning yet be near. 
 
 Have seen his sweeping beard and hooded head. 
 And grey, still smile, with never any fear. 
 
 They know the dawn will light the loveliest things, 
 Left in the silence by their silent friend. 
 
 They know the strange King is the best of kings. 
 And mean to love him till the world shall end. 
 
THE CHEISTENING. 
 
 In vain we broider cap and cloak, and fold 
 
 The long robe, white and rare; 
 In vain we serve on dishes of red gold. 
 
 Perhaps, the rich man's fare ; 
 In vain we bid the fabled folk who bring 
 
 All gifts the world holds sweet : 
 This one, forsooth, shall give the child to sing ; 
 
 To move like music this shall charm its feet ; 
 
 This help the cheek to blush, the heart to beat. 
 
 Unto the christening there shall surely come 
 
 The Uninvited Guest, 
 The evil mother, weird and wise, with some 
 
 Sad purpose in her breast. 
 
52 THE CHRISTENING. 
 
 Yea, and though every spinning-wheel be stilled 
 In all the country round, 
 
 Behold, the prophecy must be fulfilled ; 
 The turret with the spindle will be found, 
 And the white hand will reach and take the 
 wound. 
 
COMFORT THROUGH A WINDOW. 
 (child within to tramp without.) 
 
 It 's not so nice here as it looks, 
 With china that keeps breaking so, 
 
 And five of Mr. Tennyson's books 
 Too fine to look in — is it, though 1 
 
 If you just had to sit here (Well !) 
 In satin chairs too blue to touch, 
 
 And look at flowers too sweet to smell, 
 In vases — would you like it much ? 
 
 If you see any flowers, they grow. 
 And you can find them in the sun. 
 
 These are the ones we buy, you know, 
 In winter-time — when there are none ! 
 
 53 
 
54 COMFORT THROUGH A WINDOW. 
 
 Then you can sit on rocks, you see, 
 And walk about in water, too — 
 
 Because you have no shoes ! Dear me ! 
 How many things they let you do ! 
 
 Then you can sleep out in the shade 
 All day, I guess, and all night too. 
 
 Because — you know, you 're not afraid 
 Of other fellows just like you ! 
 
 You have no house like this, you know, 
 (Where mamma 's cross, and ladies call)- 
 
 You have the world to live in, though. 
 And that 's the prettiest place of all ! 
 
HIS MOTHER'S WAY. (3) 
 
 " My Mamma just knows how to cry- 
 About an old glove or a ring, 
 
 Or even a stranger going by 
 The gate, or — almost anything ! 
 
 " She cried till both her eyes were red 
 About him^ too. (I saw her, though !) 
 
 And he was just a , Papa said. 
 
 (We have to call them that, you know.) 
 
 *' She cried about the shabbiest shawl, 
 Because it cost too much to buy ; 
 
 But Papa cannot cry at all. 
 
 For he 's a man. And that is why 1 
 
 *' Why, if his coat was not right new, 
 And if the yellow bird would die 
 
 That sings, and my white kitten too, 
 Or even himself, he would not cry. 
 
56 HIS mother's way. 
 
 " He said that he would sleep to-night 
 With both the pistols at his head, 
 
 Because that ragged fellow might 
 
 Come back. That 's what my Papa said I 
 
 " But Mamma goes and hides her face 
 There in the curtains, and peeps out 
 
 At him, and almost spoils the lace ; — 
 And he is what she cries about ! 
 
 ' * She says he looks so cold, so cold, 
 And has no pleasant place to stay ! 
 
 Why can't he work 1 He is not old ; 
 His eyes are blue — they've not turned 
 grey." 
 
 So the boy babbled. . . . Well, sweet sirs. 
 Flushed with your office-fires you write 
 
 Your laugh down at such grief as hers ; 
 But are these women foolish quite ? 
 
 1 know. But, look you, there may be 
 
 Stains sad as wayside dust, I say, 
 
 Upon your own white hands (ah, me !) 
 
 No woman's tears can wash away. 
 
HIS mother's way. 57 
 
 One sees her baby's dimple hold 
 
 More love than you can measure. . . . 
 Then 
 Nights darken down on heads of gold, 
 
 Till wind and frost try wandering men ! 
 
 But there are prisons made for such, 
 Where the strong roof shuts out the snow ; 
 
 And bread (that you would scorn to touch) 
 Is served them there 1 I know, I know. 
 
 Ah ! while you have your books, your ease, 
 Your lamp-light leisure, jests, and wine. 
 
 Fierce outside whispers, if you please. 
 
 Moan, each: "These things are also mine !" 
 
A TRAGEDY OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 [AT AN EDINBURGH STREET CROSSING.] 
 
 She started suddenly from the moving mass. 
 
 The wind sprang up and caught her by the shawl, 
 And held her like a thing that dared not pass, — 
 
 Then shook her for an instant. That was all. 
 
 Once beautiful, and still almost a child ! 
 
 She wore her wet hair round her with a grace. 
 I saw the great eyes staring black and wild 
 
 As the scared lamplights shuddered from her face. 
 
 Upon her track there followed such a cry : 
 
 " Will you come back, or no ? " was all it said, — 
 
 *' Will you come back, or no ? " The Voice wailed by ; 
 On — to the Pit ? — the girlish phantom fled. 
 
THE CONFESSION OF MY NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 [after she had been fortunate.] 
 
 Yes, this is what my neighbour said that night, 
 In the still shadow of her stately house, 
 
 (Fortune came to her when her head was white,) 
 AVhat time dark leaves were weird in withering 
 boughs, 
 
 And each late rose sighed with its latest breath, 
 
 " This sweet world is too sweet to end in death." 
 
 But this is what my neighbour said to me : 
 " I grieved my youth away for that or this. 
 
 I had upon my hand the ring you see, 
 With pretty babies in my arms to kiss, 
 
 And one man said I had the sweetest eyes, 
 
 He was quite sure, this side of Paradise. 
 
 "But then our crowded cottage was so small, 
 And spacious grounds would blossom full insight; 
 
 Then one would fret me with an India shawl, 
 And one flash by me in a diamond's light ; 
 
 And one would show me wealth of precious lace, 
 
 And one look coldly from her painted face. 
 
 59 
 
60 THE CONFESSION OF MY NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 " I did not know that I had everything, 
 Till — I remembered it. Ah me ! ah me ! 
 
 I who had ears to hear the wild-bird sing, 
 And eyes to see the violets. ... It must be 
 
 A bitter fate that jewels the grey hair, 
 
 Which once was golden and had flowers to wear. 
 
 " In the old house, in my old room, for years. 
 The haunted cradle of my little ones gone 
 
 Would hardly let me look at it for tears. 
 
 . , . O my lost nurslings ! I stay on and on, 
 
 Only to miss you from the empty light 
 
 Of my low fire — with my own grave in sight. 
 
 " In the old house, too, in its own old place. 
 Handsome and young, and looking towards the 
 gate 
 
 Through which it flushed to meet me, is a face 
 For which, ah me ! I never more shall wait^- 
 
 For which, ah me ! I wait for ever, I 
 
 Who for the hope of it, can surely die. 
 
 " Young men write gracious letters here to me. 
 That ought to fill this mother-heart of mine. 
 
THE CONFESSION OF MY NEIGHBOUR. 61 
 
 The youth in this one crowds all Italy ! 
 
 This glimmers with the far Pacific's shine. 
 The first poor little hand that warmed my breast 
 Wrote this— the date is old : you know the rest. 
 
 *' Oh, if I only could have back my boys, 
 
 With their lost gloves and books for me to find, 
 
 Their scattered playthings and their pleasant noise ! 
 ... I sit here in the splendour growing blind, 
 
 With hollow hands that backward reach, and ache 
 
 For the sweet trouble which the children make." 
 
FRED'S MOTHER. 
 
 MASTER HARRY'S COMMENT. 
 
 " Fred says his mother cannot tell 
 One-half the things he asks her. Well ! 
 
 " She doesn't even know how far 
 It is straight to that nearest star. 
 
 *' She only knows the Golden Rule. 
 
 — I wonder where she went to school ! " 
 
 62 
 
A STEANGE COUNTRY. 
 
 It 's a strange story I must tell 
 Of a strange country, Louis 1 Well, 
 The strangest country that I know 
 Is one where palm-trees do not grow ; 
 It lies within the very reach 
 
 Of your two hands, and blue-birds flit 
 Among the flowers of pear and peach, 
 
 In pleasant dews, all over it. 
 
 In this strange country, then, last night, 
 A lady in the gracious light 
 Of garden-lamps and rising moon 
 (Hush ! you may do your guessing soon), 
 With bits of stone she chose to wear, 
 
 That elfin queens, perhaps, had lost, 
 Outflashed the fire-flies in the air, — 
 
 And what a sum her party cost ! 
 
64 A STRANGE COUNTRY. 
 
 This morning, with a beard as white 
 As his own shroud should be, in sight 
 Of her high windows' precious lace, 
 A man — with, oh ! so sad a face 
 One scarce could look at it for tears — 
 
 Stood with a staff, and slowly said : 
 " It 's the first time in all these years ; 
 
 But, Madam, I must ask for bread." 
 
 The lady, lily-like, within 
 Her hands, that did not toil nor spin. 
 Held all sweet things this world can give ; 
 The man, for just the breath to live. 
 Early and late, in sun and snow. 
 
 Had done his best. — I thought you knew ! 
 ... It must be a strange country, though. 
 
 Where such strange stories can be true. 
 
A NEIGHBOURHOOD INCIDENT. 
 
 " Did you know, Mamma, that the man was dead 
 In that pretty place, there under the hill 1" 
 
 *' So, with only the clouds to cover his head. 
 He died down there in that old stone mill ; 
 
 He died, in the wind and sleet, and — mark 
 
 This truth, fair sirs — in the dark. 
 
 " (Yes, a pretty place !) In the summer-time, 
 When the birds sing out of the leaves for joy, 
 
 And the blue wild morning-glories climb 
 On the broken walls, it is pretty, my boy : 
 
 But not when the world around is snow 
 
 And the river is ice below. 
 
 " Men looked sometimes from the morning cars 
 Toward the place where he lay in the winter sun. 
 
 And said, through the smoke of their dear cigars, 
 That something really ought to be done. 
 
 Then talked of the President, or the play, 
 
 Or the wnr — that was farthest away." " 
 
 K 65 
 
6Q A NEIGHBOURHOOD INCIDENT. 
 
 " Do you know when his father wanted some bread, 
 One time, by the well there 1 Wasn't he old ! 
 
 I mean that day when the blossoms were red 
 On the cliffs, and it wasn't so very cold" — 
 
 " And I gave him the little I well could spare 
 
 When I looked at his face and hair. 
 
 " Then we met him once — it was almost night — 
 Out looking for berries among the briers, 
 
 (So withered and weird, such a piteous sight!) 
 And gathering wood for their gypsy fires. 
 
 * No, the young man is no better. No, no,' 
 
 He would keep on saying, so low." 
 
 " But the women there would not work, they say." 
 " Why, that is the story ; but, if it be true, 
 
 There are other women, I think, to-day 
 
 Who will not work, yet, their whole lives through, 
 
 All lovely things from the seas and lands 
 
 Drop into their idle hands. 
 
 " But these would not work, so their brother — and 
 ours — 
 
 Deserved to die in that desolate place 1 
 Shall we send regrets and the usual flowers ? 
 
 Shall we stop and see the upbraiding face, 
 
A NEIGHBOUEHOOD INCIDENT. 67 
 
 As it lies in the roofless room forlorn, 
 For the sake of a dead man's scorn ? 
 
 " He did his best^ as none will deny, 
 At serving the Earth to pay for his breath ; 
 
 So she gave him early (and why not, why ?) 
 The one thing merciful men call Death. 
 
 Ah ! gift that must be gracious indeed, 
 
 Since it leaves us nothing to need ! 
 
 "... As for us, sweet friends, let us dress and 
 sleep, 
 
 Let us praise our pictures and drink our wine. 
 Meanwhile, let us drive His starving sheep 
 
 To our good Lord Christ, on the heights divine ; 
 For the flowerless valleys are dim and drear. 
 And the winds right bitter, down here." 
 
 North Bend, Ohio. 
 
QUESTIONS OF THE HOUR. 
 
 [MARIAN, SIX YEARS OLD.] 
 
 *'Do angels wear white dresses, say 1 
 Always, or only in the summer ? Do 
 
 Their birthdays have to come like mine, in May ? 
 Do they have scarlet sashes then, or blue 1 
 
 " When little Jessie died last night. 
 
 How could she walk to Heaven — it is so far ? 
 How did she find the way without a light 1 
 
 There wasn't even any moon or star. 
 
 *' Will she have red or golden wings 1 
 Then will she have to be a bird, and fly ? 
 
 Do they take men like presidents and kings 
 In hearses with black plumes clean to the sky 1 
 
QUESTIONS OF THE HOUR. 69 
 
 " How old is God ? Has He grey hair ? 
 
 Can He see yet ? Where did He have to stay 
 Before — you know — He had made — Anywhere ? 
 
 Whom does He pray to — when He has to pray ? 
 
 " How many drops are in the sea ? 
 
 How many stars ? well, then, you ought to know 
 
 How many flowers are on an apple-tree ? 
 
 How does the wind look when it doesn't blow ? 
 
 " Where does the rainbow end 1 And why 
 
 Did — Captain Kidd — bury the gold there ? When 
 
 Will this world burn 1 And will the firemen try 
 To put the fire out with the engines then ? 
 
 " If you should ever die, may we 
 
 Have pumpkins growing in the garden, so 
 
 My fairy godmother can come for me. 
 
 When there 's a prince's ball, and let me go ? 
 
 " Read Cinderella just once more 
 
 What makes — men's other wives — so mean 1 " I 
 know 
 That I was tired, it may be cross, before 
 
 I shut the painted book for her to go. 
 
70 QUESTIONS OF THE HOUR. 
 
 Hours later, from a child's white bed 
 
 I heard the timid, last queer question start : 
 
 " Mamma, are you — my stepmother ?" it said. 
 The innocent reproof crept to my heart. 
 
TWO VISIONS OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 One with her blue, faint eyes could dream too much ; 
 One, rosily sun-stained, wanted things to touch. 
 
 She met him on the stair with half a blush : 
 "How late you sleep!" he said. She whispered 
 "Hush; 
 
 " I read that painted book last night, and so 
 
 I dreamed about Prince Charming" "Did you, 
 
 though ? 
 
 " Why, I was wide awake in time to see 
 
 All Fairyland ! I wish you 'd been with me." 
 
 " What was it like V " Oh, it was green and still, 
 With rocks and wild red roses and a hill, 
 
 " And some shy birds that sang far up the air — 
 And such a river, all in mist, was there." 
 
 71 
 
72 TWO VISIONS OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 " Where was it 1 " Why the moon went down on one 
 Side, and upon the other rose the sun !" 
 
 "How does one get there?" "Oh, the path lies 
 
 through 
 The dawn, you little sleeper, and the dew." 
 
THE ONE OF TWO. 
 
 "Love him more," they said to me, 
 " Since you need not love the other ; 
 
 He is sweet as sweet can be ! " 
 And — they took away his brother. 
 
 *' Only give him back his place." 
 Brown head nestling near and nearer, 
 
 Little laughing two-years' face. 
 You are dear — if he is dearer ! 
 
 "Let him sleep ? He cannot care ? 
 
 Love is only for the living ? " — 
 Still this breathing child's own share 
 
 To the dead one I am giving. 
 
 73 
 
A COIN OF LESBOS. 
 
 I THINK how long she held it with a smile 
 (Her jealous lyre complaining on her breast), 
 
 Dust thick on everything ! — and she, the while, 
 Forgetting it and Phaon and the rest ! 
 
 With those great eyes, that had not longed as yet 
 To lose their tears in kindred brine, ah me ! 
 
 Fixed on its precious glimmer : " It will get 
 
 AVhat will it get ? " she murmured : " Let me see. 
 
 " Some jewel that will more become my head 
 Than withering leaves of laurel ? Nay, not so. 
 
 At least, I think, some lovelier robe," she said, 
 " Than any woman weareth that I know ! " 
 
 74 
 
A COIN OF LESBOS. 75 
 
 So, years ere that deep glass wherein she gazed 
 With her last look had flashed it to the sim, 
 
 So mused, I fancy, the most overpraised 
 
 Of women who have sung on earth — save one ? 
 
TWO BABIES IN BED. 
 
 [little guy's answer.] 
 
 " Think of the baby at home," I said ; 
 
 " How pretty he is to kiss. 
 It is white and warm in his little bed, 
 
 It is dark and cold in this." 
 
 He laughed and said, with his hand in the dew 
 
 Of the sweet small grave close by. 
 Where the grass of the lonesomest summer grew 
 
 " This Baby does not cry." 
 
 76 
 
-^^i»^r^^A;scjgjk^ 
 
 "IT IS NOT YESTEEDAY." 
 
 [the answer of a child.] 
 
 Poor red flower of a mouth, you quiver so ; — 
 What is the matter ? Tell me — if you know. 
 Why don't you laugh out in your own one way ? 
 "Because — because it is not yesterday." 
 
 I know, I know. Oh, yesterday was sweet. 
 It laid its one blue blossom at your feeto 
 It let you see that gracious old man pass, 
 Leading his cow to find the glad first grass. 
 
 To-day is dark, dark, dark. Somewhere I see 
 Quick lightning, and the sleet is on the tree 
 Where the bird, fluttering, thought about a nest. 
 And so you cry. Well, sometimes tears are best. 
 
 I do not know but I could hide my face 
 Deep in my arm, if I but had your grace, 
 And shed more tears than you can count, I say, 
 Because — ah me, it is not yesterday ! 
 
 77 
 
EEQUIESCAT. 
 
 Lie still. You need not love nor gold 
 Nor name, to make the sum complete. 
 
 The world no living hand may hold 
 Falls at a dead man's feet. 
 
 Lie still. You climbed for flowers, and found 
 They grow not well in highest air. 
 
 Lie still : the rock, the thorn, the wound 
 Were yours ; — you had your share. 
 
 Lie still. This is the end, they say. 
 
 Lie still. The peasant and the king, 
 A little weary, walk this way ; 
 
 The bride leaves here her ring. 
 
 Your virtues 1 Though the priest speak true, 
 You need not blush — your face is hid. 
 
 The roses life denied to you 
 Are on your coffin lid. 
 
 78 
 
THE STORY OF A SHAWL. 
 
 [1879.] 
 
 My child, is it so strange, indeed, 
 
 This tale of the Plague in the East, you read ?- 
 
 This tale of how a soldier found 
 
 A gleaming shawl of silk, close-wound, 
 
 (And stained, perhaps, with two-fold red) 
 About a dead man's careless head 1 
 
 He took the treasure on his breast 
 To one he loved. We know the rest. 
 
 If Russia shudders near and far, 
 From peasant's hut to throne of Czar : 
 
 If Germany bids an armed guard 
 
 By sun and moon keep watch and ward 
 
 79 
 
80 THE STOIIY OF A SHAWL. 
 
 Along her lino, that they who fly 
 From death, ah me ! shall surely die : 
 
 This trouble for the world was all 
 
 Wrapped in that soldier's sweetheart's shawl. 
 
 Pray God no other lovers bring 
 
 Some gift as dread in rose or ring. 
 
^^i^^^ 
 
 THE FIRST UED-13IRI). 
 
 [AKTJCII Tllir, I'.IIM) KA1V1INK OK I HHQ. | 
 
 Look at liiru tlicro ! — thai loiic«omo tree, rni.^lit break 
 Quick into b(30H and ])loHMC)nnH for Ihh Hiiko. 
 
 'J'lirougli this h>iig time of liost and firo, you hoc, 
 Hafo in tho hollow^ of God'H hand was he. 
 
 Hg has not faded in tlic awful snow.s ;— 
 His plumes are rodder tlian tho wild nn\ I'oso. 
 
 Vet what I road to you was true. Alack ! 
 If ho reTneTn])ei' it, he TriiM;ht wear bhick. 
 
 Yes, all I read you. Oh, the t)iteouH words 
 That sobbed tho ntory of tbo last-year's birds ! 
 
 The birds, the sweetest of all things called sweet, 
 Starved in dim places, beaten ofT by sleet. 
 
 Down from the boughs close to tho ground they fell ; 
 Down from tho heights of chasm and cloud as well. 
 
82 THE FIRST RED-BIRD. 
 
 Yet ohj too light of heart, too light of wings, 
 Here, at the promise of the leaf, he sings ! 
 
 Ah, Red-Bird, hush, and wait you within call. 
 Till for your dead a tear or two can fall. 
 
 No. After all, you do a wiser thing, — 
 Sing for the rest, who never more can sing. 
 
AT THE GEAVE OF A SUICIDE. 
 
 You sat in judgment on him, you whose feet 
 Were set in pleasant places, you who found 
 
 The Bitter Cup he dared to break still sweet, 
 And shut him from your consecrated ground. 
 
 Yet, if you think the dead man sleeps a whit 
 Less soundly in his grave, come look, I pray. 
 
 A violet has consecrated it. 
 
 Henceforth you need not fear to walk this way. 
 
"STOP THE CLOCK." 
 
 Let this red flower here on the cliff stay red ; 
 
 Let that glad bird sing always in the tree ; 
 Let baby keep this pretty yellow head 
 
 And these two dimples, — do you say to me ? 
 
 Let these same clouds make this same sky all gold ; 
 
 Let these same strawberries last ? (You '11 tell me 
 how 1) 
 Let 's take the world up in our arms and hold 
 
 It where it is^ and make forever now 1 
 
 Let 's sit here always in this wind and sun, 
 And hear the water dripping from the rock ? 
 
 Come, then, and tell me how it can be done. 
 
 What, ho, within there ! Some one stop 
 
 the clock ! 
 
THE FAIRY'S GIFT. 
 
 A STORY TOLD TO A LITTLE BOY. 
 
 Above his cradle such a glimmer of green 
 As might be worn in May by elfin folk 
 
 His mother in the dew had sometimes seen, 
 And in her heart she knew their threshold oak 
 Held some leaf-coloured eerie hood and cloak. 
 
 For once, when in a wood at dusk she found 
 And cared with tears for the forlornest bird, 
 
 That sang the sweeter through the huntsman's wound, 
 A promise made of music she had heard — 
 Too fine to trust to any mortal word. 
 
 But through the window of a dream, alack ! 
 Her brooding secret flew at last ; and when 
 
 Could any woman call a secret back ? 
 Her peasant husband lordliest of men 
 Grew, as he whispered the weird story, then. 
 
 85 
 
86 THE fairy's gift. 
 
 He talked of days when under his own vine 
 (The fig-tree did not grow in that North land) 
 
 He should sit down and drink a baron's wine, 
 Or climb his feudal stairs, you understand, 
 With gold to scatter from his gracious hand. 
 
 Meanwhile he folded his strong arms and swore 
 The earth might all run wild, he did not care ; 
 
 For he had seen, just three times and no more, 
 Under the moon, around his baby's hair 
 A coil of gold such as a king might wear. 
 
 And the young Princess Beautiful (even she. 
 
 The one you know !) would certainly come down 
 
 From her dim palace, in the time to be, 
 And kindly offer him her father's crown ; 
 Spite of that aged man's imperial frown. 
 
 So year by year, as blacker grew the bread, 
 The growing boy seemed stronger, I confess ; 
 
 Though with what fare the gentle child was fed 
 The wisest of the people could not guess. 
 (Did honey-dews drop in that wilderness ?) 
 
THE FAIRY S GIFT. 
 
 Oh, much the women wondered that they found 
 So little beauty in his brown, shy face. 
 
 How should a head like his be ever crowned 
 When there were brighter almost any place 1 
 (True, he was half a bird in voice and grace.) 
 
 Yet if he only touched the wildest rose 
 
 The blossom seemed enchanted by his hand. 
 
 . . . And still the Princess came not. I suppose 
 She feared her greybeard father, whose command 
 Had bound the wrong ring on her hapless hand. 
 
 But once in a rude chapel there had been 
 
 A wedding. He was not the groom that day. 
 
 The loveliest maiden that was ever seen 
 Lifted her eyes, and as he looked away 
 His face flushed like a flower, the old people say. 
 
 V/hat did he do ? As years and years went by 
 He tended sheep for some small insolent lord 
 
 (And loved the lambs), until there went a cry 
 That said: " There is no help — take up the sword." 
 Was he a General, too ? No, on my word ! 
 
88 THE fairy's gift. 
 
 And in the fight, with his last breath he sent 
 The water that his mouth had burned for so 
 
 Unto another soldier. Oh, I meant 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney 1 But I did not, though : — 
 I meant a greater with no name, you know. 
 
 The people murmured after he was dead, 
 
 Saying, " He helped us. Did the Fairy, then, 
 
 Forget to help him ?" But a faint voice said, 
 Out of his mother's lips, " I say again, 
 Never did Fairy break an oath to men. 
 
 " The sweetest gift she promised him — and, oh ! 
 
 The sweetest gift she gave him upon earth. 
 Could this be gold or glory 1 Surely, no ; 
 
 Your king could tell you what these things are 
 worth, 
 
 Shivering to-night beside his lonesome hearth." 
 
 What can it be, then, if it was not gold. 
 Nor pearl, nor anything, — you ask of me ? 
 
 The sweetest thing on earth you cannot hold 
 Out in your hand for all the world to see. 
 He hid it in his heart. What could it be ] 
 
THE LITTLE STOCKINGS. 
 
 [hung up for gifts on CHRISTMAS EVE.] 
 
 He will see sweet stockings, cunning and new, 
 Warm in scarlet, and dainty in white — 
 
 Stockings that never have crept in a shoe — 
 Waiting his morning's enchanted light. 
 
 And other glad stockings, that he should know — 
 Grown larger, perhaj^s, than they were last year ! — 
 
 In many a pretty, half- sleepy row 
 
 They wonder, no doubt, if he is near ! 
 
 This Saint of the children, who loves them so, 
 
 Fairily filling each precious space, 
 W^ill touch clear dreams with his kiss — and go 
 
 With tears, I think, in his tender face. 
 
 Ah, spite of his furs, he will shiver, I fear. 
 
 At the thought of some stockings, bright and small, 
 
 Whose curious looks are no longer here, 
 Awake for him, by the lonesome wall ! 
 
90 THE LITTLE STOCKINGS. 
 
 Oh, you whose little hands reach no more 
 
 Towards his grey, kind beard in their dimpled play, 
 
 Whose little feet passed through the great, dim Door, 
 With never a step nor a sound, away : 
 
 Have you found Another, who lights with love 
 His Birthday Tree for your charmed eyes 1 
 
 Do you see in its branches the snow-white Dove ? 
 Is it fair with the flowering fruit of the skies 1 
 
THE NIGHT COMETH. 
 
 Fold up the work wherein, hour after hour, 
 
 (Only to sew my shroud, then, was I born 1) 
 I 've wrought faint pictures, look, of many a flower 
 And many a thorn. 
 
 Yea, many a flower. Some bridal blossoms ; some 
 
 Spell my dead children's names in their sweet way; 
 One blew in Eden ere the Snake had come ;— 
 And these are they. 
 
 Yea, many a thorn. Behold, my hand hath bled 
 
 Even in tracing them, so sharp were they, 
 On this long shivering garment. — Did His head 
 Wear such, that day ? 
 
 I can but think me how, before the dew 
 
 Melted in sunrise, and when noon was hot, 
 Till on the dusk my coffin's shadow grew, 
 I rested not, — 
 
 91 
 
92 THE NIGHT COMETH. 
 
 Working forever on this one white thing ! 
 Why, of a truth, it should be fair to see 
 And sweet to sleep in. Love, you need not bring 
 Your lamp to me. 
 
 Look you, — the graveyard moon ariseth. So, — 
 
 That light is for the blind. Now let me be. 
 Listen ! — the graveyard wind. There ! I will go. 
 It calleth me. 
 
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 This is the Master, who but he 1— 
 (Where did you think to find him 1) — 
 
 Here in the cradle. Come and see. 
 
 Why, surely we have to mind him ! 
 
 Wait ; you must be as still as death : 
 
 He is sleeping now so sweetly. 
 One hasn't the right to draw one's breath 
 
 Till he is awake completely. 
 
 Should he want the wedding-ring from her hand, 
 
 (No matter if he would lose it) 
 There is not a lady in all the land 
 
 Could have the heart to refuse it. 
 
 Should he choose to reach for a crown, I say, 
 (It is gold, and he could not break it,) 
 
 Why, is there a king in the world to-day 
 Who would not let him take it 1 
 
94 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 What cardinal would not lend him his hat, 
 To give him a minute's pleasure ? 
 
 And where is the good, grey beard, as to that, 
 Which he could not pull at leisure 1 
 
 But, here he is ! — do you see his eyes ? 
 
 Now what do you want ? It may be 
 He will hear you, after his first surprise, 
 
 There 's nothing you want of the baby ! 
 
 But everything is his, you know, 
 (And no matter whose the rest is !) 
 
 From the blue little bird that chirps so low 
 To the oak-tree where its nest is ! 
 
 It is only work that you want, indeed ? 
 
 Could you do the work of twenty. 
 
 The baby will give you all you need ; 
 
 Ask him : he has work in plenty ! 
 

 COUNSEL. 
 [in the south.] 
 
 My boy, not of your will nor mine 
 
 You keep the mountain path and wait, 
 
 Eestless, for evil gold to shine 
 And hold you to your fate. 
 
 A stronger Hand than yours gave you 
 The lawless sword. You know not why. 
 
 That you must live is all too true, 
 And — other men must die. 
 
 My boy, be brigand, if you must. 
 
 But face the traveller in his track ; 
 Stand one to one, — and never thrust 
 
 The dagger in his back. 
 
 .... My boy, if Christ must be betrayed, 
 And you must the betrayer be, 
 
 Oh, marked before the worlds were made ! 
 What help is there for me ? 
 
 95 
 
96 COUNSEL. 
 
 Ah, tell the prophets in their graves, 
 Who ask of you such blood as this, 
 " I take Him, then, with swords and staves, - 
 I will not with a kiss ! " 
 
 HEE DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT. 
 
 *' Oh, mother," sobbed the troubled little maid, 
 "Please tell me, will you, that it is not true ; 
 It breaks my heart : that hateful Rose, she said- 
 Just think of it ! — she said I looked like you ! " 
 
,^^^^^^;^^^ 
 
 THE SULTAN'S CONFESSION. 
 
 The richest Sultan of the East once said, 
 
 And stooped, to hide his blush, his turbaned head 
 
 " Yes, I am great. Behold, I can command 
 Armies of slaves through all my flowering land. 
 
 "But I could not command the worm, so small 
 None sees, that ate the dead Sultana's shawl. 
 
 " She, sweetest of the sweet, who left these eyes 
 For ever dark, to lighten Paradise, — 
 
 " The folds that touched her lovely form to me 
 Were more than all my jewelled treasury." 
 
THE NIGHT-MOTH'S COMMENT. 
 
 [alighted upon a yellow autograph letter of 
 chesterfield.] 
 
 Here is a gracious letter that one writ 
 
 Who thought this rugged world of lands and seas, 
 
 Among whose suns and rains we shadows flit — 
 In sorrow and in mystery, if you please — 
 A place to be polite and take one's ease. 
 
 My lord, above your old, dead courtesy. 
 Out of the light of stars, in lovelier light, 
 
 All summer-green and glad, this moth to me 
 
 Seems Nature's comment, clear and brief and 
 
 bright. 
 On man's poor dusty vanity, to-night. 
 
THE GIFT OF TEAES. 
 
 The legend says : In Paradise 
 
 God gave the world to man. Ah me ! 
 
 The woman lifted up her eyes : 
 
 " Woman, I have but tears for thee." 
 
 But tears 1 And she began to shed, 
 
 Thereat, the tears that comforted. 
 
 (No other beautiful woman breathed, 
 
 No rival among men had he. 
 The seraph's sword of fire was sheathed, 
 
 The golden fruit hung on the tree. 
 Her lord was lord of all the earth, 
 Wherein no child had wailed its birth.) 
 
 *' Tears to a bride f' " Yea, therefore tears." 
 " In Eden ?" " Yea, and tears therefore." 
 
 Ah, bride in Eden, there were fears 
 
 In the first blush your young cheek wore, 
 
 Lest that first kiss had been too sweet, 
 
 Lest Eden withered from your feet ! 
 
100 THE GIFT OF TEARS. 
 
 Mother of women ! Did you see 
 
 How brief your beauty, and how brief, 
 
 Therefore, the love of it must be, 
 In that first garden, that first grief? 
 
 Did those first drops of sorrow fall 
 
 To move God's pity for us all 1 
 
 Oh, sobbing mourner by the dead — 
 One watcher at the grave grass-grown ! 
 
 Oh, sleepless for some darling head 
 Cold-pillowed on the prison-stone, 
 
 Or wet with drowning seas ! He knew, 
 
 Who gave the gift of tears to you ! 
 
A RAINY DAY. 
 
 [for a little boy.] 
 
 Do ? Like the things in the garden. Oh, 
 Just keep quiet awhile and grow. 
 
 Do ? Like the bird. It shuts its wings 
 
 And waits for the sun 1 Do you hear ? — it sings ! 
 
 Do ? Like the lilies. Let it beat ; 
 Nestle below it and be sweet. 
 
 LET US GO TO FAIRYLAND. 
 
 Let us go to Fairyland 
 
 From the rain and from the snow. 
 Somewhere in the enchanted sand 
 
 May be footsteps we should know. 
 
 Come, I prithee, let us go. 
 
 Yes, the child we loved was fair. 
 But too fragile was his hand. 
 
 But too golden was his hair. 
 He has gone to Fairyland ; — 
 Looking thither need we stand 1 
 
 101 
 
NOTES. 
 
 (1) Polycrates, the too-fortunate King, whose story is told 
 by Herodotus. 
 
 (2) The pathetic little episode to which this piece refers is 
 related in the third book of Virgil's Mneid, lines 482-492, 
 where the poet describes ^neas meeting Andromache during 
 his wanderings, after the fall of Troy, with his son Ascanius 
 (also called liilus). To the latter Andromache gives some 
 garments wrought by herself, and in presenting them she 
 recalls her own boy Astyanax, who, in obedience to an 
 oracle, had been thrown headlong from the walls of Troy 
 and killed. This was after the death of Hector, his father, 
 whose parting with Andromache — in which the child "headed 
 like a star," together with '* the horse-hair plume," is men- 
 tioned — forms one of the most famous passages in the Iliad 
 of Homer. The passage in Virgil is literally as follows : — 
 ' ' Andromache, sad with the last parting, brings garments 
 figured over with golden embroidery and a Phrygian cloak 
 for Ascanius, and loads him with woven gifts, and thus 
 speaks, — ' Take these, too, my boy, and may they be to thee 
 mementoes of my handiwork, and bear witness to the lasting 
 love of Andromache, Hector's wife ; take these last, gifts of 
 thy friend, O only image remaining to me of my Astyanax. 
 Just such eyes, just such hands, just such features he had, 
 and he would now be growing up in equal age with thee.' " 
 
 (3) Written after reading certain newspaper discussions as 
 to the treatment of the "tramp." 
 
.M