>mmt ffi jB&iirmon 
 
Class _IRS 'Lli^ 
 Book_^S_i'J.JBj=_ 
 CopightN" 
 
 COPYRrCHT DEPOSHV 
 
ROADSIDE FLOWERS 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 in 2011 witin funding from 
 Tine Library of Congress 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/roadsideflowersbOOskid 
 
Roadside Flowers 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSE 
 
 BY ^ 
 
 HARRIET M. SKIDMORE 
 
 
 ' > 3 ' '^ !> > ' ' 
 
 )33 i3* J' JJ " 
 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 A. M . ROBERTSON 
 
 1903 
 
OABVDinHT CM TOY 
 
 CLASM* Ct/XX<> No. 
 
 co»»Y e. 
 
 ? 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY 
 A. M. ROBERTSON 
 
 The Murdock Press 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 RIDING IN A STREET- CAR 9 
 
 THE NEVA'S WHITSUNTIDE GARLANDS 12 
 
 THE children's CHRISTMAS ANGEL 12 
 
 THE child's WONDERFUL ANSWER I3 
 
 "life is TOO SHORT TO WORRY" I4 
 
 " FOLLOW me" 17 
 
 HYMN TO THE HOLY FACE 18 
 
 THE PARADISE FLOWER I9 
 
 THE ROSARY OF FLOWERS 20 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 21 
 SAINTS PETER AND PAUL IN THE MAMERTINE 
 
 PRISON 23 
 
 A GREETING TO THE FROST 24 
 
 THE VALUE OF A MOTHER'S TEARS 2$ 
 
 THE SOAP-BUBBLE 27 
 
 CITY VERSUS COUNTRY 27 
 THE cynic's FAREWELL TO THE SUMMER 
 
 AND GREETING TO THE FALL 29 
 
 COPA DE ORO 31 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE ASPEN 32 
 
 THE GUIDING STAR 35 
 
 THE LILY OF CALVARY 36 
 
 THE LEGACIES OF OUR DIVINE LORD 38 
 
 THE COMING OF THE WORLD'S REDEEMER 39 
 
A LEGEND OF THE MAGNIFICAT , 4I 
 
 DEW-DROPS 43 
 
 THE year's NEW KING 44 
 
 THE CHRIST-CHILD's DUMB ADORERS 46 
 
 SAINT martin's CLOAK 46 
 
 THE VISION OF CHARITY 48 
 
 THE CROWNLESS KING 49 
 "the WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH " 5I 
 
 THE BALLAD OF FRAU BERTHA 52 
 
 THE sinner's BELL 54 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE ROSE OF JERICHO 58 
 
 GLORIFIED DUST 58 
 
 THE CHARITY OF THE POOR 6I 
 
 A LEGEND OF SAINT MARTIN • 63 
 
 THE MISSION OF THE MIGNONETTE 64 
 
 KING Stephen's protege 66 
 
 THE reward of THE PALM ^l 
 
 the legend of the monk fernando 72 
 
 divine mercy 75 
 
 viva, san francisco ! 76 
 the grave of the norwegian princess 77 
 
 the fire of prayer 80 
 
 the grace of the christmas candle 83 
 
 "the lamb is the light thereof" 83 
 
 a legend of the weeping-willow 84 
 
 a thought of emerson 86 
 
 a saying of antoninus 87 
 
 a thought of holmes 87 
 
 "learn of me" 88 
 
 "the tidings of great joy " 88 
 
 6 
 
time's flowers, — THE DAYS 89 
 
 the glastonbury thorn 90 
 
 the sacred heart 9i 
 
 "the greatest of these is charity" 91 
 
 a legend of the syrian rose 92 
 
 the daisy and the star 93 
 
 THE saint's SHADOW 94 
 
 A SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR 95 
 
 THE SILVER DOVE 97 
 
RIDING IN A STREET-CAR. 
 
 TRULY, riding in a street-car 
 Yieldeth stores of fun; 
 And the many folks you meet are 
 Studies, every one! 
 
 In yon corner sits a toiler 
 For his honest needs; 
 Next, an anarchistic spoiler. 
 Cursing hand that feeds. 
 
 Then a noisy politician. 
 Wrangling with another. 
 Of the moon-eyed John's condition, 
 As a ''man and brother." 
 
 Here's a poet, musing stanzas, 
 Rhyming "rocks" and "shocks." 
 There 's a seeker for bonanzas, 
 Meditating stocks. 
 
 Whence thy scent of rose and jessamine, 
 Araby the blest? 
 
 Lo! a dandy (splendid specimen!) 
 Deigneth near to rest. "^ 
 
 But within the crowded street-car 
 Doubtful his repose, 
 Where the vulgar folks you meet are 
 Fashion's direst foes. 
 
Riding tn a First a pair of school-girls wriggle 
 Street-Car. r\' u- ^ j r ^ 
 O er his tender feet, 
 
 Pushing on, with pertest giggle, 
 
 To a corner seat. 
 
 Then a mother fond and tender 
 Bids her darling stand 
 Close beside the man of splendor, 
 And its cherub hand 
 
 Strokes the horror-stricken dandy 
 With a soft caress, 
 Smearing with molasses-candy 
 All his faultless dress. 
 
 Scowls he on Cornelia's jewel, 
 Shrinking from its touch, 
 Muttering (ah! the monster cruel!), 
 "This is, aw — too much!" 
 
 Faster filleth now the street-car, 
 And the entering band, 
 Hoping for a cozy seat, are 
 Treated to — a stand! 
 
 Comes a woman, old and weakly, 
 Gray-haired, poorly dressed, 
 Tottering forward, looking meekly 
 For a place to rest. 
 
 For a place! Ah, vain to ask it! 
 Not a soul would stir 
 E'en although the heavy basket 
 Well-nigh crusheth her. 
 
 lo 
 
Presto! change! A silken rustle Riding: in a 
 
 Waketh my surprise, Street-Car. 
 
 And with glad and eager bustle 
 Quick the gallants rise! 
 
 Feathered, jeweled, fair as Venus, 
 Comes a dashing belle, 
 Truly of a kindred genus 
 With the dainty "swell." 
 
 Thronged is now the narrow street-car- 
 Strange chaotic scenes! 
 Hapless ones without a seat are 
 Sandwiched like sardines. 
 
 Lean man's elbow in my eyes is, 
 As he holds the strap. 
 Woman of prodigious size is 
 Flopping in my lap. 
 
 Forth I rush, all breathless, stifled 
 By the noxious air, — 
 Forth I rush, my costume rifled 
 Of its freshness fair; 
 
 Yet, despite the desperation 
 Of my exodus. 
 
 When I reach my destination, 
 Runs my musing thus: ** 
 
 Really, riding in a street-car 
 Yieldeth stores of fun; 
 And the many folks you meet are 
 Studies, every one! 
 
 II 
 
THE NEVA'S WHITSUNTIDE GARLANDS.* 
 
 THE Neva is blooming with garlands gay, 
 At Whitsuntide gather'd by girlish hands, 
 When Winter hath taken his tyrant sway 
 From the vast Muscovite lands. 
 
 When the sun hath melted the ice and snow, 
 With sharp and glittering spears of gold, 
 And the air is warmed by the Spring's soft 
 
 glow, 
 On steppes that were bleak and cold. 
 
 Then the maidens fashion their chaplets fair, 
 From blooms that broider the river's side. 
 As they sing: "O Neva! these mem'ries bear 
 To friends that are wand'ring wide." 
 
 For one hath a lover who serves the Tsar, 
 Or a woodman-sire in forests deep, 
 Or the worship'd brother, on plains afar, 
 Tendeth his nobleman's sheep. 
 
 O daughters of Russia! still keep this rite 
 Of a tender tradition that sends 
 O'er breast of your Neva such mem'ries bright 
 Of far love-garlanded friends. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S CHRISTMAS ANGEL.t 
 
 THE sweet stars shine and sparkle 
 Like eyes, so dear and fair; 
 Down floats an angel through them. 
 With treasures rich and rare. 
 
 * The Russian maidens have a pretty custom of casting gar- 
 lands of flowers on the River Neva, at Whitsuntide, in mem- 
 ory of absent friends. 
 
 t Translated from the German. 
 
 12 
 
He is a kindly spirit; children's 
 
 To earthly homes he brings Christmas 
 
 And with full hands divideth Angel. 
 The bright and lovely things. 
 
 While round him sport the children 
 In wildest, merriest glee, 
 A little bell out-pealeth! 
 The snowy pinions flee! 
 And up where golden starlight 
 Through holy Heav'n doth gleam 
 They watch the angel floating 
 Soft as a shining dream! 
 
 And then the happy urchins 
 Leap up and clap their hands, 
 For wide the doors are opened, 
 And right before them stands. 
 With all its tapers lighted 
 And full as full can be. 
 The angel's crowning present, 
 The starry Christmas-tree! 
 
 THE CHILD'S WONDERFUL ANSWER. 
 
 A TRUE INCIDENT. 
 
 ' ' Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou hast per- 
 fected praise." 
 
 TAND the groups, serenely thoughtful, 
 Upward lifting reverent eyes*- 
 
 Where the starry flowers of Heaven 
 
 Brightly blossom in the skies; 
 
 And they speak, those earnest gazers, 
 
 Of the splendors All Divine 
 
 That beyond the fading star-beams 
 
 In immortal glory shine. 
 
 13 
 
 S' 
 
wL^rfui ^^"^ ? wise and holy Prelate 
 Answer. Uuestions thus that awe-struck band- 
 Is there anything in Heaven 
 ihat was made by human hand^" 
 There are gray-haired men and matrons 
 m the upward-gazing throng, 
 But to solve that wondrous question 
 Ihey have vamly pondered long. 
 
 And each heart is strangely burdened 
 With a weight of mystic fears, 
 But a lad whose eye enshrineth 
 Wisdom far beyond his years 
 Enters softly, as the Prelate 
 Thus repeateth his demand: 
 
 Tell me, is there aught in Heaven 
 Ihat was made by human hand?" 
 
 Then this thrilling answer falleth 
 In a timid, childish tone: 
 "In our dear Lord's risen Body 
 Seated on his fadeless Throne 
 Are"— (the lad's sweet voice grows softer, 
 And with drooping head he stands)— 
 Are the five Wounds of Redemption 
 Made by cruel human hands!" 
 
 "LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO WORRY." 
 
 NOW, tell me this, my nervous friend. 
 My fussy chronic fretter, — 
 Will sighs the "good luck" nearer send, 
 Or make the "bad luck" better.? 
 Why give to Time more rapid wings 
 By endless, fuming flurry? 
 Ah! true refrain your rhymer sings: 
 "Life 's all too short to worry!" 
 
 14 
 
If stocks go down, don't let your ire ''Ufels 
 
 Quite madden and o'erturn you, Jo^iVorry'' 
 
 If you will rush into the fire 
 
 Be patient, though it burn you. 
 
 If Fortune beckon from her car, 
 
 Don't run in headlong hurry, 
 
 For hasty steps unwholesome are, 
 
 And "Life 's too short to worry." 
 
 If you that hoped to serve the State, 
 And win Ambition's laurel 
 Are but the beaten candidate, 
 Don't rail, in senseless quarrel. 
 At those ungrateful voters who 
 Your rival's claims prefer, — he 
 May find his task too great to do, — 
 And "Life 's too short to worry." 
 
 If ladies prove as false as fair. 
 
 Or men "deceivers ever," 
 
 Don't sink in fathomless despair. 
 
 Or veins insanely sever. 
 
 "There's good fish yet as e'er was caught," 
 
 Though that's not a la Murray, 
 
 'T will chime, a cheering sister thought, 
 
 With "Life 's too short to worry." 
 
 Creation's lord! if boots are tight 
 Or buttonless each shirt is. 
 Sure, swearing will not set it^ight, 
 And wrath a greater hurt is. 
 Ah! what said Socrates the sage? 
 Like true philosopher, he 
 Thought time too valuable for rage. 
 And life too short to worry. 
 
 15 
 
^W^ih ^^ ^^^ ^^^ *^^ ^^^ softer sex, 
 
 to Worry:' ^^^ ruined dresses tease you, 
 
 Don't let e'en that your spirit vex, 
 And with hysterics seize you. 
 Nay, 't is too vulgar ! Every grace 
 Is lost by fret and flurry, 
 And frowns put wrinkles in the face, 
 And — " Life 's too short to worry." 
 
 Keep cool, then, O ye folks of nerves! 
 
 Whate'er the aggravation; 
 
 A blister on a wound but serves 
 
 To rouse an irritation. 
 
 And when the wind is in the south 
 
 Feed not on peppered curry, 
 
 For ice is cooler in the mouth, 
 
 And — " Life 's too short to worry." 
 
 But labor on, and do your best, — 
 Fulfill your trust completely, — 
 And calmly leave to God the rest. 
 Who " ruleth all things sweetly." 
 Perfected then the work will be, 
 Unmarred by fuss and flurry. 
 And at its tranquil close you '11 see 
 Life was too short to worry! 
 
 Oh, blest the man whom "jar and fret " 
 
 Of noonday passeth lightly! 
 
 He, when his evening sun shall set 
 
 And starlight glistens brightly. 
 
 Like puss, shall bask his hearth beside, 
 
 Contented, calm, and purry. 
 
 Still singing as the moments glide, 
 
 "Life's all too short to worry!" 
 
 i6 
 
" FOLLOW ME." 
 
 MATTHEW the Publican, at Caphar- 
 naum's gate, 
 Sits gathering there the grudged unwilling 
 
 toll, 
 In stolid calm, — though sneers of angry hate 
 Greet the scorned servitor of Rome's control. 
 
 He answers not, he recks not, — none he heeds 
 Amid the throng, — nor seemeth e'en to see 
 Forms Pharisaic, or from prancing steeds 
 The gay Herodians tossing careless fee. 
 
 And though he heard His frequent steps who 
 
 trod 
 Lost Earth to save it, yet unconscious still 
 The Sacred Presence of that hidden God 
 In his dulled heart awoke no reverent thrill, 
 
 Till that sweet day whereon the Master 
 
 turned 
 His radiant glance full on him, pityingly, 
 And while his soul with new, strange ardor 
 
 burned 
 That Master's voice said softly, " Follow 
 
 Me!" 
 
 Ah, favored publican! thou heedest now. 
 And, swiftly answering to that tender call, 
 Thou giv'st to Love thy apos,tolic vow. 
 For His sweet sake serenely leaving all. 
 
 Dear chosen follower of the Sacred Heart! 
 To sinful souls, world-hated, reckless, lone, 
 'Mid throngs like thee, yet outcast and apart, 
 Be that blest look of boundless pity shown. 
 
 17 
 
''Follow Aye, though their Lord hath passed unheeded 
 ^'•' by 
 
 For years, perchance, — O may that sweet day 
 
 be 
 Theirs too at last, when they shall meet 
 
 His eye. 
 And, hearing, heed His tender "Follow Me!" 
 
 HYMN TO THE HOLY FACE. 
 
 HAIL, Holy Face! Hail, Brow Divine! 
 Hail, Beauty veiled in matchless woe! 
 Where, 'mid the thorns that rending twine, 
 The ruby drops of anguish glow. 
 Pierced Forehead of the Crucified! 
 Our dying Saviour's pallid Brow! 
 Let haughty head and heart of pride, 
 Abashed, before Thee humbly bow. 
 
 Hail, Holy Face! Hail, Lips apart 
 In that dread agony of death! 
 Pale Portals! whence the riven Heart 
 Sends forth its last love-prison'd breath. 
 Blest Lips! that could this pardon breathe: 
 " Forgive! they know not what they do! " 
 Bid us the sword of hatred sheathe. 
 When we to Heaven for mercy sue. 
 
 Hail, Holy Face! Hail, death-dim Eyes, 
 Where love still shines with deathless ray! 
 As, 'neath the gloom of dark'ning skies. 
 Yet lives the light of glorious day. 
 O tender Eyes! with beams of love 
 Illume our weak and erring light. 
 And turn our gaze to realms above, ^^ 
 " Whereof the Lamb is e'er the Light. 
 
O Holy Face! may we so shrine Hymn to the 
 
 Within our hearts Thine image true, ^-^ 
 
 That, crowned with majesty divine, 
 Thy Brow may bless our rapturous view, 
 Thine Eyes with smiling glances greet 
 The souls Thy love hath rendered free. 
 Thy Lips repeat His welcome sweet: 
 "Be e'er in Paradise with Me!" 
 
 THE PARADISE FLOWER: A LEGEND OF 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 THE Paradise Garden was closed for aye 
 To the sinful and sorrowful pair; 
 And joyless, unpardoned, they took their way 
 Through the desert so bleak and so bare. 
 "Ah! give but a rose from my loved, lost 
 
 bower! " 
 Prayed the desolate Mother of men: 
 " Or even one seed of that blest Queen 
 
 Flower, 
 Adorning each Paradise glen." 
 The bright-winged sentinel, heeding her 
 
 moan. 
 On the desert a rose-seed cast: 
 "Hope, exile of Eden! hope, wanderer lone! 
 For a Heaven-sent message thou hast!" 
 Oh, Mercy's sweet token the glad Eve nursed 
 With a tender and vigilant care. 
 Till numberless buds into ripe bloom burst 
 Over all the wide wilderness «bare. 
 
 Man's forfeited garden thus gave to Earth 
 
 The gem of its radiant bowers. 
 
 When the love-cheered solitudes saw thy 
 
 birth. 
 Bright Queen of the Paradise Flowers! 
 
 19 
 
THE ROSARY OF FLOWERS: A LEGEND. 
 
 THE little lay-Sister's work is done, 
 For the west is rich with the sunset's ray, 
 And the busy hands of the meek-souled nun 
 Are resting now in their wonted way. 
 On the kitchen table those hands had made 
 As fair in its spotless cleanliness 
 As her own white robe, they are gently laid. 
 But the toil-worn fingers fondly press 
 The beads of a rosary-chaplet old 
 That had hung at her girdle many a year. 
 Ah! priceless pearls and a chain of gold 
 Could never be to her heart so dear! 
 But she looketh now through a tearful mist 
 On the Cross that figures the Man-God's pain, 
 Till the nail-rent Feet she hath often kissed 
 Are wet with the flow of that ceaseless rain. 
 And sadly she murmurs: "My Lord! my Love! 
 Who hast given so freely Thy Life for me, 
 What gift do I send to Thy Throne above? 
 What meet reward have I proffered Thee? 
 My Sisters waft from their missals fair 
 Full many a tender and prayerful thought, 
 And they offer Thee broideries rich and rare 
 And delicate lace, by their deft hands wrought. 
 But I, unlettered, unskilled, — no gift 
 Is mine that even thy Saints may see — 
 And these ill-said prayers! Can I dare to lift 
 Such worthless offerings up to Thee? 
 Wilt Thou bear to look, with Thy gracious 
 
 eyes 
 On my "Gloria Patris"? Ah, wondrous sight! 
 As the words she breathes, on the table lies 
 A knot of violets, purple and white! 
 Then, startled, knowing scarce what she said, 
 She tremblingly uttered her Lord's own prayer! 
 And a radiant lily, from leaves outspread, 
 
 20 
 
Its sweet balm poured on the grateful air! The Rosary 
 "Ave Maria!" the Heav'n-blest nun of Flowers . 
 
 Went on, in her rapturous ecstasy, 
 And the brightest of roses, one after one. 
 Made haste, in a circle entwined to be! 
 So, decade by decade, in murmurs glad 
 She said, till a Rosary bloomed like these — 
 Snow-white for the joyful, and red for the sad, 
 And gold for the Glorious Mysteries. 
 That marvelous wreath! it is fashioned well — 
 But a bright flush dyeth her faded cheeks, 
 For a Voice as soft as the acolyte's bell 
 When the Host is lifted above her speaks; 
 O follower blest of the better part! 
 Arise, and see, at thy Spouse's Feet, 
 Thy Rosaries, kept with celestial art. 
 For the wreaths are finished! the chain's 
 complete! 
 
 The little lay-Sister, prompt before, 
 Came not to choir on that strange night. 
 So the good nuns sought her the Convent o'er. 
 And found her dead 'fieath the blossoms 
 
 bright! 
 But lo! on the table, in lines of gold, 
 These words with a fiamelike luster burned: 
 " The prayers of a pure heart here behold. 
 By love to a blossoming Rosary turned! " 
 
 o 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 NCE strolled by the river a winsome pair, 
 In the beautiful " Long Ago," — 
 A brave young knight and a lady fair, — 
 While the peace of the Spring-tide charm'd 
 
 the air, 
 And softened the sunset glow. 
 
 21 
 
oPf/ie ^^ ^°^" ^^ ^^^ ^^^"^ o^ the broad stream 
 
 j^or£-ei- grew 
 
 metiot. Sweet flowers that matched her eyes. 
 
 For their leaves were bright with the self- 
 same hue, — 
 
 'Twas the color of Truth, the tender blue 
 
 Of Summer's unclouded skies. 
 
 Then the maid in rapturous wonder cried: 
 
 "Ah! never this land before 
 
 Saw Heaven's own blooms, with its azure 
 
 dyed. 
 They were sown, I ween, by the glorified, 
 To gladden our earthly shore." 
 
 Outspake the fond lover: " O lady mine! " 
 (And he bent o'er the stream's bright edge,) 
 " Those heavenly flowers must soon be thine. 
 They shall hide no longer their charms divine 
 'Mid noisome rushes and sedge." 
 
 Ah, venturesome knight! thou did'st lean too 
 
 far 
 Adown from the slimy bank, 
 And the form that, scathless from wound or 
 
 scar, 
 So valiantly strove in the lengthen'd war 
 To death in the bright stream sank. 
 
 But ere he was lost to her frenzied view, 
 Spellbound to the fatal spot, 
 Lo! the gather'd blooms to her feet he threw. 
 And cried (O lover so brave and true!): 
 " My dearest! forget me not! " 
 
 22 
 
So the ages still as a heritage claim ^'11'" 
 
 That legend of long ago; For/ei- 
 
 And " forget-me-not " shall be ever thy name, me-nut. 
 Thy sweet, sad gift from the hand of Fame, 
 Love's blossom of azure glow! 
 
 LEGEND OF SAINTS PETER AND PAUL 
 IN THE MAMERTINE PRISON. 
 
 TWO captives lay bound in that dungeon 
 deep, 
 In foulest caverns of haughty Rome; 
 The leader Love chose for His " lambs and 
 
 sheep," 
 And he who guided the Gentiles home. 
 Ere endeth the morrow, lo ! each will die 
 At cruel hands of a ruthless horde; 
 One, like to his Lord, they will crucify. 
 And one destroy with the Roman sword. 
 But grace by the prisoned Apostles brought 
 Illumed their guards with its. Heaven-sent 
 
 beam. 
 And, owning its Mercy, they swiftly sought 
 The priceless gift of the saving stream. 
 When Peter's hand traceth the Sacred Sign 
 Above the Mamertine's reeking floor. 
 The crystalline floods of a Fount Divine 
 Out from the festering foulness pour! 
 Ah! brighter than dew on a sunlit lea. 
 The foreheads wet with its sweet drops glow. 
 And when, on the morrow, in tofrents free. 
 Your blood, O Princes of Faith! shall flow, 
 Aye, when to the " joy of the Lord " ye 
 
 spring, 
 Your martyred jailers that bliss will share — 
 For ye to the Kingdom of Love shall bring 
 Their soul-gems, meet for its Lord to wear. 
 
 23 
 
H 
 
 A GREETING TO THE FROST. 
 
 AIL, O mimicry of Winter! 
 
 Hail, thou shadow of the snow! 
 Fleecy fragments torn from cloiidland, 
 Just to veil the dust below, 
 Till the Midas-touch of sunshine 
 Bids it turn to golden glow. 
 Yet, thou web of fairy tissue, 
 Crystal essence of the dew. 
 Of old Winter's northern vestment, 
 (Save in thine unsullied hue,) 
 Thou art not the faithful symbol, 
 Thou art not the likeness true, — 
 Nay, thou 'rt but a fleeting phantom, 
 Evanescent, thin, and frail, 
 White caprice of tropic Winter, 
 Who hath filched the bridal-veil 
 From the cold brow of the Northland, 
 Mocking thus its landscapes pale. 
 Thine the charm of sweet illusion, 
 'Neath the Night Queen's silver ray, 
 Or the jewel flash of starbeams; 
 But, when comes the conqu'ring Day, 
 With his gleaming, golden lances. 
 All thy splendor melts away. 
 Yet thou bringest fond remembrance 
 Of the Winter's charms of yore, — 
 Of the pleasures never tasted 
 On this blossom-broidered shore. 
 Where when skies have wept benignly 
 Winter's gentle reign is o'er. 
 Oh, the glory of the Frost-King 
 In the lands beyond the sea! 
 Where his icy jewels glisten 
 On the lone and leafless tree, 
 And his ermine robe enfoldeth 
 Faded field and blighted lea. 
 
 24 
 
There from out the cold blue ether ^ . 
 
 Shine the stars with brighter glow. to\he^^ 
 
 There the pure heart finds its symbol Frost. 
 
 In the white, unspotted snow, 
 
 And the calm of Heaven is mirrored 
 
 On the peaceful plains below. 
 
 Oh, the music of the Winter! 
 
 Oh. the laughter, clear and sweet. 
 
 Ringing where the merry sleigh-bells 
 
 Onward urge the coursers fleet, 
 
 Or where o'er the prisoned waters 
 
 Swiftly speed the skaters' feet. 
 
 Oh, the tenderness of Winter! 
 
 For it taketh kindly heed 
 
 For the flowers that shall spangle 
 
 All the Summer's smiling mead. 
 
 For the harvests that shall ripen 
 
 From the snow-protected seed; 
 
 And its loving care extendeth 
 
 To the softly sleeping dead. 
 
 For its mantle's white adornment 
 
 On the lonely grave is spread. 
 
 E'en till Spring shall bid the daisies 
 
 Blossom o'er each grassy bed. 
 
 And for this so sweet remembrance 
 
 Shall my grateful glances hail 
 
 E'en this mimicry of Winter, 
 
 E'en this shadow faint and frail 
 
 Of the soft, yet lingering, snow-drifts 
 
 Of the Northland's icy veil. 
 
 THE VALUE OF A MOTHER'S TEARS. 
 
 A SAINTLY mother for her dear one wept, 
 And pleaded day by day. 
 The sinful son in erring courses kept. 
 Nor sought the heavenward way. 
 
 25 
 
The Value of But thus the holy Bishop calmed her fears: 
 T^rs "Take courage; for that son 
 
 For whom thine eyes have shed so many tears 
 
 Will yet by grace be won." 
 
 Hope filled her heart; at last sweet triumph 
 
 came, — 
 Blest crown of tearful prayer, — 
 The Church of God records Augustine's name 
 High on her tablets fair. 
 
 And rare art-gem, by gifted pencil done, 
 Portrayeth wondrously 
 That saintly mother with her saintly son 
 Communing by the sea. 
 
 O Christian mothers! who unceasing weep 
 For dear ones day by day, 
 That, demon-led, in sinful courses keep, 
 Nor seek the upward way, 
 
 Let holy Monica with potent art 
 Give consolation sweet, 
 As her blest lips to each despairing heart 
 These words of strength repeat: 
 
 "List, pleaders fond! Bid Hope dispel your 
 
 fears! 
 The wild and wayward son 
 For whom a mother sheds her prayerful tears , 
 Shall yet by grace be won! " j 
 
 26 
 
THE SOAP-BUBBLE.* 
 
 REMBLINGLY 'tis born, and timidly it 
 grows, — 
 First in palest tints of amaranth and rose, 
 Till its brilliant face with rainbow splendor 
 glows. 
 
 T 
 
 Wafted by a breath, it leaves its cradle fair. 
 And in swelling pride, borne on wings of air, 
 Seeketh sunlit space, and, soaring, dietli there. 
 
 Thus illusions, born in Hope's caressing sigh, 
 Win the rainbow's hues, and forth like bub- 
 bles fly. 
 Fill the thoughts with light, and, proudly 
 soaring, die. 
 
 CITY VERSUS COUNTRY: A COCKNEY'S 
 LYRIC. 
 
 ET others sing in lyrics sweet, 
 / And chant in softly flowing measures 
 Their praise of Nature's green retreat, 
 riieir eulogies of rural pleasures. 
 Aye, let them seek the sylvan shade 
 Where leafy boughs are gently waving. 
 And find within the mossy glade 
 Sweet spots for sentimental raviug. 
 
 I scorn the charms of country bloom. 
 And coldly turn from streamlet's singing, 
 For me the groves are filled with gloom 
 And caterpillars, foully clinging. 
 
 * Translated from the Spanish. 
 27 
 
City ]vxy muse shall ring an urban chime, 
 
 Country. ^^^ ^^'O^l ^ s'^^d street-organ ditty, 
 
 And praise (albeit in jingling rhyme) 
 The Cockney's loved and lovely city. 
 
 Its crowded streets are dear to me, 
 And sweetly sounds its busy clatter; 
 At gay shop windows, fair to see, 
 I love to stop and gaze and chatter. 
 Why should I sigh for meadow s bloom, 
 When blossoms deck the last new bonnet? 
 Can I not buy each bud's perfume 
 Distilled, with Lubin's label on it? 
 
 Why drench my skirt and soak my shoe 
 With crystal drops in woodland shining? 
 Lo! diamonds brighter than the dew, 
 On velvet thrones with satin lining! 
 The peach may grace the rustic's dish. 
 The grape may hang its drooping stem on, 
 Like Sydney Smith, / do not wish 
 To be " ten long miles from a lemon." 
 
 For moonbeams, and for waters wide 
 
 Enough to sail the fleet of Jason, 
 
 I '11 gaslight take, and streams that glide 
 
 Both hot and cold to bath and basin. 
 
 Ah! tell no more of verdant lanes, 
 
 In poet's fair fictitious story. 
 
 While dust-clouds, raised by creaking wains, 
 
 Bedim your summer toilet's glory. 
 
 Give me instead the pavement clean, 
 O'erspread with awning-shadows gracious. 
 Or, better still, a ride serene 
 Within a street-car smooth and spacious. 
 
 28 
 
E'en would I rather pace the town ^^Xy 
 
 Beneath a shadeless " sol ardente," ^ColVtry. 
 
 Than take, where bugs are dropping down, 
 Your arbor's " dolce far niente." 
 
 So, keep your calm Arcadian wild, 
 Your country Eden's sweet seclusion, 
 I'm still the city's faithful child, 
 And love its Babel-voiced confusion. 
 Not single in this taste I am, — 
 All hail the "gentle Elia " witty!— 
 The gifted Cockney, Charley Lamb, 
 Who "hated fields," and loved the city! 
 
 THE CYNIC'S FAREWELL TO THE SUM- 
 MER AND GREETING TO THE FALL. 
 LIKE our immortal Washington, 
 " I cannot tell a lie," 
 I cannot hide the happy smile 
 Beneath the heavy sigh. 
 Nor bid the hated visitor 
 A lachrymose good-by. - 
 
 And so unto our summer queen 
 
 In savage tones I say, 
 
 Thou art a vixen and a shrew! 
 
 And on our town and bay 
 
 I 'm glad to see thee turn thy back 
 
 And flounce in wrath away! 
 
 '«• 
 I 've nought but angry memories 
 And spiteful thoughts of thee, 
 For thou didst bring thy furious blasts 
 Across the Western Sea, 
 And bid them rage through weary months 
 In wild and fiendish glee. 
 
 29 
 
The Cynic's And thou didst veil the azure skies 
 
 Farewell. ^^ vapors chill and gray, 
 
 In palls of damp and dreary fog 
 That lift not night or day, 
 That shroud within their leaden folds 
 Sun, moon, and starry ray. 
 
 And thou didst bid a rain of dust 
 Succeed the vernal showers. 
 And steal the emerald from the lawn. 
 And brightness from the bowers. 
 And with its sickening scent destroy 
 The fragrant breath of flowers. 
 
 I hate thee, Summer, everywhere ! 
 
 On far Atlantic's coast. 
 
 Beneath thy scorching, dazzling beams 
 
 The wretched natives roast, 
 
 Till the maiden's lily hand grows like 
 
 A slice of blackened toast. 
 
 Ah, pleasant is the balmy Spring, 
 
 When blossom-broidered plains 
 
 Are dewy with soft memories 
 
 Of kindly Winter rains, 
 
 And rov/s of blooming orchard-trees 
 
 Lean o'er the grassy lanes. 
 
 And pleasant is the Autumn bright. 
 
 With tranquil sunny days, 
 
 When blasts are hushed to zephyrs bland, 
 
 And, touched by magic rays. 
 
 The mists become the mountain's crown 
 
 Of dreamy purple haze. 
 
 30 
 
And so I hail thee, season loved! V'^^^Jv^'^ 
 
 October, welcome be! 
 
 With matin praise and evening lays, 
 
 And smiles of ceaseless glee, 
 
 That shine responsive to the light 
 
 Thou shed'st o'er land and sea. 
 
 But unto thee, O Summer vile! 
 
 In spiteful tones I say, 
 
 Good riddance to thee, blusterer! 
 
 For on our town and bay 
 
 I 'm glad to see thee turn thy back 
 
 And frowning, flounce away! 
 
 COPA DE ORO. 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE SPANISH NAME OF THE ESCH- 
 SCHOLTZIA — COPA DE ORO (cUP OF GOLD). 
 
 ONG ere the strong-limbed miners tore 
 From out thy heart, fair land of gold, 
 Uncounted wealth of shining ore 
 Deep buried in thy mountains' hold, 
 
 u 
 
 Up from the quartz-veined rocks below, — 
 Oh, strange yet fitting birth-place! — came, 
 To greet the sunlight's kindred glow, 
 A wondrous flower, with leaves of flame. 
 
 They who first hailed its gleam among 
 The paler blooms of mead and wold 
 Called it, in soft Castilian tongu*, 
 " Copa de oro — cup of gold." 
 
 We own the name most sweet and true, 
 Who see, when vernal skies are bland, 
 Its golden chalice, gemmed with dew, 
 Unclose at Morning's gay command. 
 
 31 
 
Copa In later years, a pilgrim came 
 
 de Oro 
 
 From far beyond the tossing sea, 
 Who bade, with harsher alien name, 
 Our chosen blossom sullied be. 
 
 But let us from its leaves efface 
 That stain unsightly, and once more 
 Bring back its ancient title's grace 
 To deck it as in days of yore. 
 
 It is thy emblem true and bright, 
 O radiant Empire of the West! 
 It wears thy robe of flame-hued light, 
 Thy sunbeam-halos wreathe its crest. 
 
 In fancies of poetic dreams 
 'T was fashion d from thy shining ore, 
 And rose to shed its golden gleams 
 O'er all thy bloom-enameled shore. 
 
 So, wondrous flower with leaves of flame, 
 
 In future as in times of old. 
 
 Still wear thy sweet Castilian name 
 
 Of " Copa de oro — cup of gold." 
 
 Chamisso, the German poet, on a visit to California, many 
 years since, discovered this flower and named it Eschscholtzia, 
 for his friend and botanist, Eschscholtz ; but its old Spanish 
 name was " copa de oro " (cup of gold). This flower has been 
 chosen as the emblematic flower of California. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE ASPEN. 
 
 WITHIN a sunlit meadow stood 
 A restless aspen-tree, — 
 Far from the dim and crowded wood, 
 Where no fantastic dreamer could 
 Its mystic trembling see. 
 
 32 
 
But there, where Summer's cloudless ray ^u^'a^ ^^ 
 Illumed its shuddering leaves, ^ ^^^^' 
 
 I watched them through the long bright day, 
 Spellbound, as on the grass I lay, 
 Amid the banded sheaves. 
 
 In breathless noons they trembled, till 
 I asked, o'ercome with awe. 
 What nameless fear hath made ye thrill? 
 What dreadful scene, remembered still, 
 That once your branches saw? 
 
 In words poetic faith receives 
 This legend answers me — 
 Suiting the dream that Fancy weaves 
 Around thy ever restless leaves. 
 Mysterious aspen-tree! 
 
 The wayworn Three, who " rose by night," 
 And o'er the desert's sand, 
 By angels guarded, took their flight. 
 Through torrid day and sultry night, 
 To Egypt's safer land, 
 
 Aneared at last their blest retreat. 
 And at its entrance fair 
 A grove they saw, a shelter sweet 
 For drooping forms and weary feet. 
 Serenely waving there. 
 
 'T was formed of every tree that grows 
 Within the forest bower, — 
 Aye, every leafy branch that throws 
 Cool shadow when the sunlight glows 
 With Summer's fervid power. 
 
 33 
 
Legend of As nearer came the wearied Three, 
 
 the Aspen, ^q ! even to the sod 
 
 In homage bowed each graceful tree, — 
 For Nature's guiltless eyes could see 
 And know its hidden God. 
 
 Ah! sooth, it was a picture rare 
 For artist's reverent hand, — 
 The Mother-Maid, the Infant fair, 
 Their guardian, with his silvered hair, 
 And that bent forest band. 
 
 But one — the stately aspen-tree — 
 Refused the worship blest. 
 In pride that would not humbled be 
 She raised her branches haughtily 
 And reared her leafy crest. 
 
 The Saviour saw, — an instant fled, — 
 
 Then 'neath His lightning gaze 
 
 The rebel bowed her lofty head. 
 
 While through each leaf a sword-thrill sped 
 
 Of horror's wild amaze. 
 
 And since, though peaceful Summers shine 
 
 And breathless noontides glow, 
 
 By trembling strange — the fearful sign 
 
 Of ceaseless malison Divine 
 
 The aspen's branches show. 
 
 This tale poetic faith receives. 
 
 This legend answers me. 
 
 And suits the dream that Fancy weaves 
 
 Around thine ever restless leaves. 
 
 Mysterious aspen-tree! 
 
 34 
 
THE GUIDING STAR: A CHRISTMAS 
 POEM. 
 
 WHEN the sages from afar 
 Sought the birthplace of the King, 
 Lo! a star no cloud could bar 
 Led their ceaseless journeying. 
 
 On it, as it "went before," 
 Ever turned their eager gaze, — 
 Sea and shore they traversed o'er, 
 Guided by its mystic rays. 
 
 Till it stood — that beacon blest — 
 Where Love's Light lay veiled and dim, 
 And (at rest from wondrous quest) 
 " Entering in " they worshiped Him, 
 
 Where for shepherds as for them 
 (By the Star of Faith revealed). 
 Shone Love's Gem in Bethlehem, 
 From the churlish town concealed. 
 
 "Men of good will" near and far 
 Daily seek the King of kings. 
 And the Star no cloud can bar 
 Guides their eager journeyings. 
 
 Till o'er Love's wide-opened door 
 Lo! they see its glory shine 
 Evermore, their God before ** 
 (Hidden in His altar-shrine). 
 
 For. that "Olive-Starlight's" beam 
 From Love's sanctuary blest, 
 E'er shall stream, with fadeless gleam, 
 Pointing there, the pilgrim's rest. 
 
 35 
 
THE LILY OF CALVARY: A LEGEND OF 
 THE CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 OVE'S work was o'er — aye, all was con- 
 summated; 
 His Saving Blood no longer redly streamed; 
 For Death Divine had thirst of Justice sated 
 And captive Earth redeemed. 
 
 L 
 
 And he whose lance with ruthless thrust 
 unsparing 
 
 From Love's rent Heart poured out its last 
 sweet flow, 
 
 Came slowly now, his favored weapon bear- 
 ing, 
 
 Adown the Mount of Woe. 
 
 Still on his spear a single drop hung brightly, 
 By hov'ring angels guarded tremblingly. 
 Ah! must it fall in roadside dust unsightly, 
 And foully trampled be? 
 
 Nay! sprang to birth a wondrous lily-flower. 
 And on its breast the precious drop reposed; 
 But when its leaves received their priceless 
 
 dower 
 Those radiant petals closed. 
 
 A bright archangel, o'er the blossom bending. 
 With reverent hand detached it from the sod, 
 And on swift wing to heavenly Home ascend- 
 ing, 
 In fadeless fields of God 
 
 36 
 
With loving care the sacred bloom he planted, The Lily of 
 But though it loved its blest abiding-spot, Calvary. 
 The angel's dearest wish was left ungranted — 
 The bright bud opened not. 
 
 When willing hearts accepted Love's sweet 
 
 story. 
 His sacred Cross, no longer thing of shame, 
 From Christian spires shed down its tender 
 
 glory 
 O'er Earth, that blessed its name. 
 
 And when they saw the long and pure pro- 
 cession 
 
 (Clasping that cross) o'er many a pagan clime 
 
 March bravely on in ceaseless, glad succes- 
 sion 
 
 To Martyrs' death sublime, 
 
 Then Heaven's bright hosts, before their 
 Monarch kneeling. 
 
 Thus craved: "O Hand that every boon con- 
 fers! 
 
 The lily ope — its precious gift revealing 
 
 To faithful worshipers." 
 
 The King of kings above that*blossom bend- 
 ing, 
 His Hand outstretched, — thus doth the legend 
 
 tell- 
 Swift oped the flower, and, earthward fondly 
 
 tending. 
 The gracious Blood-Drop fell 
 
 37 
 
The Lily of Within a chalice at that moment lifted, 
 a vary. -g^ priest of God, with deep, adoring awe, 
 
 And his pure eyes, with sight supernal gifted. 
 The glorious Wonder saw. 
 
 While lowly bowed in deepest adoration 
 A sweet-souled maid thus murmured tenderly: 
 "My Lord! my Love! in fullest consecration 
 I give myself to Thee!" 
 
 How meet that of His creature's blest sur- 
 render 
 
 His Heart's last drop should pledge and 
 witness be, 
 
 At that first vow — that first oblation tender 
 
 Of virgin Purity! 
 
 THE LEGACIES OF OUR DIVINE LORD* 
 H! list to His mystical testament 
 Who suffered His world to save: 
 His seamless robe, by their rude hands rent, 
 To His murderers vile He gave. 
 
 A 
 
 The penitent, paying for crime its price, 
 He offered His pardon free. 
 Thus saying, "To-day in My Paradise 
 Thou shalt blissfully bide with me." 
 
 To the dearest of all His chosen ones 
 The agonized Man-God left 
 His Mother so loved, of the Son of sons 
 By His blood-bought race bereft. 
 
 * Suggested by a quotation from an ancient sacred writer 
 made in a recent sermon by one of the Paulist Fathers. 
 
 38 
 
To all who will follow the Master's Feet legacies of 
 O'er the "strait and narrow" road Srrf 
 
 The priceless boon of His benison sweet 
 His bounteous Love bestowed. 
 
 But — be warn'd, ye slaves to the greed of 
 
 gain— 
 The legacy of His curse 
 
 Was the hand's made foul by avarice-stain, — 
 For to Judas He gave — the purse! 
 
 H 
 
 THE COMING OF THE WORLD'S 
 REDEEMER. 
 
 E will come!" the Prophets chanted, and 
 
 their Heav'n-inspired song 
 Floated down in ceaseless echoes through the 
 
 ages sad and long; 
 "Hail! O Bethlehem of Judah! not the least 
 
 nor lowest thou, 
 For to Him from thee proceeding shall the 
 
 conquered nations bow!" 
 "He will come!" the people shouted, "unto 
 
 us, His chosen race! 
 And His arm shall hurl the Gentiles from 
 
 His children's rightful place; 
 On the throne of royal David He shall wear 
 
 His kingly crown, 
 Unto Israel thus restoring ancient glory and 
 
 renown." 
 
 4* 
 
 But he came not crowned with splendor, led 
 
 by worldly pomp and din. 
 And for Him His haughty nation had no 
 
 room in heart or inn. 
 But the Just Man watched beside Him, 
 
 where His sinless Mother smiled 
 
 39 
 
Coming of O'er the straw-laid manger bending that 
 TedZZef' enthroned her kingly Child. 
 
 "He will come!" the shepherds murmured as 
 
 they watched their flocks by night, 
 But the Lord shone round about them, in 
 His floods of dazzling light. 
 
 And His angels sang: "He cometh! Unto ye 
 
 the Christ is born!" 
 And His lovely ones first hailed Him on His 
 
 glorious birthday morn. 
 "He hath come! the true Messiah!" spake the 
 
 chosen Gentile Kings, 
 Through the careless city passing with their 
 
 costly offerings. 
 "We have journeyed to adore Him from our 
 
 Eastern climes afar, 
 Safely led o'er waste and desert by His mystic 
 
 guiding Stan." 
 
 "He hath come!" still sing His angels, at the 
 
 holy Christmas time. 
 "He hath come!" the sweet bells echo pealing 
 
 out the Christmas chime. 
 "He hath come!" still sing His loved ones, 
 
 while with eager steps they pass, 
 To His altar-cradle speeding in the Christmas 
 
 Midnight Mass. 
 "He hath come!" Oh, haste to greet Him, 
 
 lowly shepherds, lofty kings. 
 With your simple, sweet heart-tokens and 
 
 your rich soul-offerings. 
 For His glory shineth round ye, and His 
 
 Starlight ne'er shall cease. 
 Till it guides ye, "men of good-will," to His 
 
 blest. Eternal Peace. 
 
 40 
 
LEGEND OF THE MAGNIFICAT. 
 
 IN olden time an abbey stood 
 Within a vale secluded, lowly, 
 Where dwelt a white-robed Brotherhood 
 Of friars, meek and holy, 
 Who kept their rule with strictness true 
 Nor slighted e'en the meanest labor — 
 For 't was their life's sole aim to do 
 Love's work for God and neighbor. 
 
 But all in vain they strove to bring 
 
 To sweet success one sacred duty. 
 
 Their aged voices could not sing 
 
 The Hours with tuneful beauty. 
 
 The woodland birds that oft before 
 
 Upon their chapel's roof alighted, 
 
 In terror fied, to come no more. 
 
 By discords harsh affrighted. 
 
 And so the Abbot willingly 
 
 His children's earnest pleading granted: 
 
 "That words of Sacred Office be 
 
 Devoutly said, not chanted — 
 
 All save Our Lady's Hj^mn — Ah! that 
 
 Recited," said he, " can be never — 
 
 For Mary's own Magnificat 
 
 Must live as song forever," 
 
 Time passed, until one festal eve 
 A sweet-voiced singer seeks admission, 
 And him the grateful monks receive 
 As Heaven-sent, blest addition. 
 
 "For, now," they cry, "our Mother's hymn 
 Will chanted be with fitting sweetness." 
 So when through vaulted arches dim 
 
 41 
 
^f^tT'^ In Melody's completeness, 
 
 Magnificat. Resounds the singer's glorious voice, 
 
 In silent ecstasy they listen, 
 
 Their hearts with wordless prayers rejoice, 
 
 Their eyes, enraptured, glisten. 
 
 By ceaseless homage rendered vain, 
 The singer's heart, with proud elation, 
 Swelled, as he thought, "My gifted strain 
 Fills all with admiration. 
 Aye, e'en the wood-birds throng once more 
 The chapel's window-sills, delighted — 
 Nor flee in terror, as before, 
 By tuneless sounds affrighted." 
 
 Lo! came an angel visitant. 
 
 And asked the monks: "What stills your 
 
 singing? 
 For now no note of Mary's chant 
 From out your home is ringing. 
 Ah! when those echoed tones sincere 
 Resounded through our Golden Portal, 
 Their heart-felt fervor charmed the ear 
 E'en of the King Immortal." 
 
 The singer left that peaceful dome, — 
 Humility's stern lesson learning, — 
 While to a distant cloister-home 
 His footsteps meekly turning. 
 
 Their crudely sung Magnificat 
 The monks resumed, by zeal incited. 
 And though the woodland birds thereat 
 Still trembled, sore affrighted, 
 
 42 
 
Yet, when on high those echoes sound, Legend 
 
 Approving Heaven once more rejoices, %a^nificat 
 For Love with true success has crowned gnijica . 
 
 His servants' reverent voices. 
 
 That, every day, their tone sincere 
 Sent echoing through the Golden Portal, 
 To bid the King with gladness hear 
 His Mother's song immortal. 
 
 DEW-DROPS. 
 
 WHEN the sultry daytime endeth, 
 With its cruel drought and dearth, 
 Then the balmy dew descendeth 
 To the faint and fevered Earth, 
 \A/'ith its soft, benignant showers 
 Bidding languid leaves unclose, 
 Waking life in faded bowers, 
 Sprinkling diamonds o'er the rose, 
 And the welcome nectar bringing 
 To the drooping lily's cup, 
 Till her censer, gayly swinging, 
 Grateful incense offers up. 
 Precious drops! from Heaven descending, 
 Ah, how well ye typify 
 Sacred dew of Grace, unending. 
 Sent from Mercy's fount on higlj. 
 
 First, in Life's auroral morning, 
 From its blest baptismal showers 
 With celestial gems adorning 
 Fresh, unsullied human flowers — 
 When the noontide's dust, unsightly, 
 
 43 
 
Dew-drops. Dims each bloom with blighting stain, 
 Dew of Penance, falling lightlv. 
 Cleanseth all with potent rain. 
 And when Life's long daytime endeth, 
 And the Night comes, still and calm. 
 Sacred Unction's dew descendeth, 
 Rich with gifts of healing balm. 
 Lo! at dawn the angels gather 
 (For the fair, immortal bowers 
 Shrined in Kingdom of the Father) 
 Wealth of Grace-dewed spirit flowers. 
 
 THE YEAR'S NEW KING. 
 
 NE, at close-locked entrance waits, 
 Rich in radiant panoply. 
 Loud his trumpet: "Ope your gates. 
 Kingdom of the year, to me! 
 
 o 
 
 "Lies the graybeard stark and still, 
 
 Dead upon his sable bier: 
 
 Ope, then, at the royal will 
 
 Of his heir, the youthful year!" 
 
 Soon the drawbridge, ringing, falls 
 O'er the darkly gleaming moat; 
 Soon above the towered walls 
 Fair new banners proudly float. 
 
 Wears the prince his father's crown, 
 Seated on that father's throne. 
 Servile courtiers, bending down. 
 Prompt and glad allegiance own. 
 
 44 
 
"Subjects, haste to do my \vill! jv" ^m'^ 
 
 Spread each board with festive cheer, '^^ '"^' 
 
 And when wassail-cups ye fill 
 Pledge your king the blithe New Yean ' 
 
 Pause, young monarch, in thy pride! 
 For a Mightier One than thou, 
 Ruler o'er earth's regions wide. 
 Bids thee bend in homage now. 
 
 For His vassal, lo! thou art. 
 Petty princeling, proud and gay; 
 Take thou, then, thy vassal-part — 
 Loyal tribute haste to pay. 
 
 Though within a stable born, 
 
 Poor with lowliest poverty. 
 
 Theme of worldling's sneer and scorn, 
 
 Deathless King of kings is He! 
 
 H thou sendest, in His Name, 
 Northward, southward, east, and west, 
 Sacred heralds to proclaim 
 Fallen man's redemption blest. 
 
 And if thou sheddest o'er each land 
 Gifts whose flowing ne'er shall cease. 
 Brought by kind, benignant hand 
 Of that bounteous Prince of Peace, 
 
 Then, with fond and eager will. 
 Earth shall spread thy festive cheer, 
 And thy wassail-tankard fill, — 
 Love-sent Ruler! Glad New Year! 
 
 45 
 
THE CHRIST-CHILD'S DUMB ADORERS.* 
 UR fathers told, in days of old, 
 This sweetest tale tradition weaves: 
 
 How brutes, kept safe in sheltered fold, 
 
 On chilly Christmas Eves, 
 
 o 
 
 Or crouched 'neath wall of straw-built stall. 
 Or roaming wild o'er ice-bound earth, 
 As midnight nears, are waiting all 
 The dear Redeemer's birth. 
 
 Hush, human hum! the hour is come! 
 Each beast doth bow the reverent knee 
 To Him who loves his creatures dumb, 
 Whose Maker blest is He! 
 
 And where He lies in meek disguise, 
 In Babyhood's frail semblance clad, 
 Each turns its soft, adoring eyes, 
 With silent rapture glad. 
 
 Oh, thus was told in days of old 
 This sweetest tale tradition weaves. 
 While yule-log's blaze drove hence the cold 
 And lighted Christmas eves. 
 
 SAINT MARTIN'S CLOAK. 
 
 BLEST Tradition shrines no fairer story 
 Than is this, of dear Saint Martin told, 
 Who in youth the meed of earthly glory 
 Sought and won, as warrior-chieftain bold. 
 
 * An old tradition tells that ever, on Christmas Eve, at the 
 hour of the Man-God's birth, all beasts kneel in adoration. 
 
 46 
 
But while flowers of tender loving-kindness ^^"^. , 
 For the needy blossomed in his heart, chak! ^ 
 
 Still his soul through night of Pagan blind- 
 ness 
 Groped — nor bade the dismal shadows part, 
 
 Till, one wintry day, as forth he wended 
 Blithe of mien, to join the battle's fray, 
 Lo! a beggar, with pale hands extended, 
 Feebly crouched beside the soldier's way. 
 
 Generous Martin with his store had parted. 
 Alms bestowing e'en since early morn, 
 Yet the brave young chieftain, tender-hearted, 
 Longed to aid this shiv'ring wretch forlorn. 
 
 So he tore the mantle from his shoulder. 
 Cleft its folds with broadsword keen and 
 
 bright, 
 And (for icy blasts blew ever colder) 
 Half his cloak he gave the beggar-wight. 
 
 When the hard-fought battle's fray was ended, 
 As brave Martin, crowned with victory, 
 Gladly forth on homeward journey wended, 
 Trolling folk-songs, in triumphant glee, — 
 
 Where he met the beggar, casting o'er him 
 Half his knightly cloak of brightest blue, 
 Lo! a thorn-crowned figure stood* before him, 
 And his risen mantle's azure hue 
 
 In the morning's beam was brightly glowing. 
 For a nail-rent Hand the garment bore, 
 And its folds, united, soon were flowing 
 Round the soldier's stalwart form once more, 
 
 47 
 
■Saini ^ While a Voice than music sweeter, clearer 
 aZk!"' Spake: "Thy love that served the beggar's 
 need 
 Unto Me, O knight, hath made thee dearer 
 Than thy valor's proudest, brightest deed. 
 
 *' Take again the warrior's cloak thou gavest. 
 I was hid in seeming pauper's frame, 
 And thine earthly meed, O noblest, bravest! 
 Changed shall be to Heaven's immortal fame. 
 
 *' Seek with humble heart the Christian's altar, 
 There be cleansed in bright baptismal wave. 
 Then, as holy priest, thou shalt not falter 
 In thy task the needy soul to save." 
 
 Conquered Martin knelt before his Master, 
 And full soon that sweet command obeyed. 
 Lo! his life, as Tours' devoted pastor. 
 Won him fame that ne'er shall fail or fade. 
 
 And 'tis said when Godfrey, angel-guided, 
 Banner chose o'er Zion's wall to fling, 
 Martin's mantle, by his love divided. 
 Was the flag of Salem's Christian king. 
 
 Holy Bishop! may thy potent pleading 
 From thy King, in fadeless Realm on high 
 Win for us thy prompt and generous heeding 
 Of each needy neighbor's woeful cry. 
 
 F 
 
 THE VISION OF CHARITY: A LEGEND. 
 
 ROM desert heat, with venom fraught, 
 A weary pilgrim, wan and faint, 
 
 With slowly toiling footsteps sought 
 
 The grotto of a hermit saint. 
 
 48 
 
And in that cool, secluded cave ^f'rh"*V* 
 
 The wanderer found his needed rest. ^ arty. 
 
 For there the Lord's true servant gave 
 
 Glad welcome to each pilgrim guest. 
 
 "For me," he cried, "not thee, the boon, 
 
 Love's kindly task is pleasure sweet" — 
 
 Then stooped to loose the sandal-shoon 
 
 And lave the travel-wearied feet. 
 
 What vision meets his startled sight? 
 
 The heavy sandals fall, and lo! 
 
 On each bared Foot the blood-drops bright 
 
 From cruel wounds, like rubies glow! 
 
 With trembling glance of love and awe, 
 
 E'en higher still the hermit gazed, 
 
 And ah! two nail-rent Hands he saw 
 
 In benediction o'er him raised. 
 
 Then, while his inmost spirit shook. 
 
 Up to the thorn-encircled Brow 
 
 He lifted one swift, dazzled look, 
 
 And murmured: "Master! is it Thou?" 
 
 "Aye!" spake the Saviour's Voice Divine — 
 
 "The poor their imaged. Lord shall be, 
 
 And whoso serves the least of Mine, 
 
 Behold! he also serveth Me!" 
 
 o 
 
 THE CROWNLESS KING.* 
 
 UR long and weary toil is done, 
 Our precious prize securely won. 
 The Crescent's gleam of falsest dross 
 Is quenched by Truth's triumpjjant Cross, 
 And Zion's rescued walls shall ring 
 With welcomes for her Christian king! 
 O valiant Chief! that name is thine 
 By lawful claim, and right divine. 
 Hail, royal Godfrey! hail to thee! 
 True guide to glorious victory. 
 * Godfrey of Boulogne, Crusader-King of Jerusalem, 
 
 49 
 
The Crown- Before yon shrine our valor bold 
 
 mg. Hath wrested from the Paynim's hold 
 Anointed hands shall bid thee wear 
 The jeweled crown of Zion fair." 
 
 "Nay! nay!" the well-loved Godfrey said, 
 And humbly bowed his noble head; 
 "Your king, brave comrades, I will be. 
 With blessings for your loyalty. 
 But ask me not a crown to wear 
 Within that faithless city where 
 A cruel wreath of thorns they gave 
 His Brow Divine, who came to save." 
 
 Submissive bowed his warrior-train, 
 And so throughout his gracious reign, 
 E'en till its latest day was o'er, 
 No crown that best of monarchs wore, 
 As vassal-steward, governing 
 The city of his thorn-wreathed King. 
 But the rich crown of jewels rare 
 His warriors fain would bid him wear 
 He sent unto his mother's hand 
 Within his distant native land, 
 . And bade her with its gems endow 
 Her venerated statue's brow, 
 Whose sweet, protecting glances shone 
 Above the port of bright Boulogne, 
 The grateful seamen's homeward guide 
 From stormy ocean, wild and wide. 
 
 With joy the saintly mother blest 
 
 Obeyed her noble son's request. 
 
 And fittingly, while ages sped, 
 
 The crown of Salem wreathed Her head 
 
 Who sweetly deigneth e'er to be 
 
 Our gracious " Lady of the Sea! " 
 
 50 
 
"THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT 
 LISTETH." 
 
 T bloweth where it listeth, 
 The wind so strong and free, 
 No man its might resisteth, 
 For no man's slave 't will be. 
 
 I 
 
 The restless sea obeyeth 
 The mandate of its breath. 
 And while the good ship swayeth 
 And sinketh to her death, 
 The billows twine above her 
 The foam-wreaths of the storm. 
 And 'neath their mountains cover 
 Her rent and ruined form. 
 
 The blast blows where it listeth 
 
 Across the land so fair, 
 
 And no man's strength resisteth 
 
 Its frantic fury there. 
 
 Oh, when it sweeps the forest. 
 
 Stout oak within its path. 
 
 All, all in vain thou warrest 
 
 Against its mighty wrath! 
 
 To earth thy form descendeth 
 
 Fell'd by its blows, that smite 
 
 Till from thy brow it rendeth 
 
 The leafy garlands bright. 
 
 And so, where'er it listeth 
 The tempest roameth free, 
 And no man e'er resisteth 
 Its rage on land or sea. 
 But fiercer, wilder, faster 
 It wreaks its mighty will, 
 
 51 
 
VioJSh^ Till Nature's God and Master 
 Where It Commandeth : "Peace! be still!" 
 Listeth." Ah! then, to whispers dying, 
 It calms its angry breath, 
 And mourns with softest sighing 
 Its work of woe and death. 
 
 F 
 
 THE BALLAD OF FRAU BERTHA* 
 
 RAU Bertha! Frau Bertha! thou lady so 
 bright 
 Afar in the Paradise land, 
 Oh, come in thy mantle of silvery white, 
 And bring in thy beautiful hand 
 The loaf that is sweet, of the heavenly wheat. 
 And the robes that are soft and warm, 
 That I of thy bountiful bread may eat. 
 May cover my perishing form 
 With the radiant garments so thick and soft, 
 For I'm dying of hunger and cold. 
 Frau Bertha! then come to my lone garret 
 
 loft, 
 And round me thy arms enfold. 
 My mother's asleep in the churchyard so 
 
 gray. 
 And deaf to my wailing is she. 
 And my father drinks deep all the night and 
 
 the day. 
 And nobody careth for me." 
 
 *One of the most charming of the charming German 
 legends is that of Frau Bertha, or the White Lady. This 
 mythical personage is always robed in white, and comes in 
 response to the cries of neglected children, rich or poor, to 
 soothe their griefs and minister tenderly to their wants. 
 
 52 
 
Frau Bertha she listened, that lady so bright ^^^j^^ 
 Afar in the Paradise land, Bertha. 
 
 And she came in her mantle of silvery white, 
 And brought in her beautiful hand 
 The bread that was sweet and the robes that 
 
 were soft. 
 And she gave of her bountiful store 
 To the destitute child in the lone garret loft, 
 And he hungered and thirsted no more. 
 
 "Frau Bertha! Frau Bertha! thou lady so 
 
 bright 
 Afar in the Paradise land, 
 Oh, come in thy mantle of silvery white 
 And soothe with thy motherly hand 
 That fever that burneth my brow and my lip 
 And rendeth my limbs with its pain; 
 Oh, give me cool draughts of the water to sip 
 That I crave and I call for in vain; 
 For my mother hath gone to the King's palace 
 
 fair, 
 And cold and unloving is she. 
 And my nurse is asleep in her soft easy-chair. 
 And nobody careth for me!" 
 
 Frau Bertha she listened, that lady so bright 
 
 Afar in the Paradise land, 
 
 And she came in her mantle of silvery white 
 
 And soothed with her motherly hand 
 
 The fever that burned on the cnild's brow and 
 
 lip 
 And rent his young limbs with its pain; 
 
 And she gave him sweet draughts of cool 
 
 water to sip. 
 
 And he thirsted no longer in vain. 
 
 53 
 
Ballad g^^ a cold mother's heart on the morrow was 
 
 "Lrma. „ . , filled ^ 
 
 With remorse that could never restore 
 Life's throb to the heart that forever was 
 
 stilled, 
 That was grieved and neglected no more. 
 
 o 
 
 THE SINNER'S BELL. 
 
 H, the olden City of Breslau is 
 A busy town, I ween; 
 From dawn till dark, the toilers there 
 On every side are seen. 
 Only at night they stretch their limbs 
 In idleness serene. 
 
 But once of late the citizens 
 Found time to keep full well 
 The glad five hundredth birthday of 
 Their stately Stadt-Haus bell. 
 Concerning this, Tradition hath 
 A tale I fain would tell: 
 
 Aye! five long centuries have passed 
 
 Since burgomasters great 
 
 (Led by their Mayor worshipful) 
 
 In solemn pomp and state, 
 
 Held (as they still are wont to do) 
 
 A long and loud debate. 
 
 The fierce discussion's weighty theme 
 
 Was this: Their city's pride, 
 
 The massive Stadt-Haus, newly reared 
 
 The spacious square beside. 
 
 Must have a bell, with deep-toned voice, 
 
 To echo far and wide. 
 
 54 
 
And this sonorous monitor T'Ai? ^ 
 
 Must fashion'd be full well. f^/lf"^ ' 
 
 Aye! aye! no common hand should cast 
 
 Fair Breslau's mighty bell, — 
 
 No clumsy cracks with discords mar 
 
 Its tongue's melodious swell. 
 
 Each wordy battle, loud and long, 
 
 Each wearisome debate 
 
 To calm conclusion came at last, 
 
 And burgomasters great 
 
 (Led by their Mayor worshipful) 
 
 Marched forth in solemn state 
 
 To shop of famous artisan 
 
 Whose skill was widely sung. 
 
 Whose bells, in great cathedral towers. 
 
 O'er all the land were hung. 
 
 One e'en beneath the Haupt-Stadt's dome 
 
 In sounding echoes rung. 
 
 They plied him well with questions shrewd, 
 
 They haggled o'er the price, 
 
 And scanned so long each pattern rare 
 
 And quaintly carved device. 
 
 That thus he jeered: "Ye crave, methinks, 
 
 A bell for Paradise!" 
 
 They made at length a fitting choice 
 
 Of fair and graceful plan; 
 
 They gave their pompous orders to 
 
 That famous artisan. 
 
 And he, on one bright summer morn. 
 
 His mighty work began. 
 
 55 
 
J"-^* , But when the molten metal, bright 
 Sinner's a *. r i • • j i j 
 
 BglL ^^ Stream of liquid gold, 
 
 Was ready for its prison-home 
 
 Within the shaping mold. 
 
 The 'prentice-lad, in breathless haste. 
 
 Came, and of business told 
 
 That craved the master's instant heed. 
 That brooked not e'en delay. 
 The founder said: "I go! but thou. 
 To guard my work, must stay. 
 But on yon vessel for thy life 
 Not e'en a finger lay." 
 
 In spellbound awe the 'prentice-lad 
 Long on the bright stream gazed. 
 Then, moved by sudden impulse, he 
 The brimming vessel raised, 
 Into the mold the metal poured. 
 And then, by terror dazed, 
 
 The dreaded master quickly called, 
 
 And with wild sobs confessed 
 
 His boyish fault, but at the tale 
 
 Within that master's breast 
 
 Fierce anger surged and demons dark 
 
 His frenzied soul possessed. 
 
 Deeming his proud work ruined, he 
 
 With swift and savage blow 
 
 Struck to the earth the trembling child- 
 
 And then — oh, joy! oh, woe! — 
 
 All cooled to shape symmetrical 
 
 He saw that metal's glow. 
 
 56 
 
It was the founder's masterpiece, — "^^^^ 
 
 With purest gleam it shone. b"/T*^^ 
 
 No blemish marred its graceful form, 
 No discord jarred its tone — 
 But now, with tears of agony 
 And wild, remorseful moan. 
 
 On the dead boy his murderer 
 
 Long, long in anguish gazed; 
 
 Then fondly from the blood-stained floor 
 
 The death-cold body raised 
 
 And bore it where the magistrate 
 
 Sat, girt by throng amazed. 
 
 In gasping words he told his tale, 
 
 And to his sad abode 
 
 rie swiftly led the wondering crowd, 
 
 And with wild gestures showed 
 
 The blood-marked floor, the bell that now 
 
 In fair completion glowed. 
 
 They doomed him to the felon's death. 
 
 And to its woeful place 
 
 (While sadly tolled his fatal bell) 
 
 He walked with feeble pace. 
 
 And faintly cried: " Dear Christians, pray 
 
 For this poor sinner's grace!" 
 
 And now, in nois}'- Breslau, where 
 
 They kept its birthday well, 
 
 This legend of its casting strange 
 
 The busy burghers tell. 
 
 And to this day their city's pride 
 
 They call "The Sinner's Bell." 
 
 57 
 
LEGEND OF THE ROSE OF JERICHO. 
 
 WHERE passed meek footsteps of the 
 Child Divine, 
 By glad obedience sent, 
 
 Where the blest Mother, gentle, pure, benign. 
 On kindly errands went. 
 
 Where Joseph walked, (his look the truth- 
 ful sign 
 Of Duty's just intent,) 
 A smiling blossom, dewy-eyed and sweet, 
 Sprang up as on they trod; 
 It poured blest incense o'er their sacred feet, 
 And on the favored sod. 
 
 Gifting with store of ceaseless homage meet, 
 Love's guardians and their God. 
 
 And e'en till now, in far-ofif Eastern land. 
 
 Where'er that blossom grows, 
 
 Each townsman grave, each chief of desert 
 
 band 
 The mystic flow'ret knows. 
 Naming it still (while pointing reverent hand) 
 "The Holy Family's Rose." 
 
 I 
 
 GLORIFIED DUST. 
 
 SAW a hand of darkness dim 
 The summer's noon of glory. 
 It checked the fountain's gleeful hymn. 
 The brooklet's babbling story. 
 And over all in letters grim 
 It wrote, "Memento Mori." 
 
 58 
 
Dun meadows from the shrouded light Glorified 
 
 No dewy sheen could borrow; Dust. 
 
 The leaves lay hid in dusky night, 
 
 Nor hoped a verdant morrow. 
 
 For human guilt the blossom bright 
 
 Wore penance-veils of sorrow. 
 
 O'er crowded street and country lane, 
 On breezes swiftly sweeping. 
 Still came the dusky-pinioned train, 
 In pillared clouds upleaping. 
 From busy mart, from silent plain, 
 Their ashy harvest reaping. 
 
 No spot too sacred, no retreat 
 
 Too sheltered for intrusion. 
 
 The shrine was soiled, the cottage neat 
 
 Was filled with strange confusion. 
 
 I dreamed of arbors fresh and sweet, — 
 
 Alas, the vain delusion! 
 
 "O foul, unsightly dust!" I cried, 
 O bane of leaf and flower! 
 Your atoms mock our human pride 
 And scorn our boasted power, 
 And all that Art hath glorified 
 Becomes your certain dower. 
 
 "O spoiler of the summer's bloom, 
 The springtide's brightness tender. 
 Can nought dispel thy dusky gloom, 
 And give thee golden splendor.^ 
 Can aught thy penance-robe illume, 
 Thy atoms lovely render?" 
 
 59 
 
Dusi'^^^ E'en as I spoke, in slanting line 
 A golden beam descended, 
 And o'er the casement's clinging vine 
 Its way of brightness wended, 
 And in its radiance divine 
 Each leaf shone clear and splendid. 
 
 And on that gleaming stairway rose 
 
 A dusty column slowly; 
 
 And till the evening's tranquil close 
 
 In golden brightness holy 
 
 Still floated there, in calm repose, 
 
 Those motes so brown and lowly. 
 
 Entranced, I saw that line of light, 
 And hastened then to render 
 Meet thanks unto my teachers bright 
 (Those dust-grains robed in splendor) 
 For giving to my blinded sight 
 Such lesson sweet and tender. 
 
 For (thus I mused) each selfish thought, 
 
 Each earthward aim unsightly, 
 
 Each deed with worldly dust o'erfraught. 
 
 From earth upspringing lightly. 
 
 May show such transformation wrought 
 
 By grace, descending lightly. 
 
 Ah, blessed beams of Light Divine! 
 
 Illume my latest even; 
 
 Upon my soul in splendor shine 
 
 And bid its earthy leaven 
 
 Float upward in a golden line, 
 
 A glorious path to Heaven! 
 
 60 
 
THE CHARITY OF THE POOR. 
 
 THE lavish lilies from full censers fling 
 Their fragrance far and wide; 
 And odors rich, upborne on zephyr's wing, 
 From generous rose-hearts glide; 
 
 But softly stealing through the dim retreat, 
 Where lowlier gems are set, 
 More precious far the pure aroma sweet 
 Of meek-eyed violet. 
 
 Leaf-robed and crowned, o'er many a mossy 
 
 dell 
 The forest grandly towers; 
 And countless throngs may freely, blithely 
 
 dwell 
 Within its spacious bowers. 
 
 Yet he who toileth o'er a desert land 
 
 More blissful finds repose 
 
 'Neath the lone tree that o'er the near hot 
 
 sand 
 Refreshing shadow throws. 
 
 So, rich men's bounty, generous, full, and 
 
 free, 
 Fair boons may widely fling. 
 And sweet as breath of queenliest blooms 
 
 may be 
 The benisons they bring. •'^ 
 
 Yet these, like fragrance on the air out- 
 poured 
 From lily's stateliness, 
 Or richest odor in the rose-heart stored, 
 May e'en with balm oppress. 
 
 6i 
 
Cha^^ity of But dear and precious to the poor man's heart 
 The sigh of sympathy 
 (From one whose life in woes like his hath 
 
 part) 
 As violet's breath will be. 
 
 The rich man's hand with fair and spacious 
 
 home 
 His houseless neighbor dowers, 
 But, like the wide-spread forest, oft its dome 
 Too far, too grandly towers. 
 
 The offered shelter in his brother's hut 
 
 More fondly will he share — 
 
 Too cramped the space, too low the ceiling, 
 
 but 
 The warmth of love is there. 
 
 Who feeleth not their suff'rings cannot know 
 What those tried hearts endure, 
 And so the truest charity below 
 Is practiced by the poor. 
 
 The rich man gives from cup that runneth 
 
 o'er, 
 And still its brim is crowned; 
 He taketh freely from his harvest store. 
 And still his fields abound. 
 
 The poor man giveth of his scanty hoard, 
 That scarce his wants supplies; 
 He feeds the beggar from his meagre board. 
 And thus himself denies. 
 
 62 
 
Yet once — as blest Evangel-page hath told — ^,^"V!^^ °^ 
 The widow's humble mite the Poor. 
 
 Far more than gift of costly gems and gold 
 Found favor in Love's sight. 
 
 His words divine her tender act record, 
 And, while those words endure. 
 With bliss like hers shall Endless Love re- 
 ward 
 The bounty of the poor. 
 
 A LEGEND OF SAINT MARTIN. 
 
 THE saintly Bishop's Mass is o'er. 
 And now his thronging people pour 
 From out the wide cathedral door. 
 
 But as they gain the narrow street, — 
 Slow-moving still, in reverence meet, — 
 A sudden terror stays their feet. 
 
 Oh, why, bold burghers,- thus dismayed? 
 What makes thy heart, brave knight, afraid? 
 A leprous hand outstretched for aid! 
 
 It wakes the jester's frightened howl, 
 And bids his lord, with angry scowl. 
 Shrink from the loathsome presence foul. 
 
 It prompts at last the cruel cy/-: 
 "Hence, daring leper! turn and fly 
 Back to thy dreary den to die!" 
 
 " Nay, cease ! " a ringing voice commands. 
 And in their midst, with lifted hands 
 And visage stern, Saint Martin stands, 
 
 63 
 
Legend of While trembling fingers point in scorn 
 St. Martin, ^^ere, in the dust, he lies forlorn 
 
 Whose breath pollutes the sacred morn. 
 
 But wondrous scene is acted now; 
 For lol the prelate-saint doth bow 
 O'er that vile wretch his holy brow. 
 
 He gently lifts the ghastly face, 
 Nor fears around his neck to place 
 The rotting arms in fond embrace. 
 
 Behold! the leprous one hath fled, 
 
 And swiftly riseth in his stead 
 
 A shining Form, with thorn-crowned Head! 
 
 And Martin, on his Master's breast — 
 Another loved Disciple blest — 
 Securely leans, in trustful rest. 
 
 And each who bends the contrite knee 
 Thus hears: "Who serves mj'- least shall see 
 That e'en the leper hideth Me!" 
 
 THE MISSION OF THE MIGNONETTE. 
 
 NE who served God, and loved his race 
 so well 
 That e'en the vilest he could ne'er forget, 
 Once kindly brought unto a dungeon-cell 
 A pot of mignonette. 
 
 o 
 
 Sick unto death, and wrapped in sullen 
 
 gloom, 
 Unsoothed, uncheered by e'en one hopeful 
 
 ray, 
 
 64 
 
The wretched tenant of that dreary room Mission 
 Prone on his pallet lay. Mignonette. 
 
 But when he felt the balmy sweetness rise 
 Like angel's breath throughout the fetid air. 
 He wildly gazed with strained and startled 
 
 eyes, 
 Crying: "Lost Eden fair! 
 
 " Dear, blooming garden of my boyhood's 
 
 home! 
 Where floral gems in dewy shrines were set, 
 Oh, hast thou wafted o'er the tossing foam 
 The scent of mignonette?" 
 
 Then on the tiny plant his glances fell, 
 And softest tears, the healing dews of grace, 
 Burst from his heart's long-seared and sin- 
 dried well 
 And streamed adown his face. 
 
 He touched the leaves with soft, caressing 
 
 hand, — 
 " Oh, be his life with richest blessings 
 
 fraught. 
 Who unto me, lost wretch, from freedom 
 
 banned. 
 This sign of hope hath brought!" 
 
 'T was e'en as though within the breath of 
 
 balm 
 And smiling petals of that simple flower 
 Strange influence dwelt — for sweet, celestial 
 
 calm 
 Stole o'er him from that hour. 
 
 65 
 
Mission Held was the plant in close and loving clasp 
 
 "■fJ^^ „ When the All-Father freed His pardoned 
 
 Misnovette. 
 
 son; 
 Then fell it, broken, from his loosened 
 
 grasp,— . . , , 
 Its Heavenly mission done! 
 
 KING STEPHEN'S PROTEGE. 
 
 KING STEPHEN through his palace fair 
 Like prison'd lion strode; 
 For goading fiends of anxious care 
 Within his heart abode. 
 Good cause that bold usurper had, — 
 Aye, grievous cause, I ween, — 
 For restless step, and musings sad. 
 And sternly troubled mien. 
 The legions of the Empress Maude 
 Swept England's northern coast. 
 And by their swarming num.bers awed 
 His smaller, feebler host — 
 Yet through the clouds of anxious thought 
 That darkly wrapped his soul 
 One smiling ray, serenely fraught 
 With Hope's sweet sunlight, stole. 
 " My brave John Marshal — heart of oak, 
 And arm as iron strong — 
 Is there, and his resistless stroke 
 Shall slay their pride ere long." 
 
 A herald came,— and that fair hope 
 Was crushed with sudden blow: 
 " My liege, we can no longer cope 
 With our relentless foe, 
 For John the Marshal — curses be 
 Heaped on his traitor heart! — 
 Hath taken with the enemy ^ 
 A leader's treacherous part!" 
 
 66 
 
More furious waxed the stormy wrath ^'"'K 
 
 That in the king's heart raged, ^^ptttlgi! 
 
 And fiercer on his restless path 
 
 He sped like lion caged. 
 
 He paused at last, — his sudden shout, 
 
 Made sharp with anguish, rang 
 
 In echoes fierce: "Ho! there, without!" 
 
 And through the doorway sprang 
 
 The mail-clad yeomen of the guard 
 
 In battle's grim array. 
 
 With swords in rest and helmets barred, 
 
 As for the savage fray. 
 
 "Hath John the Marshal kindred here?" 
 
 The monarch fiercely cried. 
 
 "He hath, my liege!" in accents clear 
 
 The leader's voice replied. 
 
 " He hath one son — a winsome boy. 
 
 True copy of his sire." 
 
 King Stephen's face with vengeful joy 
 
 Flamed like a lurid fire, 
 
 And loudly rang his laughter wild, — 
 
 "Ha! ha! Ye give me mirth! 
 
 Bring hither now this winsome child. 
 
 This pearl of priceless v/orth. 
 
 "This copy of a traitor vile! — 
 
 I marvel not ye start, — 
 
 How could ye guess such demon guile 
 
 Lurked in John Marshal's heart? 
 
 Yet all too true this news accQrsed 
 
 That whelms me like a flood. 
 
 And since I may not sate my thirst 
 
 With that foul caitiff's blood, 
 
 I '11 spill his son's, for, sooth, 't is meet 
 
 To slay such traitor spawn. 
 
 Then haste to bring me vengeance sweet, 
 
 67 
 
-^"'^ , And work him woe — begone! 
 p^otigL^ Yet, stay! it is the headsman's right 
 
 Such noble blood to shed; 
 
 So speed him hither — in my sight 
 
 Must fall that winsome head! 
 
 And I the cleft bloom shall uplift — 
 
 For 't is my fond desire 
 
 To send it, as my gracious gift, 
 
 Unto his worthy sire." 
 
 Forth went King Stephen's yeoman rough, 
 
 With downcast heart and sad. 
 
 For well the soldier brave and bluff 
 
 Had loved the fated lad. 
 
 Meanwhile the king, with savage glee, 
 
 Dreamed of the father's w^oe 
 
 .When he that ghastly head should see 
 
 And well-earned anguish know. 
 
 But soon this childish murmur came 
 
 To break his musings grim: 
 
 "Ah me! the king hath spoiled my game. 
 
 Why must I go to him? 
 
 Nor do I love thee, yeoman, now, — 
 
 Thou dost not smile to-day, — 
 
 And there's a deep frown on thy brow 
 
 I fain would drive away. 
 
 Then, ere we go into yon room 
 
 I prithee sing with me! 
 
 To chase afar thine ugly gloom 
 
 The song I taught to thee." 
 
 [Sings.] 
 
 " A little lad went out to shoot, and he 
 W^as armed with a new bow and arrow, 
 And he happened to see in an old oak-tree 
 A pretty and pert cock-sparrow. 
 And he laughed, 'Ha! ha!,' and he cried 
 
 'Ho! ho! 
 Oh, saucy and sly cock-sparrow, 
 
 68 
 
I '11 lay thee low, when I shoot thee, so! -^'«^ , 
 With my fine new bow and arrow.' p^otigi.^ 
 
 Chorus: (I '11 lay, etc.) 
 
 " Then he stood quite still on the grass, to try 
 The strength of his new bow and arrow; 
 But he aimed too high — far away in the sky 
 Flew the pretty and pert cock-sparrow, 
 With a gay 'Ha! ha!' and a glad 'Ho! ho!' 
 Said the pretty and pert cock-sparrow, 
 ' I 'm not laid low, though you shot me, so! 
 With your fine new bow and arrow.' " 
 
 "The chorus sing. Sir Yeoman! O! 
 
 It is a brave refrain. 
 
 But, pshaw! thy voice is weak and low. 
 
 I pray thee sing again!" 
 
 "Nay! nay] sweet lad! I must not sing. 
 
 And if we longer stay 
 
 We '11 win the anger of the king. 
 
 For he is vexed to-day." 
 
 " Good yeoman, I 'd not cause thee blame — 
 
 Although I do not fear.- 
 
 For I '11 make the stern king join my game! 
 
 Nay; list! you'll laugh to hear!" 
 
 They entered then the portal wide — 
 
 With gaze fixed on the floor 
 
 The soldier walked, but by his side 
 
 The child of summers four. 
 
 With lifted brow and fearless eyes, 
 
 Tripped on, and as he went ^ 
 
 A smiling glance of sweet surprise 
 
 On Stephen's form he bent. 
 
 In sooth, he was a winsome lad — • , 
 
 So frank and brave his mien, 
 
 His merry smile so bright and glad, 
 
 His bright brow so serene. 
 
 69 
 
King Fresh plantain-leaves in each small hand 
 
 ^Prtust' He held with childish grace, 
 
 And raised bis look of gay command 
 
 Up to the stern king's face. 
 
 "Sir King! I fear thee not, e'en though 
 
 They say thou art so great 
 
 That I must tremble, bending low 
 
 Before thy royal state. 
 
 But only cowards tremble! I 
 
 Will be a soldier brave, 
 
 To fight for thee, and gladly die 
 
 My honored king to save. 
 
 But thou hast spoiled my sport to-day! 
 
 And so, to punish thee, 
 
 My game of plantains thou must play, 
 
 O mighty king, with me! 
 
 These will I keep! then take thou those! 
 
 And he whose skill shall smite 
 
 The heads off all his plaintain foes 
 
 Shall gain the merry fight. 
 
 Once, twice, and thrice! the war begins! 
 
 To watch it, yeomen, come! 
 
 That ye may cheer for him who wins, 
 
 And beat your loudest drum." 
 
 Amused, attracted, e'en despite 
 
 His vengeful hate and ire, 
 
 The king began the mimic fight. 
 
 To please the child's desire, 
 
 And as the merry strife went on, 
 
 He laughed with hearty joy — 
 
 And when 't was o'er, his wrath was gone, 
 
 Quelled by the winsome boy! 
 
 He loved him soon, with ardor true 
 
 He shared each childish sport, 
 
 And more and more the fair lad grew 
 
 70 
 
The pride of king and court. ^'"^ , 
 
 A noble knight the boy became, ^Prol'e7e! 
 
 Of brave, pure, valiant heart, — 
 
 In statesman's toil, in war's dread game 
 
 He played a glorious part. 
 
 To brave Earl Marshal tribute due 
 
 Tradition payeth still. 
 
 And boasteth of his courage true, 
 
 His wise and potent skill. 
 
 All strife was quelled, all hearts were won, — 
 
 So sings the minstrel lay, — 
 
 By John the traitor's loyal son — 
 
 King Stephen's protege. 
 
 A^ 
 
 THE REWARD OF THE PALM. 
 S upon their mystic journey 
 Bravely toiled the Blessed Three, 
 Longing in the safer shelter 
 Of the stranger's land to be. 
 Droops at last the Virgin Mother, 
 Worn and faint v/ith hunger sore. 
 And with fervid beams that ever 
 O'er the sands their fierceness pour. 
 On her turn the pitying glances 
 Of the Infant born to save, 
 And his arms wnth potent gestures 
 O'er the barren desert wave. 
 Lo! upon the pilgrims falleth 
 Pleasant shadow, sweet and^calm, 
 Where within the path before them 
 Lightly springs the graceful palm. 
 And it bends its laden branches 
 Gently at its Lord's command, 
 Till the fruit, in rich abundance, 
 Droopeth unto Mary's hand. 
 
 71 
 
Reward of Then Love's words of benediction 
 the Palm, 'pj^^g upon the palm-tree rest: 
 " For the boon so kindly given 
 To my Virgin Mother blest, 
 Thou shalt grow in fields celestial, 
 O thou grand and gracious tree! 
 And thy verdant branches ever 
 Shall the victor's emblems be." 
 
 Swiftly throng His white-winged angels, 
 And those sacred boughs they bear 
 To a fadeless life immortal 
 In the Heavenly kingdom fair; 
 And the martyr-bands that bravely 
 Cross the cruel Crimson Sea 
 E'er His Land of Promise enter 
 Bearing palms of victory! 
 
 G' 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE MONK 
 FERNANDO. 
 
 OOD Brother Fernando, with grateful 
 eye, 
 Looked forth, in the springtide fair, 
 On the smiling bloom of the meadow's nigh, 
 On the stream that sang, as it sparkled by. 
 On the bright trees, seeking the far blue sky 
 By the mountain's purple stair. 
 
 And the reverent soul of Fernando caught 
 
 The echo of Nature's glee; 
 
 And he sang, as he lifted his Heav'nward 
 
 thought, 
 "Laudate! laudate! Praise Him who brought 
 This boon with beauty and gladness fraught, 
 This joy of the spring to me! " 
 
 72 
 
But the kindly heart of the monk grew sad, ju^^^i^^"/ 
 Rememb'ring the joyless throng Fernando. 
 
 Of men, who saw not the landscapes, clad 
 In the festal robes of the season glad. 
 And whose dulled spirits no echoes had 
 Of the fair Earth's springtide song. 
 
 " ' T is the hour to go from my loved retreat, 
 Afar, on the Master's quest. 
 And perchance I may bring, in the world- 
 waste's heat 
 To weary spirits and wounded feet 
 Some joy of the springtime fresh and sweet, 
 Some balm of its healing blest." 
 
 So Brother Fernando, of gentle mien, 
 
 Went forth from his cloisters fair, — 
 
 From the smiling bloom of the meadow's 
 
 green, 
 From the stream that sang of the peaceful 
 
 scene. 
 And the trees that climbed to the sky serene 
 By the mountain's purple stair. 
 
 And a toilsome road was the thronged high- 
 way. 
 Where the good monk journeyed soon — 
 Where, foully gleamed from its dusty clay 
 A stagnant pool — and beside it lay 
 A leper, full in the blinding 5ay 
 Of the fierce and fevered noon. 
 
 The Pharisees fled in a wild affright 
 From the wretch's loathsome scourge, — 
 The babbling lovers of human right 
 
 73 
 
Legena of And the chiefs who led in the heroes' fight 
 
 the Monk 
 Fernando 
 
 In honor shrank from that hideous sight 
 At the stagnant water's verge. 
 
 Good Brother Fernando! alone he stays, 
 For his heart was kindly and warm; 
 He turned on the stricken one tender gaze, 
 Then the call of his Christ-like love obeys — 
 And the strong, true hands of the brave monk 
 
 raise 
 That festering, ghastly form. 
 
 He found true aim for his Master's quest, 
 And he guardeth his treasure well. 
 For he folds the limbs in his sacred vest, 
 And he clasps him close to his fearless breast; 
 And bravely he beareth his loathsome guest 
 To his calm, secluded cell. 
 
 There he lays on his own couch tenderly 
 
 The scarred and disfigured frame. 
 
 "At peace," he sayeth, "my brother, be; 
 
 For the Master's sake, thou art dear to me. 
 
 And I will minister unto thee 
 
 In that blest Redeemer's Nam.e. 
 
 " I will bring sweet balm for thy fevered 
 
 head. 
 And thy body so maimed and sore." 
 Then swift on his errand of love he sped, 
 As swift returned — the leper lay dead! 
 But his Form was cleansed, and his shining 
 
 Head 
 A wonderful garland wore! 
 
 74 
 
Twas the Crown of 1 horns! and the Brow Legend of 
 
 ,„„^ j,,„j the Monk 
 
 was dyed . , , Fe.navdo 
 
 With the gems that over it glowed, — 
 
 The ruby drops of the marvelous Tide 
 
 That from Hands, nail-wounded, and Feet, 
 
 and Side, 
 In a limitless Torrent flowed! 
 
 Then prone on the floor of his favored cell 
 
 Good Brother Fernando lay. 
 
 But a Voice far sweeter than wind-harp's 
 
 swell, 
 Yet clearer than tones of the minster bell. 
 In words like these on his rapt ear fell: 
 "Thou nobly hast wrought, to-day. 
 
 " And the joy of the heavenly spring is 
 
 thine, — 
 'T is the recompense due to thee, — 
 For the leper hath hidden thy King Divine — 
 Ah, tender spirit and heart benign! 
 What thou hast done to the least of mine, 
 Behold! thou hast done it to Me!" 
 
 o 
 
 DIVINE MERCY. 
 
 'ER all God's works His mercies are, — 
 With blest, benignant light, 
 In sun and stars, from heights afar, 
 They shine through day and night. 
 And though anon the clouds of woe 
 Across the sky may sweep, 
 And hide its glow from vales below, 
 In shadows chill and deep. 
 Yet, dark howe'er those mists may be, 
 The faith-illumined gaze. 
 From earth-notes free, can clearly see 
 
 75 
 
Divine Those bright supernal rays 
 Mercy, 'p}^^^ show where fadeless Light Divine 
 Beneath the storm-cloud lurks, 
 Where Love doth shine, with beams benign, 
 Above His wondrous works. 
 I bless my God that o'er my way 
 Such brightness e'er hath shone; 
 That night and day its tender ray 
 And fadeless smile have known — 
 That ever o'er His works thou art, 
 Still keeping watch and ward 
 (Thy ceaseless part) within my heart. 
 Sweet mercy of my Lord! 
 
 VIVA, SAN FRANCISCO! 
 
 MILE, thou grand imperial city, 
 
 On thy Bay! 
 I to thee, in jingling ditty, 
 Tribute pay! 
 
 s 
 
 While the witless Eastern comer 
 
 Hither jogs, 
 
 Sneering at thy breezy summer, 
 
 With its fogs 
 
 Hill and valley coyly veiling, 
 
 Only just 
 
 While our gay winds, eastward sailing, 
 
 Raise the dust. 
 
 Out upon his saucy high tone! 
 
 He who dwells 
 
 Where the fierce and fiendish cyclone 
 
 (Prince of swells!) 
 
 Blows like braggart desperado, 
 
 Left and right, 
 
 76 
 
While, before that dread tornado, ^^^«' ^^«, 
 
 Ruined quite, 
 
 Fly the houses and the people, 
 
 Sinks the town. 
 
 Proudest dome and lofty steeple, 
 
 Tumbling down. 
 
 Never thus our climate varies, 
 
 Ne'er are met 
 
 In our weather-dictionary's 
 
 Alphabet, 
 
 (Though you search from A to Izzard, 
 
 Give we thanks!) 
 
 Fiendish letters, spelling blizzard, 
 
 Of whose pranks 
 
 We have heard, with grief and pity. 
 
 How 't will spread 
 
 Over many an Eastern city 
 
 Death and dread. 
 
 Oh, I '11 gladly take my chances, 
 
 While life jogs, 
 
 City of the good St. Francis! 
 
 With thy fogs. 
 
 And thy merry winds, that never 
 
 Work thee harm, 
 
 Fresh'ning e'en with fond endeavor 
 
 Every charm! 
 
 THE GRAVE OF THE NORWEGIAN 
 PRINCESS: A LEGEND OF THE 
 ISLE OF SKYE. 
 
 MID the lone and rugged islands 
 That in sullen bondage lie 
 Where the raging Northern waters 
 On the rocks like wolf-dogs fly. 
 None so bleak and bloom-forsaken 
 As the tempest-tortured Skye. 
 
 77 
 
Grave Xo this realm of stormy wildness, 
 
 Norwegian By the path where billows roar 
 Princess. 'Twixt it and the rocky headlands 
 Of the frowning Scottish shore, 
 Came a band of savage Norsemen 
 In the far-off daj^s of yore, 
 
 And a stern Norwegian Princess, — 
 Daughter of the Viking race, — 
 With their wild, imperious beauty 
 In her haughty form and face, 
 Hither led those fierce invaders 
 To her chosen dwelling-place. 
 
 " For," she said, " this regal island, 
 Throned on rocks of granite gray, 
 Scorning rage of snarling waters 
 As the wrath of children's play. 
 Seems a sacred fragment, broken 
 From our own loved Norroway." 
 
 So they brought their ships to anchor 
 Near the rugged shore of Skye, 
 And that stern Norwegian princess 
 Ruled its rocky summits high, 
 And, like eagle from her eyrie, 
 Scann'd her realm with piercing eye. 
 
 But a sickness fell upon her 
 In the noonday of her reign, 
 And the fierce and fatal fever 
 Burned and withered nerve and vein, 
 And the haughty heart was riven 
 By the stabbing spears of pam. 
 
 78 
 
To her deathbed, summoned swiftly, ^f'u^ 
 
 Came her brave Norwegian band. Norwegian 
 
 *' Woe is me!" she faintly murmured, Princess. 
 
 As they kissed her nerveless hand. 
 "I shall never, O my Norsemen! 
 Greet again our native land. 
 
 " Swear, then, by the sacred banner 
 
 To obey this last behest: 
 
 When the death-god's dart hath slain me, 
 
 To yon highest rocky crest 
 
 Bear my form, and on its summit 
 
 Fitly hew my place of rest. 
 
 " There, where storm-clouds fiercely battle 
 
 With the winds in wildest fray, 
 
 Where the kingly eagle pauseth. 
 
 Resting on his sunward way, 
 
 Shall my spirit, from its prison, 
 
 Look toward my Norroway." 
 
 To the Viking's royal daughter 
 Loving heed her clansmen paid. 
 Up the rugged steep they bore her. 
 In her ermine robes arrayed, 
 And within the mountain's bosom 
 Fitting tomb for her they made. 
 
 Long ago those wild Norwegians 
 Left the lonely Isle of Skye, 
 Where, as in the vanished ages, 
 Still the rocky coasts defy 
 Frantic wrath of shrieking Vvaters, 
 Raging 'neath the headlands high. 
 
 79 
 
^f"th ^"^ ^^^ hardy fisher showeth 
 
 Norwegian ^o the pilgrims of to-day 
 Princess. Lonely mound on lofty summit, 
 
 Where, from out her prison gray, 
 Looks that proud Norwegian princess 
 Northward to her Norroway. 
 
 THE FIRE OF PRAYER. 
 
 A SCENE divinely fair 
 From blest Tradition's page,- 
 A legend-lesson rare 
 Of Faith's illumined age. 
 
 An Abbey gray and tall. 
 Enthroned on rocky height, 
 And robed in evening's pall 
 Of dim and dreamy light. 
 And, 'neath its peaceful roof, 
 Where holy brethren dwell 
 From worldly cares aloof. 
 Each in his narrow cell. 
 Behold! — yet who can paint 
 The crowning picture there? — 
 An angel-guarded Saint, 
 In ecstasy of prayer! 
 A penance-wasted frame, 
 And seamed by scourge and rod- 
 A world-forgotten name 
 High on the scroll of God! 
 
 He knelt, with brow upraised, 
 In adoration fond, 
 With shining eyes that gazed 
 The jasper walls beyond. 
 Yet faintest whispered tone 
 From parted lips came not. 
 
 80 
 
Still as the sculptured stone The Fire 
 
 Upon that sacred spot of Prayer. 
 
 The kneeling form remains 
 
 While hours like swift birds fly, 
 
 And deeper darkness stains 
 
 The shining vesper sky. 
 
 And when the first faint stars 
 
 Steal out with timid rays 
 
 To pierce the gloom that bars 
 
 The loved Earth from their gaze, 
 
 A home-returning swain 
 
 Looks up, in prayerful mood, 
 
 To where the abbey fane 
 
 Uprears the saving Rood. 
 
 Lo! from that cloister home 
 
 A tongue of glowing fire! 
 
 It cleaves the stately dome 
 
 And wreathes the chapel's spire! 
 
 An instant at the sight, 
 
 With horror dumb, he waits — 
 
 Then swiftly scales the height 
 
 And thunders at the gates. 
 
 They hear his wild alarm; 
 
 They rush with footsteps fleet. 
 
 To save from fiery harm 
 
 The Master's prison sweet. 
 
 Yet vain their troubled search 
 
 Within those sacred walls, — 
 
 All safe the lamp-lit church, 
 
 And safe the darkened halls. 
 
 But, stay! from 'neath the door 
 Of one secluded cell 
 Strange floods of brightness pour. 
 They enter — who shall tell. 
 What human skill can paint, 
 The wondrous scene they saw 
 
The Fire As on the kneeling Saint 
 of Prayer, -phey gazed in silent awe? 
 
 For from his burning heart — 
 Love's angel-watched abode — 
 Through smiling lips apart 
 The fiery splendor flowed! 
 Yet, rapt in holy dream, 
 The throng he heeded not, 
 Nor e'en the dazzling gleam 
 That filled that sacred spot. 
 And he had heard no sound 
 From pavement wildly trod. 
 In ecstasy profound 
 He dwelt alone with God! 
 
 Amid those beams divine 
 A while the brethren bow 
 To bid their halos shine 
 Upon each favored brow. 
 And then adown they steal 
 Unto the holy fane, 
 To wake with joyous peal 
 A glad Te Deum strain. 
 
 O sweetest, fairest scene 
 From blest Tradition's page! 
 May we its lesson glean. 
 To cheer this darkened age. 
 Lord, teach my soul the art 
 To win this fire of prayer 
 That from the fervent heart 
 Doth shed its brightness fair. 
 And though its wondrous glow 
 No human eye may see, 
 Oh, bid its radiance flow 
 In ecstasy to Thee ! 
 
o 
 
 THE GRACE OF THE CHRISTMAS 
 CANDLE: AN IRISH LEGEND. 
 
 H, the Celtic children of faith believe 
 (Sweet, I ween, are their fancies all) 
 That when the bless'd candles, on Christmas 
 
 Eve, 
 Are lighted in cabin and hall. 
 The dear Child Jesus, with tenderest smile, 
 In the noon of that night sublime 
 Doth visit each home of their favored isle 
 While the mass-bells merrily chime; 
 And where'er He seeth the hallowed light 
 Of the tapers so tall and fair. 
 He entereth in through the casement bright 
 And leaveth His benison there. 
 And oh, till He crowneth again the year 
 With the glory of Christmas-tide 
 Shall blessings so sweet of the Christ-Child 
 
 dear 
 With the children of grace abide. 
 Their crops shall thrive and their store 
 
 increase. 
 For never a shadow of ill 
 Can dim the light of the heavenly peace 
 He bringeth to " men of good will." 
 
 "THE LAMB IS THE LIGHT THEREOF." 
 SUNLIGHT! gilding land and sea 
 In Summer's glorious noon! 
 Earth's favored regions welcome thee 
 As best and brightest boon. 
 
 o 
 
 O moonlight! shedding silv'ry rays 
 O'er many a sleeping vale! 
 Ecstatic poets sing thy praise, 
 Thy soft, sweet splendors hail. 
 
 83 
 
" The Lamb 
 Is the Light 
 Thereof:' 
 
 O Star-beams! set, as jewels rare, 
 Within the darkling skies, 
 And watching there with loving care. 
 Like myriad angel eyes. 
 
 And firelight, lode-star of the hom.e! 
 Thence drawing love-linked hearts— 
 'Neath lowly roof or lofty dome 
 What joy thy flame imparts! 
 
 But golden sun, and silv'ry rays. 
 And stars that pilgrims hail. 
 And firelight, tender theme of praise. 
 Ye are but shadows pale 
 
 Of Light that floods with glow serene 
 Love's kingdom,— saith His Word,— 
 Whose wonders " eye hath never seen, 
 Islor ear of mortal heard." 
 
 Earth's beams combined too feebly shine 
 
 For realms of bliss above — 
 
 For, O the glorious Lamb Divine 
 
 " Is e'er the Light thereof." 
 
 Lord, let me on that glory gaze. 
 Where swells this ceaseless strain: 
 *' Unto the Lamb be endless praise. 
 Once for His creatures slain." 
 
 LEGEND OF THE WEEPING WILLOW. 
 
 GREEN-ROBED, and crowned with sunny 
 gleam, 
 That graceful, goodly tree 
 Once grew beside a crystal stream 
 In region fair to see. 
 It drooped not then its branches bright, 
 
 84 
 
But high, in gleeful pride, 
 
 It bade them rise to hail the light 
 
 And cast their shadows wide. 
 
 And ever from its inmost heart 
 
 It sang in ceaseless joy, 
 
 " Oh, nought can bid my bliss depart, 
 
 My happiness destroy! " 
 
 But 'mid its boughs, in answ'ring strain, 
 
 The wind that swept the lea 
 
 Forever wailed this one refrain: 
 
 "Alas! unhappy tree!" 
 
 And mingling with that murmur sad. 
 
 The streamlet moaned below: 
 
 " Oh, never let thy heart be glad, 
 
 Thou willow, doomed to woe!" 
 
 And from its leaves the bird-note rang 
 
 No more in songs of glee, — 
 
 There, too, that mourning minstrel sang: 
 
 "Alas! unhappy tree!" 
 
 Ah! then a deeper wrathful glow 
 
 Shone on each sunlit leaf, 
 
 As thus it cried: "Cease, sounds of woe! 
 
 I need no pitying grief. 
 
 But ever from my inmost heart 
 
 I '11 sing in endless joy, — 
 
 For nought can bid my bliss depart. 
 
 My happiness destroy! " 
 
 Legend 
 
 of the 
 
 Weeping 
 
 Willow. 
 
 A dismal dawning came at last, 
 
 When carols ceased on high, 
 
 When wildly shrieked the stormy blast, 
 
 And wept the sable sky; 
 
 And men with dark and sullen brows 
 
 Strode sternly o'er the lea, 
 
 85 
 
Legend And paused beneath thy verdant boughs, 
 Weeping Thou graceful, goodly treei 
 
 Willow. 
 
 From every slender swaying limb 
 Its shining robes they flayed, 
 And of those boughs, in silence grim, 
 The cruel scourges made 
 That on the Man-God's sacred Flesh 
 With blows relentless fell. 
 Thence bidding torrents ever fresh 
 Of saving Life-Blood well. 
 
 Ah ! then the hapless willow knew 
 
 Why on its native lea 
 
 The wind had wailed in warning true, 
 
 "Alas! unhappy tree! " 
 
 Why bird-notes joined that murmur sad, 
 
 And streamlet moaned below: 
 
 " Oh, never let thy heart be glad, 
 
 Thou willow, doomed to woe!" 
 
 It lifts no more its branches bright 
 
 Aloft in gleeful pride; 
 
 They never rise to hail the light 
 
 And cast their shadows wide. 
 
 But now, with sadly drooping stems, 
 
 The mournful willow grieves, 
 
 And now the streamlet's sorrow gems 
 
 Its earthward-bending leaves. 
 
 THOUGHT OF EMERSON (VERSIFIED). 
 
 EACH ill our souls successfully resist 
 Henceforth our benefactor is, I wist. 
 As the wild warriors of the Southern main 
 Deem the whole strength of every foeman 
 slain 
 
 86 
 
By their brave hands is added to the dower A Thought 
 Their own frames had, thus giving godlike of Emerson 
 
 power 
 To nerve and tendon, — so Temptation's might 
 (By us o'ercome in persevering fight) 
 Unto our true hearts passeth, till at length 
 Well-nigh divine shall be our spirit-strength. 
 
 A SAYING OF ANTONINUS (VERSIFIED). 
 
 NOUGHT others' words and actions are 
 to me, 
 Whose business is to keep unswervingly 
 The honest road, and to myself the same 
 Wise rule express a piece of gold would 
 
 frame 
 Or sparkling emerald, if each had the sense 
 Its plan to tell, bj'' speech's eloquence: 
 Let other gems reflect the heav'nly ray 
 Howe'er they please; in my appointed way 
 I '11 woo the sunlight, and, contented, shine 
 True to the color and the species mine. 
 
 A THOUGHT OF HOLMES (VERSIFIED). 
 
 THE greatest thing, I find, is not 
 So much (while here below) 
 Where we have made our standing-spot 
 As in which way we go. 
 
 To reach the Heavenly Port we must 
 
 With the wind sometimes sail. 
 
 And sometimes 'gainst it; but, with trust 
 
 In Heaven, we must not fail 
 
 The speeding canvas still to lift, 
 
 Nor anchored lie, nor idly drift. 
 
 87 
 
"LEARN OF ME."* 
 
 MY Master's Heart so tender! 
 Can I Thy praise bestow? 
 Or for Thy favors render 
 The grateful meed I owe? 
 Sweet shrine of Love immortal! 
 Who shall Th}'- charms reveal? 
 O Heaven, unlock Thy portal! 
 Let earth their secret steal! 
 
 Meek Heart! in peace unbroken 
 Bid us Thy lesson learn, 
 And thus each prize and token 
 Of Thy rich bounty earn. 
 When in Thy school of duty 
 Our hearts shall pupils be, 
 O Heaven, in bliss and beauty 
 Then Earth will copy Thee! 
 
 From out His sanctuary 
 Love's king doth still impart 
 His precept salutary: 
 "Like Me, be meek of heart! " 
 He speaks thus from our altars, 
 As once from Calvary's crest, 
 O Heaven, aid Earth that falters 
 To keep His sweet behest! 
 
 H 
 
 "THE TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY." 
 ARK! O error-darkened age! 
 To that wondrous Birthday' story 
 On the blest Evangel-page, 
 Traced in lines of deathless glory, 
 * From the French. 
 
 88 
 
And bv chosen heralds told ''Tidings of 
 
 Unto '"'men of good will"— list'ning Great Joy. 
 
 Where, above their guarded fold, 
 Faith's celestial beams are glist'ning. — 
 
 Where through Life's long midnight deep 
 Favor'd watchers, meek and lowly, 
 Glad, ecstatic vigils keep, 
 Bowed before Love's brightness holy. 
 
 For He leads your Christmas-quest, 
 Hearts that linger not nor falter. 
 Till ye find your saving Guest 
 Cradled on His Truth's bright altar. 
 
 TIMES FLOWERS— THE DAYS. 
 
 WHILE Earth is glad and skies are gay 
 With ever-bright'ning glow, 
 Time bids the blossoms of To-day 
 To fair perfection grow. 
 
 They fade at last; in Night's deep gloom. 
 The grave of sunset ray, 
 Lies buried all that withered bk)om 
 Of pale, dead Yesterday. 
 
 Yet, lo! when countless starry eyes 
 Have shed their dewy sorrow. 
 From out that m3'stic grave shall rise 
 The bright buds of To-morrov^\ 
 
 89 
 
H 
 
 THE GLASTONBURY THORN.* 
 
 E who above the Victim bent, 
 When Love's dread tragedy was o'er, 
 And to his own "new monument" 
 The body of his Saviour bore, 
 In after years, a toiler blest, 
 Within the Master's vineyard wrought, 
 And gladly, at Divine behest. 
 The Pagan soil of Britain sought. 
 
 On that Day's Eve which now we keep 
 
 With grateful joy — our Christmas merry- 
 
 The wearied traveler lay asleep 
 
 Upon the heath at Glastonbury. 
 
 And lo! his staff of carven thorn, 
 
 Beside him planted in the snow. 
 
 When sweetly dawned the Sacred Morn, 
 
 With fragrant bloom was all aglow! 
 
 And since that time it blossoms still 
 At each return of Christmas merry. 
 And pilgrims greet with awe-struck thrill 
 The wondrous thorn of Glastonbury, 
 That, when the groves are dry and sere, 
 And ruin reigns in Summer bowers, 
 Gleams brightly 'mid the Christmas cheer. 
 With fairest wealth of fragrant flowers ! 
 
 *A well-known old English legend tells that Joseph of Ari- 
 mathea (sent as missionary to Briton) when weary with 
 travel fell asleep, on Christmas Eve, on the heath at Glaston- 
 bury. His staff of white thorn, standing beside him in the 
 snow, was covered when Christmas Day dawned with snow- 
 white, perfumed flowers, and it is still said to blossom every 
 year at the coming of the Redeemer's Birthday. 
 
 90 
 
I 
 
 THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 MMORTAL Casket! meet to shrine 
 The Ruby Gems of Love Divine! 
 Clear Vase! whose crystal walls inclose 
 The crimson sheen of Mercy's Rose! 
 Unmeasured Chalice! ever filled 
 With saving Wine, so freely spilled, 
 That all a deluged world is dyed 
 With that pure Life-Blood's purple tide. 
 
 O Casket, let thy jewel's gleam 
 
 O'er darkest souls benignly stream! 
 
 O Vase, give now thy Royal Flower 
 
 To blossom in our desert bower! 
 
 O'erfiowing Chalice! let each heart 
 
 Be fashioned with celestial art 
 
 To Thy Similitude Divine 
 
 To hold Thy life-bestowing Wine! 
 
 'THE GREATEST OF THESE IS CHARITY." 
 
 THREE kindly angels, crowned with light, 
 Illume our way through darkest night. 
 Safe shall they rest in realms above 
 Who follow Faith, and Hope, and Love. 
 
 But Hope must die, her mission done, 
 Where blissful certainty is won. 
 And Faith, when " face to face^" we see, 
 Is lost in glad Reality. 
 
 One fadeth not, one dieth ne'er, — 
 But, robed in Heavenly radiance fair, 
 Shall keep through endless years above 
 Her glorious name — Immortal Love! 
 
 91 
 
A' 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE SYRIAN ROSE. 
 
 T dawn of that wonderful Christmas 
 
 morn 
 When the " Light of the World," for its sake, 
 
 was born, 
 His angels witnessed a miracle fair 
 By the Child-God wrought in the wilderness 
 
 bare. 
 When the first sweet glance of His Love 
 
 shone out 
 O'er the cold w^aste stretching His cave 
 
 about, 
 Lo! the air grew soft with a warmth benign, 
 In the sunlike smile of the Babe Divine: 
 And where the lone desert had spread all 
 
 gray 
 In the wintry twilight of yesterday, 
 Fresh emerald meadows now gave repose 
 To the dewy leaves of the Syrian rose. 
 
 When His race uplifted the Crucified, 
 
 And the " Life of the World " for its dear 
 
 sake died. 
 The angels saw, in that strange death-hour, 
 The wondrous love of His Christmas-flower. 
 For the rose that oped when the Holy Child 
 O'er the dreary plains of His Bethlehem 
 
 smiled 
 Had followed the path of His footsteps slow. 
 As feebly they toiled up the Mount of Woe, 
 lill its roots were planted, its petals clung 
 Round the Cross where the Blood-dyed 
 
 Victim hung — 
 But it withered and drooped, as His death 
 
 drew nigh. 
 And folded its leaves at its Lord's last sigh, 
 
 92 
 
And the Man-God smiled, in His Life's own legend 
 1 of the 
 
 Close, Syrian 
 
 On the loyal love of His Syrian rose. Rose 
 
 At the dawn of that wonderful Day of Days, 
 When the " Light of the World," with its 
 
 deathless raj^s, 
 Streamed up from the tomb (for that world 
 
 a sign 
 That its life was won by a Life Divine), 
 Lo! His blest rose opened, to fade no more 
 Till the lengthened journey of Time is o'er. 
 It smiles in the garden, it brightens the vale, 
 And its sweet breath scenteth the summer 
 
 gale— 
 But, fairest at Easter-tide, e'er unclose 
 The wondrous leaves of that Miracle-rose, 
 And the gleam of its ecstasy seems to say: 
 "Rejoice! He is risen! 'T is Easter Day!" 
 
 THE DAISY AND TPIE STAR. 
 
 WE are sisters! — we are sisters!" 
 Sang the Daisy to the Star, 
 As she watched her softly shining 
 In the vesper sk}' afar. 
 " Though you bloom within the heavens 
 And I gem the earthly sod, 
 We are Love's own blest creation, — 
 We are each the smile of God!^" 
 
 "Aye, we're sisters,— happy sisters!" 
 Sang the Star in sweet reply 
 To the meadow's starlike blossom, 
 From her gleaming home on high. 
 " I the flower of fields celestial, 
 
 93 
 
The Daisy You the Star of earthly sod: 
 and the star. ^^ ^^^ Love's own blest creation — 
 We are each the smile of God! " 
 
 Thus they sang their joyous greeting, 
 As they bloomed in beauty bright, 
 While the swift-winged hours were fleeting 
 Of the fragrant summer night; 
 Downward from the azure star-fields, 
 Upward from the em'rald sod. 
 Rang their chorus: "We are sisters. 
 And the tender smiles of God!" 
 
 T' 
 
 THE SAINT'S SHADOW. 
 
 'OLD in legend, old and quaint. 
 Sweet this tale of unknown Saint, 
 Pure-souledj free from selfish taint, — 
 Walked his feet in lowly ways, 
 Calmly sped his sinless da3^s. 
 Filled with fervent prayer and praise 
 As a flower on dewy sward 
 Is with balm. Then spake his Lord: 
 " Though thou seekest no reward. 
 Yet thy life so pleaseth Me, 
 Gift Divine I offer thee — 
 Choose thou what the boon shall be." 
 Thus the Saint, in answer, pleads: 
 " Grant me strength for Heavenly deeds 
 Given to all human needs 
 For Thy sake, as on I go. 
 Yet, ah! never must I know 
 That from me the graces flow." 
 "As thou wilt," his Lord replied. 
 So, as forth his footsteps hied 
 Through the busy highways wide. 
 Or where lonely sufferers dwell, 
 
 94 
 
Wheresoe'er his shadow fell, TheSainVs 
 
 With the needy all was well— Shadow. 
 
 Ills were cured, and sorrows fled. 
 
 O'er each path was sunlight shed — 
 
 E'en the soul in evil dead. 
 
 As the dry, long-withered flower, 
 
 Gained once more its deathless dower 
 
 Through that shadow's wondrous power. 
 
 Yet the Saint had nought of fame — 
 
 Knew not whence the graces came. 
 
 And no echo rang his name 
 
 For these wondrous deeds of love. 
 
 Till the wings of Holy Dove 
 
 Bore him to his Home above 
 
 And, all toils and trials o'er, 
 
 Low he knelt his Lord before, 
 
 Crowned to be for evermore. 
 
 Now, through Heaven's immortal days, 
 
 Seraphs sing his fitting praise. 
 
 Guerdon thus his Master pays 
 
 For the loving deeds that he 
 
 Once performed unconsciously, 
 
 Self-hid, in humility. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 HE Old Year lieth out of sight. 
 Deep buried 'neath the winter snow. 
 Where, through the long, dark Arctic nights. 
 Weird banners of the Northern Lights 
 Above him stream with lurid glow. 
 
 T 
 
 So let us leave him to his rest. 
 And hail the New Year, blithe and free. 
 Who comes in royal raiment dressed. 
 And fain would be a welcome guest 
 And sharer in our festal glee, 
 
 95 
 
^^^h Then let our fairest gifts be stored 
 
 New Year, ^^i sunny hearts and homes for him — 
 Heap high the richest banquet board, 
 And let the beaded wine be poured 
 Until it crown the beaker's brim. 
 
 How brightly gleams his regal vest! 
 With rainbow hues from blossoms shed 
 The " rose of dawn " is on his breast. 
 And sunset splendors of the West 
 Are o'er his kingly mantle spread. 
 
 Within his crown what jewels blaze! 
 Rich treasures of the seasons bright — 
 Spring's moonlit beams and starry rays. 
 Sweet Summer's wealth of golden days, 
 And Winter's gems of crystal light. 
 
 What odors freight his balmy breath! 
 Glad tribute of each blooming bower — 
 For, when its petals fade in death, 
 To him fond Nature rendereth 
 The last pure life-sigh of the flower. 
 
 xA.ll blended tones of sweetness bring 
 
 The varied music of their lays. 
 
 The song that birds and brooklets sing, 
 
 The soft low hum of insect wing. 
 
 Borne sweetly through the changeful days. 
 
 Then hail the King, as from the East 
 He comes with Daj-'s Auroral Star. 
 Ring out the chime, and spread the feast, 
 And bid the greatest w^ith the least 
 Unite their welcomes, near and far. 
 
 96 
 
Behold! he flingeth everywhere ^^''Ph 
 
 His bounty bright in gleaming showers — j^^^ yea* 
 His jewel-moments, rich and rare, 
 That twine themselves in chaplets fair 
 To form the rainbow-tinted hours. 
 
 Oh, may we set those priceless gems 
 
 In golden deed, and w^ord, and thought! 
 
 That angel hands may fashion them 
 
 Into a glorious diadem, 
 
 A crown of light, divinely wrought. 
 
 Then, while on pinions softly swift 
 The last swift year of Time shall flee, 
 Our radiant brows we may uplift, 
 Encrowned with each bright New Year's gift, 
 To shine through glad Eternity. 
 
 I 
 
 THE SILVER DOVE: A LEGEND. 
 
 FAIN would weave in simple rhyme 
 This tale most sw^eet of olden time. 
 Abode not then our Prisoned Love 
 Behind the altar's " Golden Door," 
 But hung, that altar lifted o'er, 
 His Home a silver dove. 
 
 'T was thus within a convent where 
 The Abbess kept with tender care 
 A well-loved niece, an orphan child. 
 Columba was her gentle name, — 
 A title sweet, that well became 
 The dovelike maiden mild. 
 
 97 
 
The Pull oft she saw those favored ones. 
 Dove. The white-robed band of holy nuns, 
 Receive the Saving Bread Divine, 
 And e'er, as on their bliss she gazed. 
 Her longing eyes were fondly raised 
 Unto the Silver Shrine. 
 
 All humbly then that little maid 
 Before the Abbess, kneeling, prayed: 
 "Ah! let me, too, that feast partake! " 
 " Thou art too young," the nun replied, — 
 " Next year thou shalt, at Easter-tide. 
 Thy First Communion make." 
 
 Not yet was calmed that yearning heart; 
 
 In chapel dim she knelt apart. 
 
 And softly sighed: "Descend. O Dove! 
 
 And on thy shining silver wing 
 
 E'en unto me, oh haste to bring 
 
 The Precious Food of Love." 
 
 But hour by hour, and day by day, 
 She pined in silent grief away, 
 Until to walk too feeble grown. 
 She bade the nuns her slight form bear 
 Within the Church, and leave her there 
 Beneath the Dove alone. 
 
 But one who loved the holy child, 
 
 Whose heart, like hers, was meek and mild, 
 
 Behind her knelt, in musings blest. 
 
 And heard the sigh: "Descend, O Dove! 
 
 And bring the Gracious Lord of Love 
 
 To be my sacred guest." 
 
 98 
 
And lo! the kneeling watcher saw "^^^ 
 
 (While thrilled her very soul with awe) z?ot/^ 
 
 The dove that o'er the maiden hung 
 Float softly to that child of grace, 
 And from its bright beak, opened, place 
 The Host upon her tongue! 
 
 Ah! swiftly then the favored one 
 Who saw that Heavenly marvel done 
 To call her holy sisters sped — 
 But, lo! the dove on upward way 
 Had soared again — and, 'neath it, lay 
 Their sweet Columba^-dead! 
 
 LcfC. '' 
 
DEO xu »^^-