THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES AFTERNOON SONGS AFTERNOON SONGS JULIA C. R. DORR NEW-YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1885 Copyright, 1885, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Press of J.J. Little & Co., Nos. 10 to 20 Astor Place, New York. L TO S. M. D. r .T us go forth and gather golden-rod ! O love, my love, see how upon the hills, L^ Where still the warm air palpitates and thrills, Jj/ And earth lies breathless in the smile of God, >_ Like plumes of serried hosts its tassels nod! ^f All the green vales its golden glory fills ; 2[ By lonely waysides and by mountain rills ^3 Its yello^u banners flaunt above the sod. Perhaps the apple-blossoms were more fair ; Perhaps, dear heart, the roses were more sweet ^? June's dewy roses, with their buds half blown in Yet what care we, while tremulous and rare ; This golden sunshine falleth at otir feet And song lives on, though summer birds have flown : August, 1884. ^ Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart ! ^ Although no more for thee in earthly bowers ^ Shall bloom the earlier or the later flowers ; Although to-day ''tis spring-time where thou art, While I, with Autumn, wander far apart, Yet, in the name of that long love of ours, Tested by years and tried by sun and showers, < Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart ! September, 1883. 452642 CONTENTS PAGE. DEDICA TION. ( To S. M. D.) v INTRODUCTORY POEM xi SILENCE i WHEN LESSER LOVES 2 KNOWING 3 DARKNESS 4 GEORGE ELIOT 5 SANCTIFIED 6 TO-MORROW. I. II 7 A THOUGHT 9 A MESSAGE 10 THE PLACE. I. II. Ill 11 GIFTS FOR THE KING 14 RECOGNITION. I. II 15 O EARTH ! ART THOU NOT WEARY ? " 17 ALEXANDER 18 To A GODDESS 19 O. W. H 20 vii viii CONTENTS. PAGE. A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG 21 QUESTIONING A ROSE 33 THE FALLOW FIELD 36 OUT AND IN 40 HER FLOWERS 42 THREE LADDIES 45 SUMMER, 1882. (R. W. E.) 48 THORNLESS ROSES 50 TREASURE-SHIPS 52 CHOOSING 55 NOT MINE 57 THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE 60 THREE ROSES 65 FOUR LETTERS. (Inscribed to Dr. O. \V. Holmes) 66 VALDEMAR 69 JUBILATE ! 84 EASTER LILIES 86 " O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST " 88 A SUMMER SONG 91 THE URN 93 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER 95 MARCH FOURTH. 1881-1882 100 ROY . .102 CONTENTS. ix PAGE. THE PAINTER'S PRAYER 104 FROM EXILE 108 A MOTHER-SONG I H EASTER MORNING 1 16 SEALED ORDERS 122 No MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON " 126 AN ANNIVERSARY 128 MARTHA 131 THE HOUR 133 THE CLOSED GATE 135 CONTENT 138 WONDERLAND 140 THE GUEST 144 FORESHADOWINGS 147 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN 150 DISCONTENT 1 54 THE DOVES AT MENDON 159 A LATE ROSE 163 PERIWINKLE 165 AFTERNOON 168 THE LADY OF THE PROW 172 GRANT 176 THOU AND I. . . .182 SOJJGS, TT is mid-afternoon. Long, long" ago J. Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn. JLnd fainted in the noontide's fervid glow. &one are the dew-drops from the rose's heart, Gone with the freshness of the early hours. The songs that filled the air with silver showers The lovely dreams that were of morn a part. Yet still in tender light the garden lies, The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; grown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies. jlnd here be four-o' cloclcs . just opening wide Their many-colored petals to the sun, fts glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died ! SILENCE. GOLDEN Silence, bid our souls be still, And on the foolish fretting of our care Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware ! Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill With soft reverberations. Thou wert there. And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair,- A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill. Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet; Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low Murmur of dying winds among the trees, And dear the music of Love's hurrying feet; Yet only he who knows thee learns to know The secret soul of loftiest harmonies. WHEN LESSER LOVES. WHEN lesser loves by the relentless flow Of mighty currents from my arms were torn, And swept, unheeding, to that silent bourn Whose mystic shades no living man may know. By night, by day, I sang my songs ; and so, Out of the sackcloth that my soul had worn, Weaving my purple, I forgot to mourn, Pouring my grief out in melodious woe ! Now am I dumb, dear heart. My lips are mute. Yet if from yonder blue height thou dost lean Earthward, remembering love's last wordless kiss, Know thou no trembling thrills of harp or lute, Dying soft wails and tender songs between, Were half so voiceful as this silence is ! KNOWING. ONE summer day, to a young child I said, " Write to thy mother, boy." With earnest face, And laboring fingers all unused to trace The mystic characters, he bent his head (That should have danced amid the flowers instead) Over the blurred page for a half-hour's space; Then with a sigh that burdened all the place Cried, " Mamma knows ! " and out to sunshine sped. O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long, And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray, Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong ! God knows ! What though the lips be dumb with pain, Or the pen drops ? He knows what thou wouldst say- DARKNESS. COME, blessed Darkness, come, and bring thy balm For eyes grown weary of the garish Day ! Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray, Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palm The poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm ! Come with thy patient stars, whose far-off ray Steals the hot fever of the soul away, Thy stillness, sweeter than a chanted psalm ! O blessed Darkness, Day indeed is fair, And Light is dear when summer days are long, And one by one the harvesters go by; But so is rest sweet, and surcease from care, And folded palms, and hush of evensong, And all the unfathomed silence of the sky ! GEORGE ELIOT. PASS on, O world, and leave her to her rest ! Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow Weaves its white pall above her, lying low With empty hands crossed idly on her breast. O sisters, let her sleep ! while unrepressed Your pitying tears fall silently and slow, Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow, Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed. Are we so pure that we should scoff at her, Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb ? God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore, Even what time their petals were astir In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume. Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore! SANCTIFIED. A HOLY presence hath been here, and, lo, The place is sanctified ! From off thy feet Put thou thy shoes, my soul ! The air is sweet Even yet with heavenly odors, and I know If thou dost listen, thou wilt hear the flow Of most celestial music, and the beat Of rhythmic pinions. It is then most meet That thou shouldst watch and wait, lest to and fro, Should pass the heavenly messengers and thou, Haply, shouldst miss their coming. O my soul, Count this fair room a temple from whose shrine, Led by an angel, though we know not how, Thy friend and lover dropped the cup of dole, And passed from thy love to the Love Divine ! TO-MORROW. MYSTERIOUS One, inscrutable, unknown, A silent Presence, with averted face Whose lineaments no mortal eye can trace, And robes of trailing darkness round thee thrown, Over the midnight hills thou comest alone! What thou dost bring to me from farthest space. What blessing or what ban, what dole, what grace, I may not know. Thy secrets are thine own! Yet, asking not for lightest word or sign To tell me what the hidden fate may be, Without a murmur, or a quickened breath, Unshrinkingly I place my hand in thine, And through the shadowy depths go forth with thee To meet, as thou shall lead, or life, or death! TO-MORROW. II. Then, if I fear not thee, thou veiled One Whose face I know not, why fear I to meet Beyond the everlasting hills her feet Who cometh when all Yesterdays are done ? Shall I, who have proved thee good, thy sister shun ? O thou To-morrow, who dost feel the beat Of life's long, rhythmic pulses, strong and sweet, In the far realm that hath no need of sun Thou who art fairer than the fair To-day That I have held so dear, and loved so much When, slow descending from the hills divine, Thou summonest me to join thee on thy way, Let me not shrink nor tremble at thy touch, Nor fear to break thy bread and drink thy wine! A THOUGHT. (SUGGESTED BY READING "A MIRACLE IN STONE.") OH, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One, Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings, In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings; Thou at whose word the morning stars begun With song and shout their glorious course to run; Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings, And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute brings From every shore that smiles beneath the sun; Thou who didst write thy name upon the hills And bid the mountains speak for thee alway, Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills, And to each flower that breathes its life away Oh ! dost thou smile, or frown, when man's conceit Seeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet ? A MESSAGE. I BID thee sing the song I would have sung, The high, pure strain that since my soul was born, Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn, Through all its chambers hath divinely rung! In thee let my whole being find a tongue ; Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn, Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn. Youth holds the world in fee, and thou art young ! O my glad singer of the tuneful voice, Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar, Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach, Beyond the plummet of a woman's speech. Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice! THE PLACE. I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU." O HOLY Place, we know not where thou art ! Though one by one our well-beloved dead From our close claspings to thy bliss have fled, They send no word back to the breaking heart; And if, perchance, their angels fly athwart The silent reaches of the abyss wide-spread, The swift white wings we see not, but instead Only the dark void keeping us apart. Where did he set thee, O thou Holy Place? Made he a new world in the heavens high hung, So far from this poor earth that even yet Its first glad rays have traversed not the space That lies between us, nor their glory flung On the old home its sons can ne'er forget? THE PLACE. But what if on some fair, auspicious night, Like that on which the shepherds watched of old, Down from far skies, in burning splendor rolled, Shall stream the radiance of a star more bright Than ever yet hath shone on mortal sight Swift shafts of light, like javelins of gold, Wave after wave of glory manifold, From zone to zenith flooding all the height ? And what if, moved by some strange inner sense, Some instinct, than pure reason wiser far, Some swift clairvoyance that annulleth space. All men shall cry, with sudden joy intense, " Behold, behold this new resplendent star Our 'heaven at last revealed! the Place! the Place ! " THE PLACE. Then shall the heavenly host with one accord Veil their bright faces in obeisance meet, While swift they haste the Glorious One to greet. Then shall Orion own at last his Lord, And from his belt unloose the blazing sword, While pale proud Ashtaroth with footsteps fleet, Her jewelled crown drops humbly at his feet, And Lyra strikes her harp's most rapturous chord, O Earth, bid all your lonely isles rejoice! Break into singing, all ye silent hills; And ye, tumultuous seas, make quick reply! Let the remotest desert find a voice! The whole creation to its centre thrills, For the new light of Heaven is in the sky! GIFTS FOR THE KING. (H. W. L., FEB. 27111.) WHAT good gifts can we bring to thee, O King, O royal poet, on this day of days ? No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays ; No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring, O'er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling; For well we know thy beckoning finger sways A mightier empire, and the world obeys. No lute, for thou hast only need to sing; No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet The air about thee, even as when the rose Swings its bright censer down the garden-path. Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet; Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows. What can we bring to him who all things hath? RECOGNITION. (H. W. L.) WHO was the first to bid thee glad all-hail, O friend and master? Who with winged feet Over the heavenly hills^ flew, fast and fleet. To bring thee welcome from beyond the veil ? The mighty bards of old? Thy Dante, pale With high thoughts even yet, Virgil the sweet, Old Homer, trumpet-tongued, and Chaucer, meet To clasp thy stainless hand? What nightingale Of all that sing in heaven sang first to thee ? Through all the hallelujahs didst thou hear Spencer still pouring his melodious lays, Majestic Milton's clarion, strong and free, Or, golden link between, the far and near, Bryant's clear chanting of the eternal days ? 16 RECOGNITION. II. Nay, but not these ! not these ! Even though apace, Long rank on rank, with swift yet stately tread They came to meet thee the immortal dead Yet Love ran faster! All the lofty place, All the wide, luminous, enchanted space Glistened with Shining Ones who thither sped The countless host thy song had comforted ! What light, what love illumed each radiant face! The Rachels thou hadst sung to in the dark, The Davids who for Absaloms had wept, The fainting ones who drank thy balm and wine. High souls that soared with thee as soars the lark, Children who named thee, smiling, ere they slept These gave thee first the heavenly countersign ! O EARTH! ART THOU NOT WEARY?" O Earth ! art thou not weary of thy graves ? Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy breast How are they heaped from farthest east to west ! From the dim north, where wild the storm- wind raves O'er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves, To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed, Where roses bloom alway and song-birds nest, How thick they lie like flecks upon the waves! There is no mountain-top so far and high, No desert so remote, no vale so deep, No spot by man so long untenanted, But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky, Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep ! O Earth ! art thou not weary of thy dead ? ALEXANDER. THERE was a man whom all men called The Great. Low lying on his death-bed, we are told, He bade his courtiers (when he should be cold, Breathless, and silent in his last estate, And they who were to bury him should wait Outside the palace) that no cerecloth's fold Or winding-sheet should round his hands be rolled : Those helpless hands that once had ruled the state ! Thus spake he : " On the black pall let them lie, Empty and lorn, that all the world may see How of his riches there was nothing left To Alexander when he came to die." Lord of two worlds, as treasureless was he As any beggar of his crust bereft ! TO A GODDESS. LIFT up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair! Let its light stream across the waiting seas As banners float upon the yielding breeze From the king's tent, his presence to declare. And as his heralds haste to do their share, Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees, So let the waves in loftiest symphonies Proclaim thy glory to the listening air ! Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee. For thee the patient earth has waited long, To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands From the far hills and o'er the rolling sea. Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong, A beacon-light to earth's remotest lands. O. W. H. AUGUST 29, 1809. " How SHALL I crown this child ? " fair Summer cried. "May wasted all her violets long ago; No longer on the hills June's roses glow, Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide. My stately lilies one by one have died; The clematis is but a ghost and lo! In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow; How shall I crown this Summer child ? " she sighed. Then quickly smiled. " For him, for him," she said, " On every hill my golden-rod shall flame, Token of all my prescient soul foretells. His shall be golden song and golden fame Long golden years with love and honor wed, And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles ! " A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. WHENCE it came I did not know, How it came I could not tell, But I heard the music flow Like the pealing of a bell; Up and down the wild-wood arches, Through the sombre firs and larches, Long I heard it rise and swell; Long I lay, with half-shut eyes, Wrapped in dreams of Paradise ! Then the wondrous music poured Yet a fuller, stronger strain, Till my soul in rapture soared Out of reach of toil and pain ! Then, oh then, I know not how, Then, oh then, I know not where, I was borne, serene and slow, A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. Through the boundless fields of air Past the sunset's golden bars, Past long ranks of glittering stars, To a realm where time was not, And its secrets were forgot! Land of shadows, who may know Where thy golden lilies blow ? Land of shadows, on what star In the blue depths shining far, Or in what appointed place In the unmeasured realms of space, High as heaven, or deep as hell, Thou dost lie, what tongue can tell ? Send from out thy mystic portals With the holy chrism to-day, One of all thy high immortals Who shall teach me what to say ! O beloveds, all the air Was a faint, ethereal mist Touched with rose and amethyst, A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 23 Glints of gold, and here and there Purple splendors that were gone, Like the glory of the dawn, Ere one caught them. Soft and gray, Lit by many a pearly ray, Were the low skies bending dim To the far horizon's rim; And the landscape stretched away, Fair, illusive, like a dream Wherein all things do but seem ! There were mountains, but they rose O'er the subtile vale's repose, Light as clouds that far and high Soar to meet the untroubled sky. There were trees that overhead Wide their sheltering branches spread, Yet were empty as the shade By the quivering vine-leaves made. There were roses, rich with bloom, Swinging censers of perfume Sweet as fragrant winds of May Blowing through spring's secret bowers ; A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. Yet so phantom-like were they That they seemed the ghosts of flowers. Oh the music sweet and strange In that land's enchanted range ! Like the pealing of the bells When the brazen flowers are swinging And the angelus is ringing, Soaring, echoing, far and near, Through the vales and up the dells, Softly on the enraptured ear A melodious murmur swells ! As the rhythm of the river Day and night goes on forever, So that pulsing stream of song Rolls its silver waves along. Even silence is but sound, Deeper, softer, more profound ! All the portals were thrown wide; Stretching far on either side Ran the streets, like silver mist, By the moon's pale splendor kissed ; A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. And adown the shadowy way, Forth from many a still retreat, One by one, and two by two, Or in goodly companies; Gliding on in long array, Light and fleet, with silent feet, One by one, and two by two, Phantoms that I could not number, Countless as the wraiths of slumber, Passed before my wondering eyes ! Then I grew aware of one Standing by me in the dun, Gray half-twilight. All the place Grew softly radiant; but his face, Albeit unveiled, I could not see For the awe that compassed me. Swift I spoke, by longings swayed Deeper than my words betrayed : " Master," with clasped hands I prayed, " Who are these ? Are they the dead ? ' " Nay, they never lived," he said ; 4 A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. " Whence art them ? How earnest thou here?" Low I answered, then, in fear: " Sir, I know not ; as I lay Dreaming at the close of day, Wondrous music, thrilling through me, To this land of phantoms drew me, Though I knew not how or why, Even as instinct draws the bird Where Spring's far-off voice is heard. Tell me, Master, where am I ? " " Thou art in the border-land ; On the farthest, utmost strand Of the sea that lies between All that is and is not seen. Thou art where the wraiths of song Come and go, a phantom throng. 'Tis their heart's melodious beat Fills the air with whispers sweet ! These, O child, are songs unsung Songs unbreathed by human tongue. These are they that all in vain Mightiest masters wooed amain A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 27 Children of their heart and brain That they could not warm to life By their being's utmost strife. Every bard that ever sung Since the hoary earth was young, Knew the song he could not sing Was his soul's best blossoming; Knew the thought he could not hold Shrined his spirit's purest gold. Look ! " Where rose the city's gate In majestic, sculptured state, From a far-off battle-plain, Through the javelins' silver rain Bearing buckler, lance, and shield, And their standard's glittering field, Eager, yet with shout nor din, Came a great host trooping in. Burned their eyes with martial fire, And the glow of proud desire, Such as gods and heroes filled When their mighty souls were thrilled By old Homer's golden lyre ! 28 A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. Under dim cathedral arches Pacing sad, pacing slow, As to beat of funeral marches Or to music's rhythmic flow, With their solemn brows uplifted, And their hands upon their breasts, Where the deepest shadows drifted, One by one pale phantoms pressed. Lost in dreams of heights supernal, Mystic dreams of Paradise, Or of woful depths infernal, Slow they passed before mine eyes. Oh the vision's pallid splendor ! Oh the grandeur of their mien Kin, by birthright proud and tender, To the matchless Florentine! In stately solitude, Whereon might none, intrude Majestic, grand and calm, And bearing each the palm ; Dwelling, serene and fair, In most enchanted air, A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 29 Where softest music crept O'er harp-strings deftly swept, And organ-thunders rolled Like storm-winds through the wold, They stood in strength sublime Beyond the bounds of time, They who had been a part Of Milton's mighty heart! And where, mysterious ones, Are Shakspeare's princely sons, Bearing in lavish hands The spoil of many lands? From castles lifted far Against the evening star, Where royal banners float O'er rampart, tower, and moat, And the white moonlight sleeps Upon the Donjon keeps; From fairy-haunted dells Among the lonely fells; From banks where wild thyme grows And the blue violet blows; 30 A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. From caverns grim, and caves Lashed by the deep sea waves; From darkling forest shade, From busy haunts of trade, From market, court, and camp, Where folly rings her bells, Or sorrow tolls her knells, Or where in cloister cells The scholar trims his lamp, Wearing the sword, the gown, The motley of the clown, The beggar's rags, the dole Of the remorseful soul, The wedding-robe, the ring, The shroud's white blossoming, O myriad-minded man, Thus thine immortal clan Passed down the endless ways Of the eternal days ! Then said I to my spirit: "These are they who wore the crown; A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 31 Well the king's sons may inherit All his glory and renown. Where are they, the songs unsung By the humbler bards whose lyres Through earth's lowly vales have rung, Like the notes of woodland choirs ? They whose silver-sandalled feet Never climbed the clouds to meet ? " Where ? the air grew full of laughter Low and sweet; and following after Came the softest breath of singing As if lily bells were ringing; And from all the happy closes, Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses, Bearing woodland ferns for palm boughs in their hands, From the dim secluded places, Through the wide enchanted spaces, With their song-illumined faces Swept the shadowy minstrel bands! A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. Songs unsung, the high and lowly, Songs, the holy and unholy, In that purest air grown wholly Clean from every spot and stain! And I knew as endless ages Still were turning life's full pages, Each should find his own again Find the song he could not sing, As his soul's best blossoming! QUESTIONING A ROSE. IT was fair, it was sweet, And it blossomed at my feet. " O thou peerless rose ! " I said, " Art thou heir to roses dead, Roses that their petals shed In the winds of long ago ? Who bequeathed to thee the glow Of thy perfect, radiant heart ? What proud queen of fire and snow Lived to make thee what thou art ? " Who gave thee thy nameless grace And the beauty of thy face, Touched thy lips with fragrant wine, Pledging thee in cups divine? 5 33 QUESTIONING A ROSE. On some long-forgotten day, When earth kept glad holiday, One bright rose was born, I think, Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink ; Born, more blest than others are, To be thy progenitor ! " Oh the roses that have died In the unremembered Junes! Oh the roses that have sighed Unto long-forgotten runes ! Dost thou know their secrets dear ? Have they whispered in thine ear Mysteries of the rain and dew, And the sunshine that they knew ? Have they told thee how the breeze Wooed them, and the amorous bees ? " Silent, art thou ? Thy repose Mocks me, yet I fain would know Art thou kin to one rare rose Of a summer long ago ? QUESTIONING A ROSE. 35 It was sweet, it was fair; Some one twined it in my hair, When my young cheek, blushing red, Shamed the roses, some one said. Dust and ashes though it be, Still its soul lives on in thee." THE FALLOW FIELD. THE sun comes up and the sun goes down ; The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town; But if it be dark or if it be day, If the tempests beat or the breezes play, Still here on this upland slope I lie, Looking up to the changeful sky. Naught am I but a fallow field; Never a crop my acres yield. Over the wall at my right hand Stately and green the corn-blades stand, And I hear at my left the flying feet Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat. 36 THE FALLOW FIELD. 37 Often while yet the morn is red I list for our master's eager tread. He smiles at the young corn's towering height, He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, But he glances not at the fallow field Whose idle acres no wealth may yield. Sometimes the shout of the harvesters The sleeping pulse of my being stirs, And as one in a dream I seem to feel The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel, Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain As they heap their wains with the golden grain. Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud, Though on every tongue your praise is loud. Our mother Nature is kind to me, And I am beloved by bird and bee, And never a child that passes by But turns upon me a grateful eye. 452643 THE FALLOW FIELD. Over my head the skies are blue ; I have my share of the rain and dew; I bask like you in the summer sun When the long bright days pass, one by one, And calm as yours is my sweet repose Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows. For little our loving mother cares Which the corn or the daisy bears, Which is rich with the ripening wheat, Which with the violet's breath is sweet, Which is red with the clover bloom, Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room. Useless under the summer sky Year after year men say I lie. Little they know what strength of mine I give to the trailing blackberry vine; Little they know how the wild grape grows, Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. THE FALLOW FIELD, 39 Little they think of the cups I fill For the mosses creeping under the hill ; Little they think of the feast I spread For the wild wee creatures that must be fed : Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, And the creeping things that no eye may see. Lord of the harvest, thou dost know How the summers and winters go. Never a ship sails east or west Laden with treasures at my behest, Yet my being thrills to the voice of God When I give my gold to the golden-rod. OUT AND IN. A SHIP went sailing out to sea, A gallant ship and gay, When skies were bright as skies could be, One sunny morn in May. The light winds blew, The white sails flew, The pennants floated far; No stain I saw, Nor any flaw, From deck to shining spar! And from the prow, with eager eyes, Hope gazed afar to Paradise. A ship came laboring in from sea, One wild December night ; Ah ! never ship was borne to lee In sadder, sorrier plight ! OUT AND IN. Rent were her sails By furious gales, No pennants floated far; Twisted and torn And all forlorn Were shuddering mast and spar ! But from the prow Faith's steady eyes Caught the near light of Paradise ! HER FLOWERS. " NAY, nay," she whispered low, " I will not have these buds of folded snow, Nor yet the pallid bloom Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume, Nor lilies waxen white, To go with her into the grave's dark night. " But now that she is dead Bring ye the royal roses blushing red; Roses that on her breast All summer long, by these pale hands caressed, Have lain in happy calm, Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm ! HER FLOWERS, 43 Roses for all the joy Of perfect hours when life had no alloy; When hope was glad and gay, And young Love sang his blissful roundelay; And to her eager eyes Each new day oped the gates of Paradise. But, for that she hath wept, And over buried hopes long vigil kept, Bring mystic passion-flowers, To tell the tale of sacrificial hours When, lifting up her cross, She bore it bravely on through pain and loss ! Then at her blessed feet, That never more shall haste on errands sweet, Lay fragrant mignonette And fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set. Dear humble flowers, that make Each passer-by the gladder for their sake ! 44 HER FLOWERS. For she who lieth here Trod not alone the high paths shining clear, With light of star and sun Falling undimmed her lofty place upon ; But stooped to lowliest ways, Filling with fragrance all the passing days ! THREE LADDIES. O SAILORS sailing north, Where the wild white surges roar, And fierce winds and strong winds Blow down from Labrador Have you seen my three brave laddies, My merry, red-cheeked laddies, Three bold, adventurous laddies, On some tempestuous shore? O sailors sailing south, Where the seas are calm and blue, And light clouds, and soft clouds, Are floating over you, Say, have you seen my laddies, My three bright winsome laddies, My brown-haired, smiling laddies, With hearts so leal and true ? 46 THREE LADDIES. O sailors sailing east, Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by; O sailors sailing west, Ask the eagles soaring high, If they have seen my laddies, My careless, heedless laddies, Three debonair young laddies, Beneath the wide, wide sky? O sailors, if you find them, Pray send them back to me; For them the winds go sighing Through every lonely tree For these three wandering laddies, My tender, bright-eyed laddies, The laughter-loving laddies, Whom they no longer see. There are three men who love me, Three men with bearded lips; But oh ! ye gallant sailors .Who sail the sea in ships THREE LADDIES, 47 In elf-land, or in cloud-land, Or on the dreamland shore, Can you find the little laddies Whom I can find no more? Three quiet, thoughtful laddies, Three merry, winsome laddies, Three rollicking, frolicking laddies, On any far-off shore ? SUMMER, 1882. O SUMMER, them fair laggard, where art thou ? In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom, What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume, Are roses crowning thine imperial brow ? Where art thou, Summer ? We should see thy feet Even now upon the mountains. All the hills Rise up to greet thee. Nature's great heart thrills, Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet ? And Summer answered : " Lo ! I wait ! I wait ! To the far North I bend my listening ear; By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hear One high, clear strain that rises soon nor late ! 4 8 SUMMER, 1882. 49 "Why should I haste where light and song have fled? The ' Woodnotes ' wake no more the Master's lyre ; The ' haughty day ' fills no ' blue urn with fire ' When its great lover lieth cold and dead ! " THORNLESS ROSES. " No ROSE may bloom without a thorn ? " Come down the garden paths and see How brightly in the scented air They bloom for you and me! See how, like rosy clouds, they lie Against the perfect, stainless blue ! See how they toss their airy heads, And smile for me, for you ! No scanty largess, meanly doled No pallid blooms, by two, by three, But a whole crowd of pink-white wings Fluttering for you and me. THORNLESS ROSES. So fair they are I cannot choose; I pluck the rich spoils here and there; I heap them on your waiting arms ; I twine them in your hair. There is no thorn among them all No sharp sting in the heart of bliss No bitter in the honeyed cup No burning in the kiss. Nay, quote the proverb if you must, And mock the truth you will not see ; Nathless, Love's thornless roses blow Somewhere for you and me. TREASURE-SHIPS. O BEAUTIFUL, stately ships, Ye come from over the seas, With every sail full spread To the glad, rejoicing breeze! Ye come from the dusky East, Ye come from the golden West, As birds that out of the far blue sky Fly each to its sheltered nest. All spoils of the earth ye bring; From the isles of far Cathay, From the fabled shores of the Orient, And realms more rich than they. The prisoned light of a thousand gems, The gleam of the virgin gold, Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl, Shut up in the narrow hold. TREASURE-SHIPS. Shawls from the looms of Ispahan ; Ivory white as milk; Shimmer of satin and rare brocade, And fold upon fold of silk ; Gauzes that India's maidens wear; Spices, and rare perfumes; Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups The wealth of the summer blooms. The blood of a thousand vines ; The cotton's drifted snow ; The fragrant heart of the precious woods That deep in the tropics grow; The strength of the giant hills; The might of the iron ore ; The golden corn, and the yellow wheat, From earth's broad threshing-floor. Yet, O ye beautiful ships! There are ships that come not back, With flying pennant and swelling sail, Over yon shining track! 54 TREASURE-SHIPS. Who can reckon their precious stores, Or measure the might have been ? Who can tell what they held for us The ships that will ne'er come in ? CHOOSING. MEADOW-SWEET or lily fair Which shall it be? Clematis or brier-rose, Blooming for me? Spicy pink, or violet With the dews of morning wet, Sweet peas or mignonette Which shall it be? Flowers in the garden-beds, Flowers everywhere; Blue-bells and yellow-bells Swinging in the air; Purple pansies, golden pied; Pink- white daisies, starry-eyed; Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed, Climbing everywhere! 5 6 CHOOSING. Oh, the roses darkly red See, how they burn! Glows with all the summer heat Each crimson urn. Bridal roses pure as snow, Yellow roses all a-blow, Sweet blush roses drooping low, Wheresoe'er I turn ! Life is so full, so sweet How can I choose ? If I gather this rose, That I must lose? All are not for me to wear; I can only have my share; Thorns are hiding here and there; How can I choose ? NOT MINE. IT is not mine to run With eager feet Along life's crowded ways, My Lord to meet. It is not mine to pour The oil and wine, Or bring the purple robe And linen fine. It is not mine to break At his dear feet The alabaster-box Of ointment sweet. It is not mine to bear His heavy cross, 58 NOT MINE. Or suffer, for his sake, All pain and loss. It is not mine to walk Through valleys dim, Or climb far mountain-heights Alone with him. He hath no need of me In grand affairs, Where fields are lost, or crowns Won unawares. Yet, Master, if I may Make one pale flower Bloom brighter, for thy sake, Through one short hour; If I, in harvest fields Where strong ones reap, May bind one golden sheaf For Love to keep; NOT MINE. 59 May speak one quiet word When all is still, Helping some fainting heart To bear thy will; Or sing one high, clear song, On which may soar Some glad soul heavenward, I ask no more ! THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. ONE autumn day we three, Who long had borne each other company, Grief, and my Heart, and I, Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky. The fields were bare and brown : From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down ; There were no birds to sing, Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing. We sought the barren sand Beside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand, Paced its slow length, and talked Of our supremest sorrows as we walked. Slow shaking each bowed head, " There is no anguish like to ours," we said ; THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. 61 " The glancing eyes of morn Fall on no souls more utterly forlorn." But suddenly, across A narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss, We saw before our eyes, High hung above the tide, a temple rise A temple wondrous fair, Lifting its shining turrets in the air, All touched with golden gleams, Like the bright miracles we see in dreams. Grief turned and looked at me. " We must go thither, O my friends," said she ; Then, saying nothing more, With rapid, gliding step passed on before. And we my Heart and I Where Grief went, we went, following silently, Till in sweet solitude Beneath the temple's vaulted roof we stood. 62 THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. 'Twas like a hollow pearl A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirl Of passion stirred not, where A luminous splendor trembled in the air. " O friends, I know this place," Said Grief at last, " this lofty, silent space, Where, either soon or late, I and my kindred all shall lie in state." " But do Griefs die ? " I cried. " Some die not all," full calmly she replied. "Yet all at last will lie In this fair chamber, slumbering quietly. " Chamber of Silence, this ; Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss. Mine hour hath come. We three Will walk, O friends, no more in company." Then was I dumb. My Heart And I how could we with our dear Grief part, THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. 63 Who for so many a day Had walked beside us in our lonely way ? But she, with matchless grace, And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face, Said, " Leave me here to sleep, Where every Grief forgets at last to weep." What could we do but go ? We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo ! The pearly door had closed, Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed. " Nay, go not back," she said; " Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead." Then, on the other side, On noiseless hinge another door swung wide, Through which we onward passed Into a chamber lowlier than the last, But, oh ! so sweet and calm That the hushed air was like a holy psalm. 64 THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. " Chamber of Peace " was writ Where the low vaulted roof arched over it. Then knew we Grief must cease When sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace. THREE ROSES. " OH, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose, A deep-tinted red rose ? " said she. " In the sunny garden closes, How they burn, the dark-red roses, How they lift up their glowing cups to me ! " " Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose, A dewy, dainty blush rose ? " said she. "At its heart a flush so tender, With what veiled and softened splendor Droopeth now its languid head towards me ! " " Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose, A fair and fragrant white rose ? " said she. " With its pale cheek tinted faintly, 'Tis a vestal, pure and saintly, Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me ! " 9 FOUR LETTERS. (INSCRIBED TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.) [In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the data August 29, there is this record, " Son b." The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.] FOUR letters on a yellow page Writ when the century was young ; A few small grains of shining sand Across it lightly flung! A child was born child nameless yet ; A son to love till life was o'er; But did no strange, sweet prescience stir, Teaching of something more ? Thy son! O father, hadst thou known What now the wide world knows of him, FOUR LETTERS. 67 How had thy pulses thrilled with joy, How had thine eye grown dim! Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years, Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze, And seen him as he stands to-day, Crowned with unfading bays While Love's red roses at his feet Pour all their wealth of rare perfume, And Truth's white lilies, pure as snow, His lofty way illume How had thy heart's strong throbbings shook The eager pen, the firm right hand, That threw upon this record quaint These grains of glittering sand ! O irony of Time and Fate ! That saves and loses, makes and mars, Keeps the small dust upon the scales, And blotteth out the stars! 68 FOUR LETTERS. Kingdoms and thrones have passed away; Conquerors have fallen, empires died, And countless sons of men gone down Beneath War's crimson tide. The whole wide earth has changed its face ; Nations clasp hands across the seas ; They speak, and winds and waves repeat The mighty symphonies. Mountains have bowed their haughty crests, And opened wide their ponderous doors ; The sea has gathered in its dead, Love-wept on alien shores. Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame, Have challenged all the slumbering land ; Yet neither Time nor Change has touched These few bright grains of sand ! VALDEMAR. WITHIN a city quaint and old, When reigned King Alcinor the Bold, There dwelt a sculptor whose renown With pride and wonder filled the town. And yet he had not reached his prime; The first warm glow of summer-time Had but just touched his radiant face, And moulded to a statelier grace The stalwart form that trod the earth As it had been of princely birth. So fair, so strong, so brave was he, With such a sense of mastery, That Alcinor upon his throne No kinglier gifts from life could own Than those it brought from near and far To the young sculptor, Valdemar! 69 7 o VALDEMAR. Mayhap he was not rich for Fame, To lend its magic to his name, Had outrun Fortune's swiftest pace And conquered in the friendly race. But a fair home was his, where bees Hummed in the laden mulberry trees; Where cyclamens, with rosy flush, Brightened the lingering twilight hush, And the gladiolus' fiery plume Mocked the red rose's brilliant bloom; Where violet and wind-flower hid The acacia's golden gloom amid; Where starry jasmines climbed, and where, Serenely calm, divinely fair, Like a white lily, straight and tall, The loveliest flower among them all, His sweet young wife, Hermione, Sang to the child upon her knee ! Here beauteous visions haunted him, Peopling the shadows soft and dim; Here the old gods around him cast The glamour of their splendors past VALDEMAR. Jove thundered from the awful sky; Proud Juno trod the earth once more ; Pale Isis, veiled in mystery, Her smile of mystic meaning wore; Apollo joyed in youth divine, And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine; Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned, With virgin footsteps spurned the ground; Here rose fair Venus from the sea, And that sad ghost, Persephone, Wandered, a very shade of shades, Amid the moonlit myrtle glades. Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child, The Holy Mother, meek and mild, Angels on glad wing soaring free, Pale, praying saints on bended knee, Martyrs with palms, and heroes brave, Who for their guerdon won a grave, Earth's laughing children, rosy sweet, And the soul's phantoms, fair and fleet All these were with him night and day, Charming the happy hours alway! Oh, who so rich as Valdemar? 72 VALDEMAR. What ill his joyous life can mar? With home and glorious visions blest, Glad in the work he loveth best! But Love's clear eyes are quick to see And one fair spring, Hermione, Sitting beneath her mulberry tree With her young children at her knee, Saw Valdemar, from day to day, As one whose thoughts were far away, With folded arms and drooping head Pace the green aisles with silent tread; Saw him stand moodily apart With idle hands and brooding heart, Or gaze at his still forms of clay, Himself as motionless as they ! " O Valdemar ! " she cried, " you bear Some burden that I do not share! I am your wife, your own true wife; Shut me not out from heart and life! Why brood you thus in silent pain ? " As shifts the changing weather-vane, VALDEMAR. 73 So came the old smile to his face, Saluting her with courtly grace. " Nay, nay, Hermione, not so ! No secret, bitter grief I know ; But, haunting all my dreams by night And thoughts by day, one vision bright, One nameless wonder, near me stands, Claiming its birthright at my hands. It hath your eyes, Hermione, Your tender lips that smile for me; It hath your perfect, stately grace, The matchless beauty of your face. But it hath more ! for never yet On brow of earthly mould was set Such splendor and such light as streams From this rare phantom of my dreams ! " Lightly she turned, and led him through Under the jasmines wet with dew, Into a wide, cool room, shut in From the great city's whirl and din Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay. 74 VALDEMAR. " Dear idler, do thy work, I pray ! Thy radiant phantom lieth hid The mould of centuries amid, Waiting till thou shalt bid it rise And live beneath the wondering skies ! " Then rose a hot flush to his cheek; His stammering lips were slow to speak. " Hermione," he said at length, As one who gathers up his strength, " Hermione, my wife, I go Far from thee on a journey slow And long and perilous; for I know Somewhere upon the earth there is A finer, purer clay than this, From which I'll mould a shape more fair Than ever breathed in earthly air! I go to seek it ! " " Ah ! " she said, With smiling lips, but tearful eyes, Half lifted in a grieved surprise, VALDEMAR. 75 " How shall I then be comforted ? Not always do we find afar The good we seek, my Valdemar! This common, wayside clay thy hand Hath been most potent to command. Yet I I will not bid thee stay. Go, if thou must, and find thy clay ! " Then his long journeyings began, And still his hope his steps outran. O'er desert sands he came and went; He crossed a mighty continent; Plunged into forests dark and lone; In jungles heard the panther's moan; Climbed the far mountains' lofty heights; Watched alien stars through weary nights; While more than once, on trackless seas, His white sails caught the eddying breeze. Yet all his labor was for nought, And never found he what he sought, Or far or near. The finer clay But mocked his eager search alway. VALDEMAR. Ofttimes he came, with weary feet, Back to the home so still and sweet Where his fair wife, Hermione, Dwelt with her children at her knee; But never once his eager hand Thrilled the mute clay with high command. One day she spoke : " O Valdemar, Cease from your wanderings wide and far! Life is not long. Why waste it, then, Chasing false fires through marsh and fen ? Mould your fair statue while you may ; High purpose sanctifies the clay." He answered her, " My dream must wait Fortune will aid me, soon or late ! Perhaps the clay I may not find But a strange tale is in the wind Of an old man whose life has been Shut up wild solitudes within On Alpine mountains. He has found What I have sought the world around. A learned, godly man, he knows VALDEMAR. 77 How the full tide of being flows; And he, in some mysterious way, Makes, if he cannot find, the clay. He will his secret share with me I go to him, Hermione ! " " But, Valdemar," she cried, " time flies, And while you dream, the vision dies ! And look ! Our children suffer lack ; There is no coat for Claudio's back; Theresa's little feet, unshod, Are torn by shards on which they trod ; And Marcius cried but yesterday When the lads mocked him at their play. The very house is crumbling down; The broken hearth-stone needs repair ; The roof is open to the air It wakes the laughter of the town ! O \*aldemar ! if you must go Up to those trackless fields of snow, Mould first from yonder common clay Something to keep the wolf away VALDEMAR. A Virgin for some humble shrine, A soldier clad in armor fine, Or even such toys as Andrefels To laughing, wondering children sells." " Now murmur not, Hermione, But be thou patient," answered he. " Why mind the laughter of the town ? It cannot shake my fair renown ! A touch of hardship, now and then, Will never harm our little men ; And as for this old, crumbling roof, Let rude winds put it to the proof, And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! I Surely the Land of Promise spy. Where the fair vision of my dreams, Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams! In its white hand it holdeth up For us, my love, a brimming cup* Where wealth and fame and joy divine Mingle in life's most sparkling wine. Bid me God-speed, Hermione, And kiss me, ere I go from thee!" VALDEMAR. 79 " But the rent hearth-stone, Valdemar ! Mend that before you haste afar, That I may bake our children's bread Till we in your high path shall tread ! " " Nay, nay, I shall return so soon ! Now, farewell ! 'Tis the hour of neon, And ere the sun sets I must be Far on my way from home and thee ! " So on he sped, from day to day, Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun, Where scarlet-coated poppies run, Gay soldiers ready for the fray, Past vineyards purpling on the hills, Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills, And homes like dovecotes, nestling high Midway between the earth and sky ! Then on he passed through valleys dim Crowded with shadows gaunt and grim, Up towering heights whence glaciers launch Their swift-winged ships for seaward flight, Or where, dread messenger of fright, 8o VALDEMAR. Sweeps down the awful avalanche! And still upon the mountain-side To every man he met he cried, " Where shall I find, oh ! tell me where, The hermit of this upper air, Who Nature's inmost secret knows ? " And, pointing to the eternal snows, Each man replied, with wagging head, " ^P yonder, somewhere, it is said." At length one day, as sank the sun, He reached a low hut, dark and dun, And, entering unbidden, found An old man stretched upon the ground; A white-haired, venerable man, Whose eyes had hardly light to scan The face that, blanched with awful fear, Bent down, his failing breath to hear. " Pax vobiscum" he murmured low, "Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!" " No priest am I," cried Valdemar. " Alas ! alas ! I came from far VALDEMAR. To learn thy secret of the clay Speak to me, sire, while yet you may ! " But while he wet the parched lips, The dull eyes closed in death's eclipse; And the old seer in silence lay, Himself a thing of pallid clay, With all his secrets closely hid As Ramses' in the Pyramid. Long time within that lonely place Valdemar lived, but found no trace In learned book or parchment scroll (The ink scarce dry upon the roll) Of aught the stars had taught to him. Within the wide horizon's rim, Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play, -Knew the lost secret of the clay. Then sought he, after journeyings hard, The holy monks of St. Bernard. But they ah, yes! they knew him well, A man not ruled by book and bell. Godly, perhaps, but much inclined 82 VALDEMAR. Some newer road to heaven to find. And was he dead ? God rest his sou!, After this life of toil and dole ! And that was all! O Valdemar ! Fly to thy desolate home afar, Where wasted, worn, Hermione, With her pale children at her knee, Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps ! He finds her, smiling as she sleeps ; For night more tender is than day, And softly wipes our tears away. " Oh, wake, Hermione ! " he cries, As one whose spirit inly dies; " Hear me confess that I have been False to thee in my pride and sin ! God give me grace from this blest day To do his work in common clay ! " Next morn, in humble, sweet content, Into his studio he went, VALDEMAR. 83 Eager to test his willing hand, And rule the clay with wise command. But no fair wonder first he wrought, No marvel of creative thought, Not even a Virgin for a shrine, Or soldier clad in armor fine; Only such toys as Andrefels To laughing, wondering children sells ! One day he knelt him gravely down Beside the hearth-stone, rent and brown. " And now, my patient wife," said he, " What can be done with this, we'll see." With straining arm and crimsoned face He pried the mortar from its place, Lifted the heavy stone aside, And left a cavern yawning wide. Oh, wondrous tale ! At set of sun The guerdon of his search was won ; And where his broken hearth-stone lay He found at last the perfect clay! JUBILATE ! JUBILATE ! Jubilate ! Christ the Lord is risen to-day! Hear the mighty chorus swelling Over land and over sea! River calls aloud to river, Mountain peak to mountain peak Jubilate ! Jubilate ! Christ the Lord is risen to-day! Waken, roses, from your slumbers! Lilies, wake, for he is near! Happy bells in wild-wood arches, Ring and swing in sweet accord ! 84 JUBILATE! 85 Lift your voices, O ye maples, Sing aloud, ye stately pines, Jubilate ! Jubilate ! Christ the Lord is risen to-day! O thou goddess of the springtime, Fair Ostera, thou art dead ! Never more shall priests and vestals Weave fresh garlands for thy shrine; But the happy voices ringing, Over land and over sea, Swell the mighty jubilate, " Christ the Lord is risen to-day ! " EASTER LILIES. O YE dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing, Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day ? Do the shining angels, through Heaven's arches flying, Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay ? For we cannot reach you, O our well-beloved Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear ; From our close embraces ye are far removed, And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near. Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting Gave you fair flowers, singing, " Christ is risen to-day ! " Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting Earth and we together sang a roundelay! EASTER LILIES. 87 Now yet why repine we ? ye are done with sorrow ; Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears ; After night of watching came the glad to-morrow, Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years. Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth, Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth, Heaven's own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay ! "O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST." O WIND that blows out of the West, Thou hast swept over mountain and sea, Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings The breath of my love to me ? Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips ? Or tangled her soft brown hair ? Or fluttered the fragrant heart Of the rose she loves to wear ? O sun that goes down in the West, Hast thou seen my love to-day, As she sits in her beautiful prime Under skies so far away ? <0 WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST." 89 Hast thou gilded a path for her feet, Or deepened the glow on her cheeks, Or bent from the skies to hear The low, sweet words she speaks? O stars that are bright in the West When the hush of the night is deep, Do ye see my love as she lies Like a chaste, white flower asleep ? Does she smile as she walks with me In the light of a happy dream, While the night winds rustle the leaves, And the light waves ripple and gleam ? O birds that fly out of the West, Do ye bring me a message from her, As sweet as your love-notes are, When the warm spring breezes stir? Did she whisper a word of me Ar; your tremulous wings swept by, Or utter my name, mayhap, In a single passionate cry ? 90 WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WESTS O voices out of the West, Ye are silent every one, And never an answer comes From wind, or stars, or sun ! And the blithe birds come and go Through the boundless fields of space, As reckless of human prayers As if earth were a desert place ! A SUMMER SONG. ROLY-POLY honey-bee, Humming in the clover, Under you the tossing leaves, And the blue sky over, Why are you so busy, pray ? Never still a minute, Hovering now above a flower, Now half-buried in it ! Jaunty robin-redbreast, Singing loud and cheerly, From the pink- white apple-tree In the morning early, Tell me, is your merry song Just for your own pleasure, Poured from such a tiny throat, Without stint or measure ? 92 A SUMMER SONG. Little yellow buttercup, By the way-side smiling, Lifting up your happy face, With such sweet beguiling, Why are you so gayly clad Cloth of gold your raiment ? Do the sunshine and the dew Look to you for payment ? Roses in the garden beds, Lilies, cool and saintly, Darling blue-eyed violets, Pansies, hooded quaintly, Sweet-peas that, like butterflies, Dance the bright skies under, Bloom ye for your own delight, Or for ours, I wonder ! THE URN. ACROSS the blue Atlantic waves She sent a little gift to me; A golden urn a graceful toy As one need care to see. Smiling, I held it in my hand, Thinking her message o'er and o'er, Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so near The undiscovered shore. Oh ! had it been a funeral urn The gift my darling sent to me With loving thoughts and tender words Across the heaving sea 93 94 THE URN. A funeral urn which might have held Her sacred ashes, sealed in re;t Utter as that which holds in thrall Some pulseless marble breast! Where drifts she now? On what far seas Floateth to-day her golden hair? What stars behold her pale hands, clasped In ecstasy of prayer? For ever in this thought of mine, Like the fair Lady of Shalott, She drifteth, drifteth with the tide, But never comes to Camelot! THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. " Ho ! HO ! " he cried, as up and down He rode through the streets of Windham town " Ho ! ho ! for the day of peace is done, And the day of wrath too well begun ! Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills ; Drive down the cattle from off your hills ; For Boston lieth in sore distress, Pallid with hunger and long duress : Her children starve, while she hears the beat And the tramp of the red-coats in every street ! " " What, ho ! What, ho ! " Like a storm unspent, Over the hill-sides he came and went; And Parson White, from his open door Leaning bare-headed that August day, While the sun beat down on his temples gray, W T atched him until he could see no more. 95 96 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. Then straight he strode to the church, and flung His whole soul into the peal he rung; Pulling the bell-rope till the tower Seemed to rock in the sudden shower The shower of sound the farmers heard, Rending the air like a living word ! Then swift they gathered with right good-will From field and anvil and shop and mill, To hear what the parson had to say That would not keep till the Sabbath-day. For only the women and children knew The tale of the horseman galloping through The message he bore as up and down He rode through the streets of Windham town. That night, as the parson sat at ease In the porch, with his Bible on his knees (Thanking God that at break of day Frederic Manning would take his way, With cattle and sheep from off the hills, And a load of grain from the barns and mills, THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 97 To the starving city where General Gage Waited unholy war to wage), His little daughter beside him stood, Hiding her face in her muslin hood. In her arms her own pet lamb she bore, As it struggled down to the oaken floor: "It must go; I must give my lamb," she said, " To the children that cry for meat and bread," Then lifted to his her holy eyes, Wet with the tears of sacrifice. " Nay, nay," he answered, " There is no need That the hearts of babes should ache and bleed. Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play, You and your pet, through the livelong day." He laid his hand on her shining hair, And smiled as he blessed her, standing there, With kerchief folded across her breast, And her small brown hands together pressed, A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet, With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet. 13 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. Away to its place the lamb she led, Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed, While the moon rose up, and the stars looked down On the silent streets of Windham town. But when the heralds of morning came, Flushing the east with rosy flame, With low of cattle and scurry of feet, Driving his herd down the village street, Young Manning heard from a low stone wall A child's voice clearly yet softly call, And saw in the gray dusk standing there A little maiden with shining hair, While crowding close to her tender side Was a snow-white lamb to her apron tied. " Oh, wait ! " she cried, " for my lamb must go To the children crying in want and woe. It is air I have." And her tears fell fast As she gave it one eager kiss the last. " The road will be long to its feet. I pray Let your arms be its bed a part of the way; THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 99 And give it cool water and tender grass Whenever a way-side brook you pass." Then away she flew like a startled deer, Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear. Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyes One moment up to the morning skies ; Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strode Sturdily down the lengthening road. " Now God be my helper," he cried, " and lead Me safe with my charge to the souls in need ! Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole, Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll, To the city in want and woe that lies I will bear this lamb as a sacrifice." MARCH FOURTH. 1881-1882. ONE year ago the plaudits of the crowd, The drum's long thunder and the bugle's blare, The bell's gay clamor, pealing clear and loud, And rapturous music filling all the air : One year ago, on roofs and domes and spires, Ten thousand banners bursting into bloom As the proud day advanced its golden fires, And all the crowding centuries gave it room ; One year ago the laurel and the palm, The upward path, the height undimmed and far ? And in the clear, strong light, serene and calm, One high, pure spirit, shining like a star ! MARCH FOURTH. 101 To-day for loud acclaims, the long lament ; For shouts of triumph, tears that fall like rain ; A world remembering, with vain anguish rent, Thy long, unmurmuring martyrdom of pain ! The year moves on ; the seasons come and go ; Day follows day, and pale stars rise and set ; Oh! in yon radiant heaven dost thou know The land that loved thee never can forget ? It doth not swerve it keeps its onward way, Unfaltering still, from farthest sea to sea; Yet, while it owns another's rightful sway, It patient grows and strong, remembering thee ! ROY. OUR Prince has gone to his inheritance ! Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile, Some crowned king to leave his throne should chance, And try the rough ways of the world awhile ? Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress, Would he not hasten to his own again ? Why should he bear its labor and duress, And all the untold burden of its pain ? Or what if from the golden palace gate The king's fair son on some bright morn should stray ? Would he not send his lords of high estate To lead him back ere fell the close of day ? ROY. 103 Even so our King from Heaven's high portals saw The fair young Prince where earth's dull shades advance, And sent his messengers of love and law To bear him home to his inheritance ! THE PAINTER'S PRAYER. ' NEC ME PRjETERMITTAS, DOMINE ! " (An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt's "Light of the World.") " NAY," he said, " it is not done ! At to-morrow's set of sun Come again, if you would see What the finished thought may be." Straight they went. The heavy door On its hinges swung once more, As within the studio dim Eye and heart took heed of Him! How the Presence filled the room, Brightening all its dusky gloom ! Saints and martyrs turned their eyes From the hills of Paradise; THE PAINTER'S PRAYER. Rapt in holy ecstasy, Mary smiled her Son to see, Letting all her lilies fall At his feet the Lord of all! But the painter bowed his head, Lost in wonder and in dread, And as at a holy shrine Knelt before the form divine. All had passed the pride, the power, Of the soul's creative hour Exaltation's soaring flight To the spirit's loftiest height. Had he dared to paint the Lord ? Dared to paint the Christ, the Word ! Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin! Ah, the shame his soul within ! Saints might turn on Him their eyes From the hills of Paradise, But the painter could not brook On that pictured face to look. io6 THE PAINTER'S PRAYER. Yet the form was grand and fair, Fit to move a world to prayer; Godlike in its strength and stress, Human in its tenderness. From it streamed the Light divine, O'er it drooped the heavenly vine, And beneath the bending spray Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way! Suddenly with eager hold, Back he swept the curtain's fold, Letting all the sunset glow O'er the living canvas flow. Surely then the wondrous eyes Met his own in tenderest wise, And the Lord Christ, half revealed, Smiled upon him as he kneeled ! Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought, Up he brush and palette caught, And where deepest shade was thrown Set one sign for God alone! THE PAINTER'S PRAYER. 107 Years have passed but, even yet, Where the massive frame is set You may find these words : " Nee me Pr&termittas , Djinir^e / " " Neither pass me by, O Lord ! " Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word, Low we bow before thy feet, Thy remembrance to entreat ! In our soul's most secret place, For no eye but thine to trace,. Lo ! this prayer we write : " Nee me Prceterniittas, Do/nine ! " FROM EXILE. PARIS, SEPTEMBER 3, 1879. (A Mother speaks.) AH, dear God, when will it be day ? I can not sleep, I can not pray. Tossing, I watch the silent stars Mount up from the horizon bars: Orion with his flaming sword, Proud chieftain of the glorious horde; Auriga up the lofty arch Pursuing still his stately march So patient and so calm are they. Ah, dear God ! when will it be day ? O Mary, Mother ! Hark ! I hear A cock crow through the silence clear ! The dawn's faint crimson streaks the east, And, afar off, I catch the least FROM EXILE. 109 Low murmur of the city's stir As she shakes off the dreams of her! List! there's a sound of hurrying feet Far down below me in the street. Thank God! the weary night is past, The morning comes 'tis day at last. Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise! The sun is up, it gilds the skies. She does not stir. The young sleep sound As dead men in their graves profound. Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste! To-day there is no time to waste. Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair. Hand me the glass. Once I was fair As thou art. Now I look so old It seems my death-knell should be tolled. 111? No! (I want no wine.) So pale? Like a white ghost, so wan and frail? Well, that's not strange. All night I lay Waiting and watching for the day. FROM EXILE. But there ! I'll drink it ; it may make My cheeks burn brighter for his sake Who comes to-day. My boy ! my boy ! How can I bear the unwonted joy? I, who for eight long years have wept While happier mothers smiling slept; While others decked their sons first-born For dance, or fete, or bridal morn, Or proudly smiled to see them stand The stateliest pillars of the land! For he, so gallant and so gay, As young and debonair as they, My beautiful, brave boy, my life, Went down in the unequal strife! The right or wrong ? Oh, what care I ? The good God judgeth up on high. And now He gives him back to me ! I tremble so I scarce can see. How full the streets are ! I will wait His coming here beside this gate, FROM EXILE. in From which I watched him as he went, Eight years ago, to banishment. Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when You see a band of stalwart men, With one fair boy among them one With bright hair shining in the sun, Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes, Blue as the blue of summer skies. My boy! my boy! Why come they not? O Son of God ! hast Thou forgot Thy Mother's agony ? Yet she, Was she not stronger far than we, We common mothers ? Could she know From her far heights such pain and woe? Run farther down the street, and see If they're not coming, Rosalie! Mother of Christ! how lag the hours! What ? just beyond the convent towers, And coming straight this way? O heart, Be still and strong, and bear thy part, FROM EXILE. Thy new part, bravely. Hark ! I hear Above the city's hum the near Slow tread of marching feet ; I see Nay, I can not see, Rosalie ! Your eyes are younger. Is he there, My Antoine, with his sunny hair ? It is like gold; it shines in the sun: Surely you see it? What? Not one Not one bright head ? All old, old men, Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt ? Then then He has not come he is ill,, or dead! O God, that I were in thy stead, My son ! my son ! Who touches me ? Your pardon, sir. I am not she Fcr whom you look. Go farther on Ere yet the daylight shall be gone. " Mcther ! " Who calls me " Mother " ? You ? You are not he my Antoine ! You Are a gray-bearded man, and he Was a mere boy who went from me, FROM EXILE. 113 Only a boy! I'm sorry, sir. God bless you ! Soon you will find her For whom you seek. But I ah, I Still must I call and none reply ! You kiss me? Antoine ? O my son! Thou art mine own, my banished one ! A MOTHER- SONG. SLEEP, baby, sleep ! The Christmas stars are shining, Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky ; Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining : Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh ! Hush, baby, hush ! For Earth her watch is keeping ; Watches and waits she the angels' song to hear; Listening for the swift rush of their wings down- sweeping, Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear. Dream, baby, dream ! The far-off chimes are ringing ; Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells ; A MOTHER-SONG. 115 With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging, While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells ! Hark, baby, hark ! Hear how the choral voices, All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain, " Unto you is born a Saviour," while heaven with earth rejoices, And all its lofty battlements reecho with the strain ! Wake, baby, wake ! For, lo ! in floods of glory The Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn ! Wake, baby, wake ! and smile to hear the story How Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born ! EASTER MORNING. DAME MARGARET spake to Annie Blair, To Annie Blair spake she, As from beneath her wrinkled hand She peered far out to sea. " Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair, For my old eyes are dim ; See you a single boat afloat Within the horizon's rim ? " Sweet Annie looked to east, to west, To north and south looked she : There was no single boat afloat Upon the angry sea. EASTER MORNING. 117 The sky was dark, the winds were high, The breakers lashed the shore, And louder and still louder swelled The tempest's sullen roar. " Look forth again," Dame Margaret cried : " Doth any boat come in ? " And scarce she heard the answering word Above the furious din. " Pray God no boat may put to sea In such a gale!" she said; " Pray God no soul may dare to-night The rocks of Danger Head ! " " This is Good Friday, Annie Blair," Dame Margaret cried again, " When Mary's Son, the Merciful, On Calvary was slain. " The earth did quake, the rocks were rent, The graves were opened wide, EASTER MORNING. And darkness like to this fell down When He the Holy died. " Give me your hand, O Annie Blair ; Your two knees fall upon ; Christ send to you your lover back To me, my only son ! " All night they watched, all night they prayed, All night they heard the roar Of the fierce breakers dashing high Upon the lonely shore. Oh, hark ! strange footsteps on the sand, A voice above the din : *' Dame Margaret ! Dame Margaret ! Is Annie Blair within ? " High on the rocks of Danger Head Her lover's boat is cast, All rudderless, all anchorless Mere hull and splintered mast." EASTER MORNING, 119 Oh, hark ! slow footsteps on the sand, And women wailing sore : " Dame Margaret ! Dame Margaret ! Your son you '11 see no more ! " God pity you ! Christ comfort you ! " The weeping women cried ; But " May God pity Annie Blair ! " Dame Margaret replied. " For lite is long and youth is strong, And it must still bear on. Leave us alone to make our moan My son ! alas, my son ! " The Easter morning, flushed with joy, Saw all the winds at rest, And far and near the blue sea smiled With sunshine on its breast. The neighbors came, the neighbors went; They sought the house of prayer; EASTER MORNING. But on the rocks of Danger Head The dame and Annie Blair, With still, white faces, watched the deep Without a tear or moan. " I cannot weep," said Annie Blair " My heart is turned to stone." Forth from the church the pastor came, And up the rocks strode he, Baring his thin white locks to meet The salt breath of the sea. " The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake, The sea give up its dead, For Christ our Lord is risen indeed 'Tis Easter morn," he said. Oh, hark ! oh, hark ! A startled cry, A rush of hurrying feet, The swarming of a hundred men Adown the village street. EASTER MORNING. " Now unto God and Christ the Lord Be praise and thanks alway! The sea hath given up its dead This blessed Easter-day." 16 SEALED ORDERS. " OH, whither bound, my captain ? The wind is blowing free, And overhead the white sails spread As we go out to sea." He looked to north, he looked to south, Or ever a word he spake ; " AVith orders sealed my sails I set Due east my course I take." " But to what port ?" " Nay, nay," he cried, " This only do I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever wind may blow." SEALED ORDERS. 123 For many a day we sailed east. " O captain, tell me true, When will our good ship come to port ? " " I cannot answer you ! " " Then, prithee, gallant captain, Let us but drift awhile ! The current setteth southward Past many a sunny isle, " Where cocoas grow, and mangoes, And groves of feathery palm, And nightingales sing all night long To roses breathing balm." " Nay, tempt me not," he answered, " This only do I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever winds may blow ! " Then sailed we on, and sailed we cast, Into the whirlwind's track. I2 4 SEALED ORDERS. Wild was the tempest overhead, The sea was strewn with wrack. " Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain, Thou 'rt rushing on to death ! " But back he answer shouted, With unabated breath : " Turn back who will, I turn not ! For this one thing I know, That I must sail due eastward However winds may blow ! " " Oh, art thou fool or madman ? Thy port is but a dream, And never on the horizon's rim Will its fair turrets gleam." Then smiled the captain wisely, And slowly answered he, The while his keen glance widened Over the lonely sea : SEALED ORDERS. 125 " I carry sealed orders. This only thing I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever winds may blow ! " " NO MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON." No MORE the thunder of cannon, No more the clashing of swords, No more the rage of the contest, Nor the rush of contending hordes : But, instead, the glad reunion, The clasping of friendly hands, The song, for the shout of battle, Heard over the waiting lands. O brothers, to-night we greet you With smiles, half sad, half gay For our thoughts are flying backward To the years so far away 126