JC-NRLF 
 
 SB B7M TED 
 
THE 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN RUSSELL HAYES 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 JOHN C. WINSTON & CO. 
 
 1895 
 
r 
 
 o 
 
 Copyright, 1895, 
 BY JOHN RUSSELL HAYBS. 
 
SWARTHMORE, fairest/ 
 
 Ah, to thee 
 
 Must my earliest offerings be, 
 To thee upon thy grassy hill 
 'Mid thy meadows sweet and still. 
 With thy charms that dearer grow 
 As the hasting seasons go. 
 In the summer of my youth 
 Drank I at thy founts of truth, 
 Joying in the ample store 
 Thou didst ever freely pour, 
 Lessons out of Nature's page, 
 Words of scholar and of sage, 
 And the love of poets old 
 Chanting numbers all of gold. 
 Happy years and dreamy-sweet, 
 Happy years, but all too fleet ! 
 Holding these in memory 
 I inscribe my Book to thee. 
 
 M1S195O 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. . 3 
 
 SONNETS: 
 
 The Golden Days of Old Romance 21 
 
 To Bion 22 
 
 Spenser 23 
 
 The Garden of the Hesperides 24 
 
 In Poet-Land 25 
 
 Venice 26 
 
 The Makers of Florence 27 
 
 The Grave of Shelley 28 
 
 The Grave of Keats 29 
 
 Switzerland 30 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 SONNETS (continued). 
 
 Oxford 31 
 
 Ireland 32 
 
 An Old-Time Garden .... 
 
 On a Portrait of Lucretia Mott 34 
 
 In Memoriam 
 
 1 The Groves Were God's First Temples.' .... 36 
 
 Spring 
 
 Summer 38 
 
 Autumn 39 
 
 Winter 40 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES: 
 A May-Day Invitation .... 
 
 Whittier's Birthday 46 
 
 England 51 
 
 A Dream of Other Days 57 
 
 Sweet Spring is Here 63 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES: 
 
 Aurora . 69 
 
 Crocuses 70 
 
 White Violets 71 
 
 The Fairy Sky 72 
 
 The Snow-Drop 72 
 
 In Blossom-Time 73 
 
 The Rose's Reply 74 
 
 The Fairies' Supper 75 
 
 The Mushroom Tent 78 
 
 Cherry Blossoms 79 
 
 The Fairy Fleet 80 
 
 The Blue-Bell Clock 81 
 
 The Fairy Crown 82 
 
 Poppies 83 
 
 The Rosy Rain 85 
 
 Pink Cheeks 85 
 
 The Fairies in the Dairies 86 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES (continued). 
 
 The Death of the Bee 88 
 
 Pansies 89 
 
 The Quaker-Lady 90 
 
 TRANSLATIONS: 
 
 To Mercury 93 
 
 To Virgil 94 
 
 To Calliope 96 
 
 The Bandusian Spring 100 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GAKDEN. 
 
4 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 The house is hoary with the mould of years, 
 And crumbling are its ivy-covered walls; 
 
 The rain-storms dim it with their misty tears, 
 And sadly o'er its gloom the sunlight falls. 
 
 Ah, different far the sweet old garden there, 
 
 For balmy rains and warming suns but make it glow 
 more fair. 
 
 So bright and lovely is the dear old place, 
 It seems as though the country's very heart 
 
 Were centered here, and that its antique grace 
 Must ever hold it from the world apart. 
 
 Immured it lies among the meadows deep, 
 
 Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest 
 sleep. 
 
 Some like a garden where the hand of art 
 Appears in every terrace, walk, and bed, 
 
 Where vases stand in even rows apart 
 
 And shrubs are taught symmetric shade to spread : 
 
 But little art I wish; enough for me 
 
 This garden where the flowers grow in sweet 
 simplicity. 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GAEDEN. 5 
 
 Fair is each budding thing the garden shows, 
 From spring's frail crocus to the latest bloom 
 
 Of fading autumn. Every wind that blows 
 Across that glowing tract sips rare perfume 
 
 From all the tangled blossoms tossing there ; 
 
 Soft winds, they fain would linger long, nor any 
 farther fare ! 
 
 The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge 
 
 And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam ; 
 
 Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge 
 They love to wander from their meadow home, 
 
 To take what little pleasure here they may 
 
 Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm 
 mid-day. 
 
 The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires, 
 
 And up the arbor's lattices are rolled 
 The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires ; 
 
 The tall carnation's breast of faded gold 
 Is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, 
 Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's 
 cheek. 
 
6 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes ; 
 
 With golden stars the coreopsis flames ; 
 And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms 
 
 Dear for the very fragrance of their names, 
 Poppies and gillyflowers and four-o'clocks, 
 Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and 
 hollyhocks, 
 
 Harebells and peonies and dragon-head, 
 
 Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, 
 Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, 
 
 The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not, 
 Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, 
 Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle 
 vines, 
 
 Foxgloves and marigolds and mignonette, 
 Dahlias and lavender and damask rose. 
 
 O dear old flowers, ye are blooming yet, 
 Each year afresh your lovely radiance glows : 
 
 But where are they who saw your beauty's dawn ? 
 
 Ah, with the flowers of other years they long ago 
 have gone ! 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 7 
 
 They long have gone, but ye are still as fair 
 As when the brides of eighty years ago 
 
 Plucked your soft roses for their waving hair, 
 And blossoms o'er their bridal-veils to strow. 
 
 Alas, your myrtle on a later day 
 
 Marked those low mounds where 'neath the willows' 
 shade at last they lay ! 
 
 Beside the walk the drowsy poppies sway, 
 More deep of hue than is the reddest rose, 
 
 And dreamy-warm as summer's midmost day. 
 
 Proud, languorous queens of slumberous repose 
 
 Within their little chalices they keep 
 
 The mystic witchery that brings mild, purple-lidded 
 sleep. 
 
 Drowse on, soft flowers of quiet afternoons, 
 The breezes sleep beneath your lulling spell ; 
 
 In dreamy silence all the garden swoons, 
 Save where the lily's aromatic bell 
 
 Is murmurous with one low-humming bee, 
 
 As oozy honey-drops are pilfered by that filcher 
 wee. 
 
8 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 The poets' flower, the pale narcissus, droops 
 
 Like that lorn youth beside the fountain's brink ; 
 
 Aslumber are the phlox's purple troops, 
 And every musky rose and spicy pink ; 
 
 Asleep the snowdrop's tiny milken spheres, 
 
 And all the fuchsia's little white and crimson 
 chandeliers. 
 
 A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, 
 
 A calm asylum from the busy world, 
 Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade, 
 
 Nor news of 'change and mart each morning whirled 
 Round half the globe ; no noise of party feud 
 Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect 
 quietude. 
 
 But summer after summer comes and goes, 
 And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair ; 
 
 May brings the tulip, golden June the rose, 
 
 And August winds shake down the mellow pear. 
 
 Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears, 
 
 But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing 
 years. 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 9 
 
 Nay, time has served but to enhance its charms, 
 And for a century the folk have blest 
 
 This glowing isle amid their sea of farms, 
 On which 'tis sweet the tired eyes to rest. 
 
 O'er all the land its flowery spell is cast, 
 
 A fragrant chain that links the present with the 
 misty past. 
 
 And here the daffodils still yield their gold, 
 And hollyhocks display their satin wheels, 
 
 The soft harebells as in the days of old 
 Ring out their carillon of fairy peals, 
 
 And dandelion-balls nod o'er the grass 
 
 And give from out their fluffy store to all the winds 
 that pass. 
 
 The droning bees still sip ambrosial dew 
 Within the spiral foxglove's purple tents ; 
 
 Emboldened by the poppy's angry hue, 
 
 Sweet-williams hold their little parliaments, 
 
 Discussing in a silken undertone 
 
 The mullein's insolence for that, from fields plebeian 
 blown, 
 
10 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 He dares to flaunt his vulgar woollen face 
 
 Among the garden's aristocracy. 
 Long nurtured in this rare and cloistered place, 
 
 These gentles hold themselves of high degree, 
 Disdaining as a common, low-born weed 
 Each wilding bloom that traces not his line from 
 ancient seed. 
 
 O fair the larkspur's slender tufts of blue, 
 And fair the saffron-kirtled columbine ; 
 
 Fair is the lily from whose luscious dew 
 The elfin-folk distil their honeyed wine. 
 
 The flags are fair, and fair the flowers that ope 
 
 And spread the sweet, old-fashioned redolence of 
 heliotrope. 
 
 Fair is the sweet-pea's witching little face, 
 And fair the dodder's reels of amber thread ; 
 
 Fair is the slim brocade of dainty lace 
 The sweet alyssum weaves along each bed. 
 
 All, all is fair within the garden's bound ; 
 
 No sweeter or more lovely spot, I ween, could e'er 
 be found. 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 11 
 
 And here, methinks, might poet-lovers' sighs 
 Chime with their ladies' sweetly winsome talk, 
 
 Here Astrophel adore his Stella's eyes, 
 And Waller with his Saccharissa walk, 
 
 Or Herrick frame a flowery verse to please 
 
 His silken-bod iced Julia here beneath the cherry- 
 trees. 
 
 Ah, Herrick, what a sunny charm is thine, 
 Rare laureate-singer of the lovely flowers ! 
 
 Across thy page the rosy garlands twine, 
 And dewy April melts in fragrant showers 
 
 Of cloudy blossoms, pink and white and red, 
 
 And May-Day maidens weave a wreath to crown 
 their Poet's head. 
 
 O sweet old English gardens, he is gone, 
 Green Devon lanes, ye know his face no more ; 
 
 But long as dew-kissed buds shall wake at dawn 
 And daffodils sway by the grassy shore, 
 
 So long will Herrick's floral music sound, 
 
 And Memory's greenest tendrils climb to wreathe 
 his name around. 
 
12 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 And here on dreamy August afternoons 
 
 I love to pore upon his golden book ; 
 And here among the roses that are June's, 
 
 On some green bench within a bowery nook, 
 Where rosy petal-drift may strew the page, 
 Tis sweet to read the pensive numbers of old Persia's 
 
 Omar Khayydm, the wisest of the wise. 
 
 Ah, now in balmy Naishdpiir he sleeps 
 These almost thousand years ; and where he lies 
 
 His well-loved rose each spring her petals weeps. 
 Of what may be hereafter no man knows, 
 Then let us live to-day, he cried, as lives the lovely 
 rose! 
 
 O stately roses, yellow, white, and red, 
 As Omar loved you, so we love to-day. 
 
 Some roses with the vanished years have sped, 
 And some our mothers' mothers laid away 
 
 Among their bridal-gowns' soft silken folds, 
 
 Where each pale petal for their sons a precious 
 memory holds. 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 13 
 
 And some we find among the yellowed leaves 
 Of slender albums, once the parlor's pride, 
 
 Where faint-traced ivy pattern interweaves 
 The mottoes over which the maiden sighed. 
 
 O faded roses, did they match your red, 
 
 Those fair young cheeks whose color long ago with 
 yours has fled ? 
 
 And still doth balmy June bring many a rose 
 To crown the happy garden's loveliness. 
 
 Against the house the old sweet-brier grows 
 And cheers its sadness with soft, warm caress, 
 
 As fragrant yet as in the far-off time 
 
 When that old mansion's fairest mistress taught its 
 shoots to climb. 
 
 Enveloped in their tufted velvet coats 
 The sweet, poetical moss-roses dream ; 
 
 And petal after petal softly floats 
 
 From where the tea-rose spreads her fawn 
 and cream, 
 
 Like fairy barks on tides of air they flow, 
 
 And rove adown the garden silently as drifting snow. 
 
14 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 Near that old rose named from its hundred leaves 
 The lovely bridal-roses sweetly blush ; 
 
 The climbing rose across the trellis weaves 
 A .canopy suffused with tender flush ; 
 
 The damask roses swing on tiny trees, 
 
 And here the seven-sisters glow like floral 
 pleiades. 
 
 Nor lacks there music in this lovely close, 
 
 The music of the oriole's soft lute, 
 The gush of cadenced melody that flows 
 
 And echoes from the blue-bird's fairy flute ; 
 And here beside the fountain's mossy brink 
 There rings the lilting laughter of the happy 
 bobolink. 
 
 From forth the branches of the lilac tree 
 
 The robin-redbreast's bubbling ditties well ; 
 
 O cherished will his name forever be, 
 For he it was, as olden stories tell, 
 
 That eased the crown upon the Saviour's head 
 
 And with the bleeding thorn stained his own breast 
 forever red ! 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 15 
 
 And now and then the shy wood-robin comes 
 And from the pear tree pours his liquid notes ; 
 
 The black-bird plays among the purple plums ; 
 The humming-bird about the garden floats 
 
 And like a bright elf wings his darting flight, 
 
 A shimmering, evanescent point of green and golden 
 light. 
 
 Down in the lily's creamy cup he dips, 
 
 Then whirrs to where the honeysuckle showers 
 
 Its luscious essences ; but most he sips 
 
 From out the deep, red-throated trumpet-flowers ; 
 
 Sweet booty there awaits the spoiler's stealth 
 
 As horn by horn he rifles all their summer-hoarded 
 wealth. 
 
 The ragged-robins gaze with pleased surprise 
 Upon the jewelled beauty flashing there ; 
 
 The pansies open wide their velvet eyes 
 And ponder sweetly on that rover fair, 
 
 Until the purple Canterbury-bell 
 
 Chimes out its little curfew tolling them to slumber's 
 spell. 
 
16 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 O sweet is every rural sight and sound 
 That greets us in the pleasant countryside, 
 
 The fields of crimson clover walled around 
 With greenest hedges, fertile valleys wide, 
 
 Long, wooded slopes, and many a grassy hill, 
 
 And peaceful, silver rivers flowing on from mill to 
 mill. 
 
 Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain 
 
 In violet-days, when spring opes her green 
 heart ; 
 
 And sweet the apple trees along the lane 
 Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart ; 
 
 And sweet the brimming dew that overfills 
 
 The golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils. 
 
 Sweet is the fragrance of the fruity vine, 
 
 And sweet the rustle of the broad-leaved corn ; 
 
 And sweet the lowing of the great-eyed kine 
 Among the milking-sheds at early morn 
 
 As they await the farmer's red-cheeked girls, 
 
 While still the spiders' filmy webs are bright with 
 dewy pearls. 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 17 
 
 And sweet the locust's drowsy monotone. 
 
 And sweet the ring-dove's brooding plaint at eve ; 
 
 And sweet from far-off meadows newly mown 
 The breath of hay that tempts the bees to leave 
 
 The corridors of hollyhocks ; and sweet 
 
 To see the sun-browned reapers in among the ripened 
 wheat. 
 
 But sweeter far in this old garden close 
 To loiter 'mid the lovely, old-time flowers, 
 
 To breathe the scent of lavender and rose, 
 And with old poets pass the peaceful hours. 
 
 Old gardens and old poets, happy he 
 
 Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet 
 company ! 
 
 And now is gone the dreamy afternoon, 
 The sun has sunk below yon western height ; 
 
 The pallid silver of the harvest-moon 
 
 Floods all the garden with its soft, weird light. 
 
 The flowers long since have told their dewy beads, 
 
 And naught is heard except the frogs' small choir in 
 distant meads. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
THE GOLDEN DAYS OF OLD ROMANCE. 
 
 T LOVE the golden days of old romance 
 
 That live for us in legend and in story, 
 The Age of Gold when man was in his glory, 
 The feats of fairies and their moonlight dance, 
 The stately jousts with noble knights a-prance, 
 And lordly loves in castles gray and hoary. 
 And so I turn to some old allegory 
 Of merry England, or of sunny France, 
 Or dreamy Spain ; and all entranced I sit 
 With mystic Arthur at the Table Round, 
 Or visit that dark vale where Roland wound 
 
 His last sad horn, or thread the purple light 
 Of Spenser's woods, or laugh with him who writ 
 Of old La Mancha's crazed, fantastic knight. 
 
22 SONNETS. 
 
 TO BION. 
 
 ON HIS 'LAMENT FOR ADONIS.' 
 
 woe of widowed Cypris and the groan 
 Of that sweet lady drooping o'er the bed 
 Where lay the form of lovely Adon dead, 
 
 Whose too, too early death she did bemoan 
 
 For that it left her loverless and lone 
 
 Amid the tears the Loves lamenting shed, 
 These dolors have in later poets bred 
 
 The melancholy music of thy moan, 
 
 O gentle Bion. On this languid string 
 
 Young Moschus, mourning thine own parting, 
 
 played ; 
 Sweet Spenser, stroking its sad minors, made 
 
 His moan for Sidney, as for hapless King 
 
 Great Milton. Last the noble Laureate laid 
 
 The ' In Memoriam ' as his offering. 
 
SONNETS. 23 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 T WENT with Spenser into Faerie Land, 
 
 And passed through purple forests deep and wide ; 
 
 Down dim, enchanted glades where I espied 
 The lovely hamadryads' sylvan band. 
 Along the marge of many a golden strand 
 
 We swept in cedarn shallops down the tide ; 
 
 And ever as we fared he magnified 
 The name of Gloriana high and grand. 
 O mighty Dreamer ! great Idealist ! 
 
 The fields of Phantasie are thy demesne. 
 
 Sweet is the marriage-music thou dost play, 
 And sweet to hear thee pipe the shepherd's lay ; 
 But sweeter far in summertide to list 
 
 To the stately measures of thy ' Faerie Queene.' 
 
J4 SONNETS. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF THE HESPERIDES. 
 ON A PICTURE BY SIR FREDERIC LEIGHTON. 
 
 1?AR on the western borders of the world, 
 Hard by the utmost pale of sunset seas, 
 Where never mortal men have felt the breeze 
 
 Of those dim regions murmur round the furled 
 
 And idle sails of vessels tempest- whirled 
 
 Far from their course, dwell the Hesperides, 
 Forever languorous laid in poppied ease 
 
 On beds of amaranth with dews empearled. 
 
 Sweet are their days ; no other care have they 
 
 Than watching o'er that fruitage fair and golden 
 
 Which Earth to Hera at her wedding gave. 
 A Paradise is theirs, and poets olden 
 
 Have sung how mortals ever yet essay 
 
 To reach those Isles of Bliss beyond the wave. 
 
SONNETS. 25 
 
 IN POET-LAND. 
 
 A WHO will leave sad care and go with me 
 To that enchanted land where Poets dwell 
 A glorious brotherhood in some far dell 
 Among the meads of golden Arcady ! 
 There blind old Homer, lord of poesy, 
 And Virgil, his far son, hear Dante tell 
 Of that dread pilgrimage through Heaven 
 
 and Hell. 
 
 There Chaucer joys in sunny minstrelsy, 
 And gentle Spenser floats in silver streams 
 Of phantasie ; and ah, what raptures run 
 From Shakespeare's lute that shames the 
 
 nightingale ! 
 There Milton meditates celestial themes, 
 
 Keats paints his purple page, and Tennyson 
 Is singing Arthur and the Holy Grail. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 TVHEY told me thou wert fallen to decay, 
 
 Old Venice, and hadst lost thine ancient pride ; 
 But as upon thy silent streets I glide 
 And mark the stately piles that line the way, 
 And all thy spires and domes in dim array 
 Soft mirrored in the Adriatic's tide, 
 I cannot think thy glory all has died. 
 Nay ! in the calmness of thy later day 
 Thou hast the mellow bloom of ripened age ; 
 Gone is thy youth, yet thou art still as fair 
 As any dove that haunts thy holy square. 
 Like Ariadne's was thy heritage, 
 A lonely queen beside the silver sea, 
 Sad but forever beautiful to be ! 
 
SONNETS. 27 
 
 THE MAKEES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 T TROD the streets of that fair Tuscan town 
 And saw the men that Florence called her own ; 
 In pictured effigy and sculptured stone 
 Repose those peerless sons of old renown. 
 Far-thoughted Galileo there looks down, 
 And Michael Angelo, severe and lone, 
 With that same sleeping strength that he 
 
 has shown 
 
 In his own ' Moses.' And I marked the frown 
 Of him who traversed Hell and Paradise ; 
 
 And, near the stone whereon great Dante dreamed, 
 Calm Brunelleschi's upward-gazing eyes 
 
 Fixt rapturous upon his glorious dome ; 
 And last, San Marco's Monk whose lightnings 
 
 beamed 
 Like some pure star in that dark night of Rome ! 
 
28 SONNETS. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY. 
 
 TTHE cypress throws across the yellowed stone 
 Its darkness gathered from the countless years ; 
 The sad, wan flowers drop their pallid tears, 
 
 And by the moon the night-owl makes her moan. 
 
 And yet no narrow tomb claims him its own, 
 For where the riotous sea- wind uprears 
 The foaming billows 'neath the starry spheres, 
 
 Forever are his deathless ashes blown. 
 
 O Heart of Hearts, bright Ariel of the dawn ! 
 The most ethereal of poetic race ! 
 Like young Actaeon saw he face to face 
 
 Divinest Beauty with her veil withdrawn ; 
 
 Was it for this he passed from earth so young 
 And left so soon that glorious lyre unstrung ? 
 
SONNETS. 29 
 
 THE GRAVE OF KEATS. 
 
 TTERE lies young Adonais, stricken low 
 All in the dewy morning of his days. 
 Upon his sleep the soft moon bends her gaze, 
 
 As on the Latmian shepherd's long ago, 
 
 And for her own loved Poet pours her woe. 
 
 Here no dark cypress-tree its shadow sways, 
 But through the grass the lowly ivy strays 
 
 And tender violets in sorrow grow. 
 
 Above his earthly bed we stand and weep, 
 And yet we know his spirit never dies, 
 Sweeter than all the songs he ever sung. 
 
 Soothed in the languor of eternal sleep, 
 Like his beloved Endymion he lies, 
 Forever beautiful, forever young ! 
 
30 SONNETS. 
 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 T SAW thine orchards as they lay aglow 
 With April's bloom ; I saw thy lower vales 
 Roll their green waves high as the fields where fails 
 
 All verdure, 'neath the icy winds that blow 
 
 Across those wastes of everlasting snow. 
 I stood among thy lofty forest dales 
 And saw the peaceful lake, the mirrored sails, 
 
 And all the little universe below. 
 
 Emblem of Freedom, Switzerland, art thou ! 
 Thy air, thy soil, thy mountains, all are free ; 
 
 Wild-free thy streams that from the high cliff's brow 
 Leap joyous down to meet the southern sea. 
 
 Before thy Tell's beloved name we bow 
 And hail thee perfect type of Liberty ! 
 
SONNETS. 31 
 
 OXFORD. 
 
 TTTHO loveth not the hundred-towered town 
 By which the Isis' lingering waters flow, 
 Those mediaeval streets where silent go 
 The pensive scholars clad in cap and gown ; 
 Green gardens whose deep quietude can drown 
 All worldly thought ; the carven fanes where blow 
 The rapturous organs, and whose dim panes glow 
 With blazoned saints and kings of far renown ! 
 A city of enchantment thou dost seem, 
 
 Rare Oxford, and thy sweet and tranquil charm 
 Comes like the soothing of an old-world dream 
 To cheer our restless days, and to disarm 
 
 The blinded ones who scorn fair Learning's fame 
 And rudely seek to mar her ancient name. 
 
32 SONNETS. 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 memory, green Erin, haunteth me 
 Since first I stood upon Killarney's shore, 
 Or saw from Limerick's spires the Shannon pour 
 Its turbid waters towards the western sea ; 
 And in my fancy's hour I turn to thee 
 To muse upon thy never-failing store 
 Of ancient myth and legendary lore, 
 Enshrining every glade and rock and tree. 
 Across thy lonely bogs the Banshee moans, 
 At eve the fiddle cries in mystic tones, 
 
 And elfin-folk dance on the moon-lit green. 
 Thy scenes I love, but chiefly Mulla's del], 
 Where Spenser, rapt in rich enchantment's spell, 
 Saw his great vision of the ' Faerie Queene.' 
 
SONNETS. 33 
 
 AN OLD-TIME GARDEN. 
 
 A FOR a garden of the olden time 
 
 Where none but long-familiar flowers grow, 
 Where pebbled paths go winding to and fro, 
 And honeysuckles over arbors climb ! 
 There would I have sweet mignonette and thyme, 
 
 With hollyhocks and dahlias all arow, 
 
 The hyacinth inscribed with words of woe, 
 The small blue-bell that beats a dainty chime 
 For elfin ears ; and daffodillies, too, 
 
 The sleepy poppy, and the marigold, 
 
 The peony with petals manifold, 
 And ragged-robins, pink and white and blue. 
 
 All these and more I'd have, and back of all 
 
 A thousand roses on a mossy wall ! 
 
34 SONNETS. 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF LUCRETIA MOTT. 
 
 f LOOK on that serene and saintly face 
 And mark the placid beauty pictured there ; 
 In that calm countenance no weight of care 
 Nor darkness of distress could e'er efface 
 Or overshade the sweet, old-fashioned grace. 
 She seems an angel sent to do and dare, 
 A gentle martyr fortified to bear 
 Truth's sorest trials. Yet here is no sad trace 
 Of her life's battles ; from those tranquil eyes 
 There beams a perfect peace. O noble soul, 
 
 What do not Truth and Freedom owe to thee ! 
 Thy name we love, thy memory we prize ; 
 And round thy brow we see the aureole 
 
 That crowned thy life of sweet philanthropy. 
 
SONNETS. 35 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 A M 
 
 A LAS, that fairest flowers must fall at last ! 
 Alas, that earth should lose such men as he, 
 And we be reft of one whose courtesy 
 Made glad the very children as he passed ! 
 In finest mould his gentle soul was cast, 
 Learning and wisdom his in large degree ; 
 His days were spent in calm serenity 
 Communing with the great ones of the Past. 
 Farewell, rare friend ! All empty is thy place, 
 And e'er shall be ; yet we who stay behind 
 Sweet comfort take as reverently we scan 
 Thy blameless life, that fine and courtly grace 
 Of thine, which, wedded to a noble mind, 
 
 Made rich ' the grand old name of gentleman/ 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 'THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST 
 TEMPLES; 
 
 rFHE groves were God's first temples, and to-day 
 Should man yet worship there, were he unwise ? 
 The gray old woods whose mighty trunks uprise 
 In silent majesty, where wildings sway 
 Their fragrant bells and scent the air with May ; 
 The fields whose flowery beauty open lies 
 Beneath the glory of the summer skies : 
 These have been nature's simple shrines for aye, 
 These are the temples of the living God. 
 And so for dome the over-arching blue 
 I'll take, for floor the soft and verdant sod, 
 For aisles the trees in stately avenue, 
 
 While myriad choirs of birds in hymns of bliss 
 Fill all the heart of this vast edifice. 
 
SONNETS. 37 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 TI7ELCOME, thrice welcome to thee, lovely Spring, 
 Sweet tinae of mellow rains and gentle dew ! 
 Like Flora comest thou, with retinue 
 Of every tender plant and leafy thing. 
 At thy approach the world is wakening, 
 
 And tree and shrub and grass their life renew ; 
 The meads are starred with flowers of fairest hue, 
 And orchards wide their blossomed fragrance fling. 
 Emblem of budding innocence thou art, 
 
 Sweet, gentle, virgin season of the year ; 
 A note of love awakes in every heart 
 
 When earth enrobes herself in thy rich green. 
 Then come, sweet youths and maidens all, 
 
 come near, 
 And weave a flowery crown for this fair Queen ! 
 
38 SONNETS. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 OWEET, languorous days of perfect calm 
 
 and peace, 
 
 And drowsy somnolence, we love you well : 
 Fields, woods, and gardens own your lulling spell, 
 
 And nature from her labors finds surcease. 
 
 On high slow drifts the soft cloud's billowy fleece, 
 Within the lily's golden-dusty cell 
 The bees are murmuring, the ring-doves tell 
 
 Their evening sorrow, and the farm's increase 
 
 Wafts from the bursting mows its odors sweet. 
 The sheep-bells tinkle faintly on the hills, 
 
 And where the vales are swooning in the heat 
 Upon his droning lute the locust shrills. 
 O balmy Summer, dear thy soft repose 
 As is the fragrance of thy sweetest rose ! 
 
SONNETS. 39 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 JHPIS golden Autumn, and a mellow haze 
 Envelops all the dreamy countryside ; 
 Soon o'er the world will sweep a crimson tide 
 Of fairy fire and set the woods ablaze 
 With sullen splendor. By the dusty ways 
 The golden-rod is drooping, and beside 
 The wall the grapes are swelling in their pride 
 Of purple lusciousness. The drowsy days 
 Are almost silent, save where orchard trees 
 Are dropping down their ripe and ruddy store, 
 Or where the farmer beats the threshing-floor 
 With rhythmic flail. Sweet nature's symbols these, 
 That mark the evening of the dying year 
 And prelude the approach of winter drear. 
 
40 SONNETS. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 "VTOW earth within the arms of Winter old 
 Is softly slumbering, and deep and warm 
 The mantle lies that shields her tender form 
 From bitter blast and storm and numbing cold. 
 Upland and meadow, sombre wood and wold, 
 All silent lie beneath the frost-king's charm ; 
 O'er every frozen stream and sleeping farm 
 The mage's spell is laid. Like ruddy gold 
 Low swings the sun in waning afternoon 
 Down towards the world's blue edge ; then comes 
 
 the moon 
 And silvers all the land with fairy light. 
 
 Within, the hearth glows warm, and 'tis the time 
 Of fireside joys, when gentle hearts are bright 
 And beat as sweetly as the sleigh-bells' chime. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
A MAY-DAY INVITATION. 
 
 , let us leave the busy town 
 And to the country hasten down, 
 We'll go this very day ! 
 The hills and dales are deckt with green, 
 On every bush the buds are seen, 
 And all the countryside is sweet with May. 
 
 What pleasure can the city yield 
 When every grove and verdant field 
 
 Is drest in spring array ? 
 Or who would wish a dusty street 
 When he can rest his weary feet 
 In meadows odorous with flowery May? 
 
44 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The robin plumes his ruddy breast, 
 And to his mate upon the nest 
 
 He sings a roundelay ; 
 And all the golden afternoon 
 The blue-bird pipes his happy tune 
 And flits among the fragrant fields of May. 
 
 The violets empearled with dew 
 Reflect the heaven's perfect blue, 
 
 The tulips softly sway ; 
 The primrose haunts the woodland hills, 
 And golden-hearted daffodils 
 Dance gaily in the balmy winds of May. 
 
 The orchards are a lovely sight, 
 
 The trees embowered in pink and white, 
 
 Each like a great bouquet ; 
 And wide they spread their spicy scent 
 Till all the air is redolent, 
 And O, we wish that it were always May ! 
 
A MAY-DAY INVITATION. 45 
 
 The city bindeth men with care, 
 Engaged in this and that affair 
 They wear their lives away ; 
 But in the country's leafy lanes 
 Simplicity securely reigns, 
 Care sorteth not with happy-hearted May. 
 
 Then leave the desk and come along, 
 We'll go and hear the robin's song, 
 
 Let's haste without delay ! 
 We'll drink a draught of morning dew, 
 And wandering the meadows through 
 We'll see the country girls bring in the May. 
 
46 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 T^EAR Friend, we come to yield anew 
 The reverence we owe thy name, 
 And celebrate with fresh acclaim 
 
 Our Quaker Poet, strong and true. 
 
 For though there needs no day of praise 
 For him who held with all his sect 
 That love and honor and respect 
 
 Belong alike to all our days, 
 
 Yet do we love in special wise 
 To celebrate his natal day, 
 And, pausing in our onward way, 
 
 Look back awhile with reverent eyes 
 
 Upon his long and noble life, 
 A life as blameless and serene 
 As any that the world hae seen, 
 
 Yet one that had its doubts and strife, 
 
WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY. 47 
 
 Its martyrdom to sternest duty 
 In days when men were weak with fear, 
 A life that grew from year to year 
 
 Nearer the type of godly beauty. 
 
 Lowly his birth, his fortunes low, 
 
 His kin a plain and simple folk ; 
 
 The weight of toil and labor's yoke 
 He learned from early years to know. 
 
 And yet there blossomed in his heart 
 A passion native-born and strong, 
 That made him love the poet's song 
 
 And practise it with homely art. 
 
 A ' barefoot boy ' he oft would climb, 
 In lonely mood, his favorite height, 
 And, gazing o'er the hills, recite 
 
 The songs of Burns, or set to rhyme 
 
 His thoughts of fields and woods below, 
 The grassy meads and joyous brooks, 
 The flowery banks and sylvan nooks, 
 
 And the blue river's peaceful flow. 
 
48 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And as he strengthened day by day 
 His touch upon the lyric string, 
 The world was glad to hear him sing, 
 
 This nightingale in Quaker gray. 
 
 But when there swept across the land 
 The ebb and flow of Freedom's tide, 
 The tuneful harp was laid aside, 
 
 And Whittier stood hand in hand 
 
 With those great souls so true and brave, 
 Who led the van of that crusade 
 Which cleansed the sullied land and made 
 
 A freeman of the shackled slave. 
 
 'Twas then he shone upon our sight 
 A second Milton among men, 
 The poet scourging with his pen 
 
 The enemies of truth and right. 
 
 And still like that great Puritan 
 When peace succeeded iron war, 
 He donned his singing robes once more, 
 
 And, newly heartened by the span 
 
WHITTIEKS BIRTHDAY. 49 
 
 Of those dark years, he sang with tone 
 
 So full of hope, so large and free, 
 
 It made the mourning nation see 
 That o'er the hills the sun still shone. 
 
 He sang in songs of many keys, 
 He sang of home and sweet content, 
 And through his verses came the scent 
 
 Of flowers, and sounds of birds and bees. 
 
 He sang of duty, faith, and love, 
 
 He sang the brotherhood of man, 
 
 And ever shorter made the span 
 That parts us from the life above. 
 
 The life above, ah, it is thine, 
 
 Dear Heart, for, ever through the years, 
 Through all thy human hopes and fears, 
 
 There gleamed a spirit half divine, 
 
 A spirit that in all its moods 
 
 Of joy and grief obeyed the Light, 
 That read the laws of God aright 
 
 And followed the Beatitudes. 
 
60 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 His creed, and who shall name his creed ?- 
 If so we may those feelings call 
 That were too wide for ritual, 
 
 That asked no priest to intercede 
 
 With service born of man's device, 
 But rested in the faith content 
 That God is good, that reverent 
 
 And upright living is the price 
 
 Of joy beyond. So while he stood 
 Within the faith his fathers held, 
 His great and loving heart out-welled 
 
 Towards all the human brotherhood. 
 
 O gentle Friend, serene and strong, 
 O Poet, sweet and tender-true, 
 Thy work was such as martyrs do, 
 
 Thy life one grand and noble song ! 
 
ENGLAND. 51 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 (To C. andM.) 
 
 THHE day is fair, the breeze is free, 
 
 The ship has crossed the bar, 
 And you are fleeting o'er the sea 
 To lands that lie afar. 
 
 My fancy to old England turns, 
 
 As o'er the deep you fare, 
 And memory the picture brings 
 
 Of all that waits you there. 
 
 I see the velvet meadows walled 
 With hedges deep and green, 
 
 The lordly forest trees that mark 
 The nobleman's demesne ; 
 
 The gray old church and Norman tower 
 
 Embosomed deep in trees, 
 The fields aflame with poppy -heads 
 
 Where flit the drowsy bees ; 
 
52 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The stately minster's Gothic pile, 
 
 The noble heritage 
 Bequeathed us by the living faith 
 
 That stirred the Middle Age ; 
 
 Old gardens and old village inns, 
 With all their old-time charm, 
 
 And ancient coaching-roads that wind 
 By ancient garth and farm. 
 
 By Cam's and Isis' banks I see 
 
 The hoary college towns, 
 Where cloistered scholars pace the walks 
 
 In mediaeval gowns ; 
 
 Where silver-chiming vesper bells 
 Peal from a score of spires, 
 
 And glorious anthems soar on high 
 From snowy-vested choirs ; 
 
 Where old libraries, oaken-ceiled 
 And dim with Learning's haze, 
 
 Entice the traveller to stay 
 And dream away his days. 
 
ENGLAND. 53 
 
 And over all that storied land, 
 In every burgh and shire, 
 
 Are spots that poets' lines or lives 
 Have made forever dear. 
 
 Westmoreland's peaks majestic are, 
 And fair each lake and fell, 
 
 But doubled is their beauty now 
 That Wordsworth here did dwell. 
 
 His great heart was in harmony 
 With nature's graver moods, 
 
 And in his song he showed the soul 
 Of these sweet solitudes. 
 
 And now he sleeps in Grasmere vale, 
 
 The Rotha's bank beside, 
 But still his calm, sweet voice is heard 
 
 As is the Rotha's tide. 
 
 The level moors of Lincolnshire 
 
 Recall a later name, 
 The peerless laureate who sang 
 
 Of Celtic Arthur's fame. 
 
54 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Across these downs he wandered oft, 
 
 By beck and lonely dune ; 
 He loved their sombre beauty well, 
 
 They set his heart atune. 
 
 And ever in the after years 
 
 These boyhood scenes were dear, 
 
 And through his every song there floats 
 Some breath of Lincolnshire. 
 
 In ancient Stratford's holy fane 
 Immortal Shakespeare sleeps, 
 
 And placid Avon by his grave 
 Her silent vigil keeps. 
 
 His native county's name will aye 
 With his own name entwine ; 
 
 His fancy drew no fairer scenes, 
 Green Warwickshire, than thine. 
 
 Thy peaceful fields and silver streams 
 
 Upon his page we find ; 
 Thy woods are like the Arcady 
 
 Where dwelt sweet Rosalind. 
 
ENGLAND. 55 
 
 As in the rural lanes you roam 
 
 Of olden Devonshire, 
 The echoes of the golden harp 
 
 Of Herrick you may hear. 
 
 Beside these brooks he loved to pipe 
 
 In summer's dreamy hours, 
 And watch the hock-cart coming in 
 
 Engarlanded with flowers. 
 
 Along these leafy lanes he trudged 
 
 To wassail and to wake, 
 Or where the rosy country girls 
 
 Swung through the barley-break. 
 
 Old Devon's flowery meads and dales 
 
 Can never withered be, 
 For Herrick shed on them the dew 
 
 Of immortality ! 
 
 And so o'er all that ancient land, 
 From Cornwall to the Tweed, 
 
 Her poets' names are ever green, 
 And to this day, indeed, 
 
56 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Along the Canterbury road 
 With Chaucer we may ride, 
 
 Or pace the placid Ouse's bank 
 By pensive Cowper's side ; 
 
 In stately Penshurst's summer woods 
 With courtly Sidney stray, 
 
 Or muse beneath the church-yard elms 
 With meditative Gray. 
 
 Fair are the fields of sunny France, 
 
 And fair is Italy, 
 But dearest is the love we bear, 
 
 Sweet English land, to thee. 
 
 Thy Saxon blood we share, and all 
 
 Thine ancient memories ; 
 To thee with filial love we look 
 
 Across the orient seas. 
 
 We love thine old ancestral worth 
 Throughout the ages long, 
 
 But most we love thee for thy wealth 
 Of glorious English Song ! 
 
A DEE AM OF OTHER DAYS. 57 
 
 A DREAM OF OTHER DAYS. 
 
 T FELL asleep upon a summer's day 
 
 As on a shady woodland bank I lay, 
 And as I slept there came to me a dream 
 Of days of eldest time. The land did seem 
 Lovely and happy with a strange delight ; 
 All round were flowery fields and regions bright, 
 Enchanted groves, and brooks that danced in glee 
 Down ferny slopes to meet the silver sea 
 Far in the west. There spiced zephyrs played, 
 And birds of wondrous plumage charmed the ear in 
 every glade. 
 
68 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And in that lovely land there dwelt a race 
 Of godlike youths and maidens ; every face 
 Was glowing with a comeliness divine. 
 There moved the beings of Olympic line, 
 Tall gods and goddesses, among the bloom 
 Of dim Hesperian trees that spread a gloom 
 Of purple shade around ; great heroes, too, 
 And all the sylvan folk that Hellas knew, 
 Dryads and fauns and nymphs in beauty's glory, 
 And every fair familiar form that lives in ancient 
 story. 
 
 Divine Apollo sat within the shade 
 
 Among his flocks, and on itwin pipes he played 
 
 Such strains as held his fleecy audience rapt ; 
 
 The trees bent low to hear, the fountain lapt 
 
 Its marge in joy, and all the air was thrilled. 
 
 And then I heard the distance faintly filled 
 
 By Orpheus, as in echo to his sire, 
 
 Where, to the weeping of his plaintive lyre, 
 
 He strayed slow-footed down the grassy lea, 
 
 And ever sadly moaned, 'Eurydice! Eurydice ! ' 
 
A DREAM OF OTHER DAYS. 59 
 
 Across the silver tides of that far sea 
 Young Jason, dauntless prince of Thessaly, 
 Fared in his questing of the Golden Fleece. 
 With him were ranged the chiefs of early Greece, 
 Castor and Pollux, mighty Heracles, 
 Theseus, and Meleager, and with these 
 Full many another ; while the Argo broke 
 The virgin billows with her sacred oak, 
 The comrades smiting with the ashen oar 
 Those wondering seas whose waters ne'er had seen a 
 ship before. 
 
 Beside a woodland fountain's turfy shore 
 I saw a youth who, ever bending o'er 
 The watery mirror, seemed with his sweet grace 
 To lend a two-fold beauty to the place. 
 Ah, foolish boy, will never maiden prize 
 A look of love from those soft violet eyes ? 
 In Hellas there are girlish charms as fair 
 As is the picture which thou watchest there ; 
 Shall it be said Narcissus took no bride, 
 But ever loved an imaged shape and in his folly 
 died? 
 
60 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And there the great Odysseus did I see, 
 Recounting to the fair Penelope 
 And to the Grecian heroes gathered round, 
 The tales of all the wonders he had found 
 In that far voyage of his, the Lotus-land, 
 Of Circe's spells which men may not withstand 
 Save by advice divine, the Sun-god's isle, 
 And of the Sirens with their luring wile ; 
 And long and loud those goodly heroes laughed 
 To hear how Polyphemus was outdone by human 
 craft! 
 
 Of Scylla and Charybdis all the tale 
 He told to them, and every face was pale 
 O'er that untoward hap ; and then he turned 
 And pictured all he saw when he sojourned 
 In that Phseacian realm, where summer knows 
 Not any ceasing and where ceaseless grows 
 The peerless fruitage by the palace wall. 
 And when Odysseus had related all, 
 ' O come, my comrades, come ! ' I heard him cry, 
 ' We'll sail unto the Earthly Paradise ere yet we 
 die!' 
 
A DREAM OF OTHER DAYS. 61 
 
 Two beings there whose beauty none may tell 
 Went hand in hand among the asphodel, 
 Cupid and Psyche, an immortal pair ; 
 Of godlike presence he, and she as fair 
 As Cytherea's self. O gentle bride, 
 
 patient pilgrim-soul so sorely tried ! 
 Hasting with tireless step through regions dread, 
 O'er mountains wild and down among the dead, 
 Till Love divine to crown thy Faith was given, 
 And through thy earthly trials thou found'st eternal 
 
 joy in heaven ! 
 
 When night came down and spread its perfect peace 
 Upon that dreamland picture of old Greece, 
 
 1 cast my eyes along a mountain side, 
 And there within a sacred cave espied 
 
 A beauteous shepherd youth who lay aswoon 
 In slumberous repose. Low swung the moon, 
 And Luna leaning from her silver car 
 Just touched his drowsy lips, then sped afar 
 Across the starry heights, while from that kiss 
 Endymion sleeping smiled as conscious of immortal 
 bliss. 
 
62 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 When now at length the soft moon veiled her light 
 Behind the walls of Latinos' snowy height, 
 And rosy Dawn proclaimed another day, 
 My lovely vision faded all away, 
 Goddess and nymph and hero ; but to me 
 Was left the fragrance of their memory, 
 A dower sweet ; yet with it sad regret 
 At thought that human kind may never yet 
 Again, as in the glorious days of old, 
 Commune with the divinities of that fair Age of 
 Gold. 
 
SWEET SPRING IS HERE. 63 
 
 SWEET SPRING IS HERE. 
 
 O WEET spring is here, and o'er the earth 
 
 A verdant garb is seen, 
 As drenched in balm of April rains 
 
 The fields put on their green. 
 The apple-orchards, all transformed, 
 
 Are wrapt in clouds of bloom, 
 And here the robin loves to swing and breathe 
 the rare perfume. 
 
 The dandelions by thousands gleam, 
 
 And every little one 
 Seems, with its round of golden rays, 
 
 Like to a fairy sun. 
 The tulips burn with crimson flame 
 
 Along each narrow bed, 
 Like dainty elfin lamps they glow, and light 
 the lawn with red. 
 
64 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The violets uplift their heads 
 
 And star the grass with blue, 
 The daffodils hold up their cups 
 
 To catch the morning dew. 
 The small May-apple spreads abroad 
 
 Its leafy little tent, 
 
 And with the jasmine's balmy breath the vale 
 is redolent. 
 
 Beside the sylvan banks unseen 
 
 Shy Quaker-ladies blow, 
 And on the hill the blood-root spreads 
 
 Her drifts of vernal snow. 
 From oak-tree roots the primrose runs, 
 
 And paints with paly gold 
 The carpeting of withered leaves that clothes 
 the sombre wold. 
 
SWEET SPRING IS HEEE. 65 
 
 Where is the dear hepatica 
 
 With its sweet baby face ? 
 There, in the shadow of the wood, 
 
 It peeps with modest grace. 
 And near it is that child of spring, 
 
 The pale anemone. 
 
 While in the mossy dell the fern uprears her 
 tiny tree. 
 
 Down by the pond 'tis like a camp 
 
 Of mimic state, I ween, 
 For all the tender willows stand 
 
 Pavilioned o'er with green. 
 Wild honeysuckles pour their scent 
 
 Upon the woodland breeze, 
 And tempt from far-off pasture fields the 
 golden-belted bees. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The crocuses and hyacinths, 
 
 Sweet infants of the year, 
 Show dainty faces dimmed at dawn 
 
 With many a dewy tear. 
 The hedges of japonica 
 
 Have donned their spring attire, 
 And border all the grassy lawn with walls of 
 flowery fire. 
 
 The orchards, lanes, and meadows all 
 
 Are odorous with May, 
 And every happy little bird 
 
 Is carolling his lay. 
 The hills and valleys, woods and streams, 
 
 Are smiling far and near, 
 And all the world is filled with joy because 
 sweet Spring is here. 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
TO 
 
 DOROTHY 
 
 SYDNEY 
 
 MARTHA 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 ISABELLA 
 
 DOROTHEA 
 
 BEATRICE 
 
 WALDO 
 
 THOSE LITTLE LOVERS OF THE 
 
 FLO WEES AND FAIRIES 
 
 THESE VER8IOLES I GIVE 
 
AURORA. 
 
 TjfTHEN the rising sun is tinting 
 All the sky with opal hue, 
 Comes the sweet Aurora tripping 
 For her morning draught of dew. 
 
 There she quaffs the rose's nectar, 
 And the morning-glory's wine ; 
 
 Hyacinthine honey sips she, 
 Vowing it a drink divine. 
 
 And the lovely flowers regretful 
 As they see her go away, 
 
 Sighing forth their gentle sorrow, 
 Breathe a fragrance all the day. 
 
70 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 CROCUSES. 
 
 T?RAIL children of the early spring, 
 We love you well ; 
 Ye seem to tell 
 By your rathe blossoming, 
 That time of leaf and bud and fruit is coming. 
 
 First-born are ye of all the flowers, 
 
 Ye gentle ones ; 
 
 Sweet April runs 
 Her course of dewy hours 
 Heart-happy that she saw your early coming. 
 
 Close on late snows your blooms are seen, 
 Pale vernal things ; 
 The robin sings, 
 The grass grows rainy-green, 
 And all the world awakens at your coming. 
 
FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 71 
 
 When golden June scents all the air 
 
 With her sweet rose, 
 
 And lovely glows 
 Each bed, we* 11 still declare 
 Tis not more dear than was your springtime 
 
 coming ! 
 
 WHITE VIOLETS. 
 
 A BAND of sweet blue violets, 
 
 All on an April day, 
 Went down into a sylvan dell 
 
 At hide-and-seek to play. 
 But while they played a bat flew by, 
 
 Which gave them such a fright 
 That every little countenance 
 Was changed to milky white ! 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 THE FAIRY SKY. 
 
 A BOVE a glassy woodland pool 
 
 Queen Mab her body bent, 
 And saw her face, a lovely moon, 
 
 In that small firmament. 
 And for the stars the spangles all 
 
 That on her robe did shine 
 Made such a twinkling there, I vow 
 Was ne'er a sky so fine ! 
 
 THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 T^HE snow-drop, pearly white of hue, 
 
 Each morning sheds a fragrant dew, 
 Which little goblins come and get 
 And use to bait their beetle-net. 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 73 
 
 IN BLOSSOM-TIME. 
 
 TN blossom-time the orchard trees, 
 Aroused by April's balmy breeze, 
 
 In loveliness are glowing ; 
 All blushing with their rosy bloom, 
 They lade the winds with faint perfume 
 
 That over them are blowing. 
 
 The world is all a-swim in seas 
 Of pearly foam where late the trees 
 
 In sombreness were growing. 
 Like banks of tinted clouds are they 
 Which summer winds at close of day 
 
 Across the skies are st rowing. 
 
74 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 I watched them in their dawning fair, 
 I watch them as they fill the air 
 
 With petals earthward snowing ; 
 And as I see their branches thinned 
 And stript by every passing wind, 
 
 I mourn at that quick going. 
 
 THE ROSE'S REPLY. 
 
 T SAID unto a lovely rose 
 
 That in my garden grew, 
 * When chilly Autumn comes around, 
 Sweet rose, what will you do ? ' 
 
 Said she, ' When Autumn breezes blow 
 
 I'll rain my petals down, 
 And on them little brookside elves 
 
 Will sail to Fairy Town/ 
 
FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 75 
 
 THE FAIRIES' SUPPER. 
 
 TTTHEN fairy-folk sit down to sup 
 
 Each has for plate a buttercup, 
 And for mug a tiny cell 
 Of the delicate blue-bell 
 Filled with dew-drops of the rose 
 Gathered when her buds unclose. 
 I ween it is a witching sight 
 To see each bonny little sprite 
 Seated at the mushroom board 
 All with toothsome dainties stored. 
 Here are plates of cricket meat 
 Dressed with sauce of clover sweet, 
 Appetizing little pies 
 Made of wings of bottle-flies ; 
 Omelet of emmet's eggs, 
 Fricassee of beetles' legs, 
 
76 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 Liver of the bumble-bee, 
 
 And ragout of chickadee ; 
 
 Barbecue of lady-birds, 
 
 And nut-shells filled with creamy curds 
 
 Pilfered while the dairy -girl 
 
 Gossiped with the farmer's churl. 
 
 The chalice of a daffodil 
 Is their great bowl, which they fill 
 With syrup of the wild strawberries 
 Much esteemed by all the fairies. 
 Here are gnats' wings, and by these 
 Many little loaves of cheese 
 Made of daisies' golden eyes, 
 Tadpole tongues of smallest size, 
 Tiny seed-cakes with their tops 
 Gemmed with honeysuckle drops, 
 Salad made of violets blue 
 Moistened o'er with April dew, 
 And the roe of small brook-fishes 
 Served on pink rose-petal dishes, 
 Strips of candied gad-fly's wing ; 
 And many another dainty thing 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 77 
 
 Only to be named aright 
 
 By those who have the fairy sight. 
 
 While these wee folk feast away 
 They are cheered by music gay, 
 For behind the soft sweet-fern, 
 Where the fire-fly lanterns burn, 
 Is the band of players hid. 
 There the green -robed katydid 
 Tweedles on his violin 
 Elfin-music high and thin ; 
 The cricket blows his dulcet flute, 
 And the locust on his lute 
 Strums a droning monotone, 
 And silvery melodies are blown 
 On the little lily horns ; 
 While on shells of small acorns 
 Stretched across with skin of plum 
 Little drummers briskly drum, 
 Pigwiggin deftly keeping time 
 With his little hare-bell chime. 
 All the fairies shout with glee 
 At the dainty minstrelsy ; 
 
78 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 And the supper being ended, 
 Each sylph by an elf attended, 
 They pace among the mossy glades 
 Listening to the serenades 
 And sonatas soft and low, 
 Till the stars begin to glow, 
 When at Oberon's command 
 The tiny company disband, 
 To ply the tasks with merry cheer 
 Set them by their sovereign dear. 
 
 THE MUSHROOM TENT. 
 
 TIT HEN showers make the woods all wet 
 
 The tiny wood-folk run and get 
 Beneath a mushroom's sheltering eaves, 
 And there on beds of violet leaves 
 They sleep secure till cease of rain 
 Doth send them out to play again. 
 
FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 79 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOMS. 
 
 T RAMBLED in an orchard old 
 
 Where gentle winds were blowing, 
 And saw the blooming cherry trees 
 
 Their petals downward snowing. 
 ' O stay, sweet blossoms ! ' cried I then, 
 
 'Withhold your wasteful showers ; 
 Why will ye scatter thus and fade, 
 
 Ye dainty cherry-flowers ? 
 As when in some fond dream we see 
 
 That die which most we cherish, 
 So when we love you best, alas, 
 
 Ye flutter down and perish ! ' 
 
80 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 THE FAIRY FLEET. 
 
 T SAT beside a forest pool, 
 
 And there I chanced to see 
 Come sweeping o'er the tiny tide 
 A fairy argosy. 
 
 The ships were shells of hazel-nuts 
 That grow in greenwood dales ; 
 
 Rose-petals on pine-needle masts 
 Did serve them for their sails. 
 
 The tiny navy moved in state 
 
 Before a zephyr light, 
 And as it swept along, I trow, 
 
 It was a winsome sight ! 
 
 But when the little admiral 
 Did through his glass spy me, 
 
 He turned and with his tiny fleet 
 Fled far o'er that small sea ! 
 
FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 81 
 
 THE BLUE-BELL CLOCK. 
 
 blue-bell hourly rings her chime 
 To let the fairies know the time. 
 She rings it all the long night through, 
 From set of sun till death of dew ; 
 She rings it through the livelong day, 
 And every little elf and fay 
 Prepares his meals and feeds his flock 
 By this same dainty little clock. 
 
82 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 THE FAIRY CROWN. 
 
 T MET three fays within a wood 
 
 As I was walking there, 
 Who wove a coronal of fern 
 
 Commixed with maidenhair. 
 4 What make ye here, sweet maids,' I cried, 
 
 ' With this your dainty craft ? ' 
 Whereat the fairest of the three 
 
 Looked up and sweetly laughed, 
 And said, ' This leafy crown we weave 
 
 To set upon the head 
 Of our dear Queen, who at dew-fall 
 
 With Oberon will wed/ 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. S3 
 
 POPPIES. 
 
 C\ PERFECT flowers of sweet midsummer days, 
 
 The season's emblems ye, 
 
 As nodding lazily 
 Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, 
 
 And soothe the tired gazer's sense 
 With lulling surges of your softest somnolence. 
 
 Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed 
 
 With tender ruby glow. 
 
 Not any flowers that blow 
 Can match the glory of your gleaming red ; 
 
 Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue 
 Before ye lit your fires no garden ever knew. 
 
84 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, 
 
 And bright the velvet vest 
 
 On the nasturtium's breast ; 
 Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage, 
 
 And bright the coreopsis' eye ; 
 But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie. 
 
 Yet nature gifted you with no perfumes : 
 
 The sweet old bergamot, 
 
 The pale forget-me-not, 
 And scores of other olden-fashioned blooms, 
 
 Abound in balmy fragrancies ; 
 But ye no honey have to tempt the murmurous bees. 
 
 And yet, soft, slumberous flowers, we love you well ; 
 
 Your glorious crimson tide 
 
 The mossy walk beside 
 Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell ; 
 
 And walking there we gladly bless 
 Your queenly grace and all your languorous 
 loveliness. 
 
FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 85 
 
 THE ROSY RAIN, 
 
 T)IGWIGGIN once a-napping lay 
 
 Pavilioned in the shade 
 Of a rose-tree, whose petals fell 
 
 And him all overlaid. 
 But when he woke and found himself 
 
 Deep in the rosy rain, 
 He got him up and scampered off 
 
 From where he late had lain. 
 
 PINK CHEEKS. 
 
 TN the starlight kindly fairies 
 Gathering the elder-berries 
 
 Make of them an ink, 
 Which in cups of crocus steeping 
 Bear they where sweet maids are sleeping 
 
 And paint their cheeks all pink ! 
 
86 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 THE FAIRIES IN THE DAIRIES. 
 
 TN the night-time come the fairies 
 Breaking into farmers' dairies, 
 Each one with a lantern bright 
 Of a glow-worm's shining light. 
 First they spread a golden gleam 
 O'er the milk and make it cream, 
 Giving it a taste more fine 
 Than their own most dainty wine. 
 Then they wrap the curded milk 
 In filters fine of cobweb silk ; 
 This they take and quickly squeeze 
 Into loaves of gilt-edge cheese, 
 Which they skilfully dispose 
 Down the dairy-bench in rows. 
 Next, with neither noise nor clutter, 
 Fashion they the golden butter, 
 
FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 87 
 
 In a trice by magic power 
 Making that which costs an hour 
 Of weary work and many a turn 
 To the milk-maid with her churn. 
 Then having moulded it in presses, 
 They lay it on soft water- cresses, 
 And sprinkle it with sweetened dew 
 Gathered from the violets blue. 
 
 When their work is deftly done 
 Ere the rising of the sun, 
 To the garden out they go 
 Where the dainty pansies grow. 
 Here they hold their sprightly dance 
 In and out among the plants, 
 Footing featly to the tune 
 Of the locust's small bassoon 
 And Pigwiggin's purling whistle 
 Whittled from a spike of thistle, 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 Accompanied by pipers three 
 On their oat-straw pipes so wee. 
 When morning 'gins to light the sky, 
 To their woodland homes they hie ; 
 In their rose-leaf beds they creep 
 And soon are sunk in balmy sleep, 
 Each little head upon a pillow 
 Of a downy pussy-willow. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE BEE. 
 
 A LITTLE bee in search of sweets 
 
 Flew in a lily's bell, 
 And revelled in the lusciousness 
 
 Of that soft honeyed cell. 
 But as he sipped the nectary, 
 
 O'ercome with rich perfume, 
 He fainted unto death and lay 
 For aye embalmed in bloom ! 
 
FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 89 
 
 PAN8IES. 
 
 OWEET baby faces do I see 
 
 Along the garden beds, 
 With pretty caps of velveteen 
 Upon their dainty heads. 
 
 Some purple are and some are blue, 
 And some are golden yellow, 
 
 With tiny neckerchief of green 
 For every little fellow. 
 
 The children of the garden they, 
 So gladsome and so merry, 
 
 And every one is tended by 
 A loving little fairy. 
 
90 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 
 
 THE QUAKER-LADY. 
 
 TT7ITHIN a dewy woodland dell 
 
 I spied a Quaker-lady ; 
 Her home was on a mossy bank 
 Where all was cool and shady. 
 
 And as I saw her sitting there 
 
 So sweetly and demurely, 
 I said, ' There's peace within thy heart, 
 
 Dear Quaker-lady, surely ! ' 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
TO MERCURY. 
 
 HORACE, I., 10. 
 
 A SUASIVE son of Atlas' line, 
 
 Dear, artful Mercury, 'twas thine 
 To teach the fathers of the race 
 A smoother speech, a gentler grace. 
 
 Thou messenger of mighty Jove 
 And all the gods that dwell above, 
 To thee I sing, O subtle sire 
 Alike of thieves and of the lyre ! 
 
 Apollo, once, reft of his quiver, 
 
 With threatening mandates made thee shiver ; 
 
 Yet angry as he was, he laughed 
 
 At thy ox-stealing, infant craft. 
 
 Rich Priam, aided by thy wile, 
 The proud Atridse did beguile ; 
 Thessalian watch-fires burned in vain, 
 Unharmed he crossed the hostile plain. 
 
94 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 All righteous souls are borne along 
 To realms of bliss, an airy throng, 
 Led by that golden rod of thine, 
 O loved of all the race divine, 
 Sweet Mercury ! 
 
 TO VIRGIL. 
 HORACE, I., 24. 
 
 TTTHY checked or hidden need our sorrows be 
 
 For one so fondly loved? Melpomene, 
 God-gifted mistress of the moving lyre 
 And melting voice, my melancholy strains inspire ! 
 
 And does our dear Quintilius repose 
 In death's enduring sleep? Ah, when shall those 
 Twin sisters Faith and Justice, Truth severe, 
 And Modesty another find that is his peer ! 
 
TO VIRGIL. 95 
 
 Bewept of all the noble was his end, 
 But chiefest wept of thee, his fondest friend, 
 My Virgil. Yet thy prayers, alas, are vain 
 That ask the gods to lend Quintilius again. 
 
 What though thy music's magic far excel 
 
 That Orphean lute which held the trees in spell, 
 
 Yet never, never can the life be made 
 
 To stir again the pulses of that empty shade, 
 
 Which Mercury, relentless of our doom, 
 Drives on before him to the realms of gloom. 
 Hard fate indeed ! But what we cannot cure 
 Is better borne if we but patiently endure. 
 
96 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 TO CALLIOPE. 
 HORACE, III., 4. 
 
 A LENGTHENED strain, Calliope, 
 
 Melodious queen, descend and sing, 
 With plaintive pipe or shrilling voice, 
 If so it please, or on Phcebean string ! 
 
 Hear ye, or am I made the sport 
 Of raptures sweet? I seem to hear, 
 
 And stray through hallowed groves, the seat 
 Of playful winds and pleasant waters clear. 
 
 In childhood's hour, when tired with play 
 
 I dreaming lay on Voltur's steep, 
 Far from my home, the storied doves 
 
 Embowered my bed with leaves, a verdant heap. 
 
 A thing of wonder 'twas to all 
 
 Who habit Acherontia's tops, 
 Or have their homes in loamy meads 
 
 Of low Forentum or 'mid Bantine copse 
 
TO CALLIOPE. 97 
 
 How, safe from bears and vipers fell, 
 
 A god-protected child I lay 
 And fearless slept, while I was strewn 
 
 With gathered myrtle and with sacred bay. 
 
 Yours, O ye Muses, yours I am, 
 
 If now the Sabine heights I scale, 
 Or if I joy in Tibur's slopes, 
 
 Or Baiae's strand, or cool Prseneste's vale. 
 
 Because I love your founts and choirs 
 
 Philippics rout destroyed not me, 
 Nor tree accursed, nor beetling rocks 
 
 Of Palinurus in the stormy sea. 
 
 While ye are with me, willingly 
 
 Fierce Bosphorus I'll travel o'er, 
 A sailor bold, or dauntless dare 
 
 The burning sands of the Assyrian shore. 
 
 I'll visit Britons, rude to guests, 
 
 The Concan, loving horse's blood ; 
 Gelonians, quiver-bearing race, 
 
 I'll visit, and, unharmed, the Scythian flood. 
 
98 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 To noble Caesar seeking end 
 
 Of toils and giving rest from strife 
 To war-worn troops in distant towns 
 
 In grot Pierian ye lend new life. 
 
 Ye give mild counsel, and rejoice 
 
 In kindly giving it. We know 
 How Titans cursed and that huge crew 
 
 Were by the falling thunderbolts laid low 
 
 Of Him who rules the sluggish earth, 
 The teeming marts, the wind-tossed main, 
 
 And gloomy realms of Acheron 
 
 Who governs gods and men with righteous reign. 
 
 Dire terror was inspired in Jove 
 
 By that dread band, proud of their might, 
 The brothers striving to upraise 
 
 Tall Pelion on dark Olympus' height. 
 
 But 'gainst Minerva's sounding shield 
 Rushing, what could those giants do, 
 
 Typhoeus, Rhoetus, Mimas strong, 
 
 Porphyrion, threatening form, or he that threw 
 
10 CALLIOPE. 99 
 
 Uprooted trees, Enceladus, 
 
 The darter bold? Here, keen for fray, 
 Stood Vulcan, and dame Juno there, 
 
 Divine Apollo, too, who ne'er doth lay 
 
 His bow aside, who laves his locks, 
 
 Unloosed, in pure Castalian dew, 
 Who haunts his woods and Lycian groves, 
 
 The lord of Patara and Delos too. 
 
 Ill-counselled force falls self-oppressed ; 
 
 Force, rightly ruled, the gods promote 
 To greater heights, while they abhor 
 
 Forces to every evil end devote. 
 
 Let hundred-handed Gyas prove 
 
 How true my maxims are, and famed 
 
 Attempter of Diana chaste, 
 
 Orion, by her virgin arrows tamed. 
 
 Earth, cast on her own monsters, grieves, 
 And mourns her young, to Orcus' gloom 
 
 By lightning sent ; nor can swift fire 
 
 The mass of ^Etna, placed above, consume. 
 
100 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The liver of base Tityus 
 
 The vulture quits not, there assigned 
 A guard of guilt; Pirithous, 
 
 Too fond, is by three hundred chains confined ! 
 
 THE BANDUSIAN SPRING. 
 HORACE, III., 13. 
 
 A FOUNT that dost the glass outshine, 
 
 May flagons wreathed with flowers be thine ! 
 To-morrow I shall give to thee 
 A kid, whose forehead swelling free 
 In vain foretokens war and love. 
 
 Child of the flocks that frisk and play, 
 His budding life shall ebb away, 
 To color like the rosy wine 
 Thy surface cool and crystalline. 
 
THE BANDUSIAN SPRING. 101 
 
 Fierce, burning Sirius knows thee not ; 
 The plough-worn oxen seek the spot 
 Where thy sweet water flecked with foam 
 Refreshes all the race that roam. 
 
 I'll rank thy name 
 
 With founts of fame, 
 While singing of the ilex tall 
 That overhangs thy waterfall, 
 
 Bandusian Spring ! 
 
' B 1.37 
 
 M191950 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY