You must not from my words infer she has
No faults. No angel is my Eve, not she,
But just a faulty fair thing, sweet of face,
And warm of heart, and with a tender flame
In her true eyes so innocent of guile,
With laughter on her lips, and loving words,
With something in each mood to draw
One’s soul the closer to her. Wondrous big
Her nature is--she’s something _more_ than kind.
If sorrow touches me in any way
It is to her I turn for comforting;
If sickness stretches me upon my bed,
And steals my strength and spirits quite away,
I want her near me with her slim cool hands,
Her zeal to nurse me back to health again,
Her smoothing of the pillows underneath
My head, that I may rest the easier;
To her this world is such a pretty place
She likes no one to leave it ere he must.
So plies her remedies with wondrous skill,
And talks the while of pleasant homely things--
The tasks that tarry for my getting well,
The garden showing plainly my neglect,
The swarming bees, the apple trees in bloom,
The lonesome collie blinking in the sun,
The filly being broken for the plough,
My southdown sheep, the green of barley fields,
My neighbors, and the daily wish that I
Might soon be out among them as of old.
This is the sort of nurse a sick man needs,
Not one who is forever breathing sighs,
And talking of the emptiness of life,
And urging one to wean his thoughts from earth,
Nor care a jot for life, since it is such
An empty, barren, disappointing thing.
Life! why, ’tis God’s good gift to each of us,
And some, I think, show much ingratitude
By slurring it forever with the wish
That they were rid of it for good and all.
Now, you have mortgages, and deeds, and bonds,
You have a lordly mansion of your own,
While I--I have a big old-fashioned house,
And a few fields. You sometimes look at me
And sigh to think I am not better off
In this world’s goods. Old friend I like you well
And would not have you waste your pity so;
Why, man, I’m all amazed that you are not
Quite envious of me, since I have got--
What you do lack--a daughter of my own.
It makes a man feel rich to have a girl
Like mine to pet and make ado of him,
To come about him with her tender ways,
And cozening, and pretty tricks of speech,
To cry a little when he goes away,
To watch for his return with eager eyes,
To come to him with laughter on her lips--
Ay, and sometimes a pout that shows itself
But to be kissed away--to keep his heart
From growing old with all the years that pass.
I would not give this little Eve of mine
For _twenty_ times her weight in solid gold,
’Tis a good world--you do not wonder now
That I’m so jolly and content alway;
You’re sighing like a furnace--’tis too bad!
I wish, old friend, you were as rich as I--
With such a glad young thing to come and lay
Her rosy cheek to yours when you are sad!
The man who has no daughter of his own
Is such a pauper, I could cry for him.
Ring Out Glad Song.
(A Diamond Jubilee Ode, 1897)
A perfect joy, the sages say,
Is more contagious than a grief;
A joy exceeding all belief
Is reigning in the world to-day.
Joy! See it spread on every side
The sea-girt Isles, so grand and proud,
Joy! Hear its paean sweet and loud
Go swelling--swelling--far and wide;
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God Save our Good Victoria!_
Old England warms now, through and through,
The rugged thing is full of love,
And pregnant with the thoughts that move
The great soul of a nation true,
Whom God’s hand hath been leading on
Through all the centuries dim and grey,
From ages dark, to dusk of dawn,
And then to full and perfect day.
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_
And green-clad Erin lifts her voice--
Full sweet the words ring on her tongue--
She will be always fair and young--
And always ready to rejoice.
The lochs, the streams, the granite hills,
Of bonnie Scotland are aglow,
(Stronghold of loyalty you know)
And to the sky the paean thrills:
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_
East, West, North, South, it seems to float,
And pulses stir, and mem’ries wake,
“For God and merrie England’s sake,”
How oft has rung that battle note!
But ah, a grander measure moves
This glad old world of ours to-day,
Rings through the wilds--through palm tree groves
And rugged north lands far away:
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_
Rings through the solitudes so lone,
Through places all aglow with bloom,
Through dim, waste tracts where lurks the gloom--
From Southern shores to Arctic Zone.
O mighty Empire, stretching far,
On solid, grand, foundations laid,
In love with peace, yet not afraid
To meet, if needs, grim visaged war.
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea:
God save our Good Victoria!_
Australia hears it as she stands
Fanned by the sea-winds all around,
And sends a voice to swell the sound
From fertile fields and pasture lands.
In Canada--blest spot of earth--
Joy revels on this perfect day,
And all aflame with pride of birth,
She sings out in her lusty way;
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE;
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_
The shadows long ago have fled,
Her song goes ringing clear and sweet,
From the Atlantic at her feet,
To the Pacific at her head;
From meadow wide, from forest tall,
From hill-top high and valley deep,
From rapids with their whirling sweep,
From river, lake, and waterfall:
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_
O Queen! we could not give thee less,
Well hast thou earned by noble thought,
By noble deeds thy hand hath wrought,
Our homage--and our tenderness.
Thy mother heart must thrill and move
To note the gladness of the time,
Hear thy name sung in every clime
By voices solemn--sweet with love.
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
In the Conservatory
We came out of the dusk and gloom,
Into the glowing fragrant room,
Walled in and carpeted with bloom.
A merry group we made that day--
Our laughter rang out clear and gay,
For we were young, and it was May.
My cousin Dora walked with me--
Late from her home across the sea,
And fair as any flower was she.
Each pansy lifted up its face,
The slim fern shook her gown of lace,
A glory spread through all the place.
My lady, Lily’s waxen bell,
Bent down, ashamed to hear us tell
How sweet her color, and her smell.
The palms stood up like courtiers tall,
The smilax crept along the wall,
A sunbeam stole and kissed it all.
“Now Dora, we shall see,” I said,
“The Persian violet lift her head,
Blaze out in purple and in red!
The people seek her eagerly,
A rare aristocrat is she,
Proud of her fame as proud can be.”
“So many tongues, her praises sing,”
Said Dora, “through the world they ring,
She looks a heartless haughty thing.”
“Her country cousins sweet and shy,
That get their color from the sky,
Are fairer than herself,” said I.
And last of all we came to where
The lilac and the primrose fair
Their breath threw on the heavy air.
My cousin slipped the rows between,
Where yellow blossoms made a screen
Of their own foliage thick and green.
“Ah! this,” she said, “is a surprise,
An English primrose”--soft her eyes,
“Mark what a beauty in it lies!”
“O, primroses!” in careless tone,
Said Nell, “I’ve often seen them grown
Much prettier than this small pale one.”
My cousin bent her soft white cheek
Against the blossoms, pale and meek,
And still she stood and did not speak.
I think a tear or two she shed,
Ere lifted was the golden head,
“Poor little homesick flowers!” she said.
“I wonder do you droop, and dream
Of fleecy cloud, and sunny gleam,
Of meadow wide, and laughing stream.
I wonder if you wait to hear
The children’s voices, shrill and clear--
Sweet! homesickness is hard to bear.”
Then, gave us all a half-shamed look,
Ah, I could read her like a book,
Her heart was in some old world nook.
“It wants to feel,” she said, “the touch
Of dew, and sunlight, and all such--
Of wind that fondles overmuch.
But by-and-by it will get bold,
And show you people all the gold
Its pretty heart does surely hold.”
Back at my side she took her place,
And looking at her, I could trace
An added sweetness in her face.
We came into the dusk and gloom,
Out of the glowing fragrant room,
Walled in and carpeted with bloom.
A Bud
Did the angel pluck thee, my blossom fair,
Ere the morning sun had spent its glow,
While the dew of heaven lay bright and clear
In each folded leaf? Ah, the angels know,
They gather our sweetest, our heart’s delight
To bloom where there cometh not frost nor blight.
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
Envy
When Satan sends--to vex the mind of man
And urge him on to meanness and to wrong--
His satellites, there is not one that can
Acquit itself like Envy. Not so strong
As lust, so quick as fear, so big as hate--
A pigmy thing, the twin of sordid greed--
Its work, all noble things to under-rate,
Decry fair face, fair form, fair thought, fair deed,
A sneer it has for what is highest, best,
For love’s soft voice, and virtue’s robe of white;
Truth is not true, and pity is not kind,
A great task done is but a pastime light.
Tormented, and tormenting is the mind
That grants to Envy room to make its nest.
A Fancied Loss
If some day in your heart is born the thought
That one held dear is careless of the gift
Of tenderness, so fully, freely given,
I pray you, friend, to strangle it at birth.
There are no losses half so real to us,
As losses which are not--have never been--
A friendship gone! we say, and drop a tear
For wasted faith, and love, and loyalty.
When, if we did but know the simple truth,
The gladness in these foolish hearts of ours--
The gladness and the full content would leave
No room for sadness, and no place for doubt.
How Close?
How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close thine eyes can trace
The wondrous love He has for thee,
Upon His shining face.
How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close, that thou cans’t feel
The sense of safety that He brings
O’er all thy being steal.
How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close that thou canst hear
The whisper of His tender voice
Ring softly on thine ear.
How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close that doubts will cease--
Thy soul with sorrow weighed, and sin,
Find healing--joy--and peace.
In the Wood
To me, there comes a time in leafy June
When nature calls from wood, and stream, and field,
Calls low at dawn, calls loud and clear at noon,
Calls most persuasively when stars come out
Up in the blue, and other voices hush,
And _Come_! I hear her say, _come out with me_,
Come leave the low cramped rooms, the weary task,
Come take the path through meadow, and through wood,
Climb up the breezy hills and look abroad,
Climb down into the valleys deep and wide
And rest a space! There is no rest so full
As that which I will give you as you lie
On grassy knoll; I’ll give for lullaby
The rustle of the leaves tossed by the wind,
For covering the sunbeams meshed and snared
By waving boughs; I’ll fill your lungs with air
Made fragrant in the bowers I call my own.
Come! Come! I’ll keep you company, I have
A potion brewed, a wondrous healing thing,
Which brings forgetfulness of lurking care,
And rubs out from the mind the memory
Of loss, of striving and defeat--Come! Come!
I went, I left the city far behind,
I went because she called--my fair first love!
I went at sunrise that for one full day
I might be with her, thrill beneath her touch
As in the long ago when she did claim
The full affection of my untried youth.
O freshness, living freshness of a day
In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight
And not a stain of wear shows on the grass
Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls,
“Our day of loveliness is past and gone!”
I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells,
The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks,
The wild flowers found the sunlight where they stood,
And some hid their white faces quite away,
While others lifted up their starry eyes
And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze,
I revelled in the grandeur and the strength
Of towering trunks, and great wide-spreading limbs,
I revelled in the silence--far away
A noisy world I knew was waiting me,
But no sound from it reached me as I went
By tangled pathway through that wilderness.
At noon I came out to the fields, sat down
And ate my lunch with hearty appetite,
Just at the foot of a wide hill which hid
The highway quite from sight, and shut me in.
A meadow stretched itself out in the sun,
Each little blade of green did thrust its face
Up to the glow. The clover heads bent down
To let their visitors--the bees--pass out,
The heavy-footed honey bees. Ah, fond
Are they of the sweet juices stored in fragrant phials!
So fond, that in the breeze they smell them out
And straightway sally forth to taste the same,
And carry samples home. Down in the grass
A thousand insects hummed; a shallow stream
Laughed in the sunshine, speeding o’er the stones
To find the coolness of the shady wood.
The cattle laid their wide mouths to its breast
And slaked their thirst, and made their dappled sides
Swell out; then lowing forth their full content
They turned again to wade through knee-deep grass.
From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flew, with a call of love and joy,
That drew from her proved mate, perched on a bough
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
An answering note, replete with tenderness,
That sent the echo of its sweetness on
Into the dim old wood. A wild-rose spread
Its greenness o’er a corner of the fence,
And hung its tinted blossoms out to grace
The lowly spot, and make of it a bower.
But fairer than the meadow or the wood--
Than wild-rose blooming by the zig-zag fence--
Than nesting bird, or softly murmuring stream--
Than cattle standing knee-deep in the grass--
Than dew-washed fern, or golden-hearted flowers--
Fairer than sunbeam’s mesh or dappled shade--
Or aught that I had seen this day of days
Was she, the glad young thing whose buoyant feet
Trod the slim path which wound its changeful way
Down the tall hill, past alders all abloom.
A girl, a young girl, is a gracious sight,
A thing to make the eye light gaily up,
We see our youth in her--the joy of youth
Smiles out at us from her white-lidded eyes,
The careless grace of youth is on her lips,
The innocence of youth shines on her brow,
The prettiness of youth is on her cheek,
Her softness is the softness of a flower,
Her brightness and her beauty have the fresh
And healthy glow of morn. Her laughter stirs
A host of memories sleeping in our heart,
And makes a present hour of some far-off,
Some dear and half-forgotten yesterday.
I wonder if the day will ever come
When we will be so old--so old and dull
That we will listen to, yet never heed
The sweetest sound of all the sounds which ring
Out through this world’s big aisles--the rippling laugh
Which comes from red young lips--comes straight from some
Rich storehouse in the breast, a storehouse filled
With gladness great, and hope, and all things good?
She stopped to pluck a bouquet for her gown
From the sweetbriar that nodded in the sun,
And presently I heard a little “Oh!”
Of pain. That hand of hers the briar in greed
Had caught, and held so closely that its mark
Showed plainly on the warm and pink-palmed thing.
But she did pluck it, and its fragrance found
A place among the white folds at her neck,
And in the silken girdle which did creep
About the rounded slimness of her waist.
Then down she sat to rest her for awhile,
And I could hear her crooning to herself:
“O Sweetbriar, growing all alone
In shady, lonesome places,
By all but sun and dew unknown,
How full you are of graces!
O Sweetbriar, with your fragrance rare
You woo me to come nigh you,
Your breath so fills the heavy air
I cannot well pass by you!
O Sweetbriar, growing by the brook
The sleek, fat cattle wade in,
Say, will you share your cozy nook
With me--a happy maiden?
O Sweetbriar, do the dew-drops fall
And make your soft leaves glisten?
O Sweetbriar, does the west wind call,
And do you wait and listen?”
Lac Deschene
O pretty, shallow, mimic lake!
Hedged in by rushes and wild rice,
Why is it that the wind can wake
And make you angry in a trice?
You were so peaceful and so still
Before the wind crept round the hill!
The roystering, mischievous wind
That stooped and kissed you as you lay
In sunshine steeped--all bland and kind--
Then racing, went away--away
To stir the languor of the wood,
And make its mutterings understood.
And you, O pretty, shallow lake,
Must needs get ruffled and perplexed!
He kissed and fled, now wide-awake
You are at once, and cross, and vexed;
Lift your soft arms and let them fall--
There is no stillness now at all.
I think the pain of it is not
That it crept down to wake and kiss,
And give attentions all unsought,
I think the pain of it is this:
On your warm breast it did not stay,
It kissed, and then raced far away.
You are so jealous you must cry
And toss about in much unrest--
The rushes bend, the white gulls fly--
In this wild mood I like you best.
You were too peaceful, and too still
Before the wind crept round the hill.
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
Deserted
She stood that night with a face so set,
So filled with bitterness and despair,
Closing my eyes, I can see her yet,
Sorrowful, broken, but passing fair.
Her eyes were fixed on the sky above,
Where stars were shining so soft and clear;
Did the ghosts of innocence and love
Steal out of the gloom and stand quite near?
So young to quiver beneath such smart!
A fairer brow ’twould be hard to find--
The pity of it! a broken heart,
And childhood lying so close behind.
I heard her whisper, “’Twas long ago
That I laughed for joy at the touch of morn,
Kneeled down and prayed in the light and glow--
Ah me! I cry now--tempest-torn:
“‘Thank God for night, and the world asleep’--
Their eyes pierce through me the long, long day--
Thank God for the darkness, soft and deep,
That folds me, and hides me quite away!”
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
My Neighbor
Say not, _I love the Lord_, unless you find
Within you, welling up by day and night,
A love, strong, full, and deep, for humankind--
Unless you find it always a delight
To show the weary one a resting-place--
To show the doubting one Faith’s shining way--
To show the erring one the door of Grace--
To show the sorrowing one where they may lay
Their broken hearts,--the heaviness--the care--
The grief, the agony too sharp to bear.
When each man is the neighbor whom we love,
According to the gracious measure of His word,
Then may we lift our eyes to heaven above,
And say with rapture sweet: _I love the Lord_.
Hollyhocks
Say, did you ever go to a place
Where nobody lived you cared about,
An’ jest go wanderin’ up an’ down,
Into all the great big stores, an’ out.
An’ meetin’ sich heaps, an’ heaps of folks,
That pass you by with never a nod,
Till you got to feelin’ through an’ through
Jest right down lonesome, an, ’most outlawed.
An’ you tell yourself if someone said
“_Will you have this place?_” You’d say, No thanks!
I wouldn’t live here for all the world,
Give me the fields, an’ the brooks an’ banks.
Why the stuff that grows in your lots here
Can’t touch one side of our country stuff,
You have things tended to, right up fine,
But nature is sweet, though maybe rough.
An’ your blossoms aren’t half so nice,
Nor your creepin’ vines, nor growin’ grass,
Why! ’cause ours swim in the sun all day,
An’ yours stretch their necks to see him pass.
So you try somehow to pass the time,
A-wanderin’ up, and a-wanderin’ down,
So sick of yourself, but sicker still
Of the folks you meet, in that old town.
Such dressy folks that don’t care a snap,
Not knowin’ you from Adam’s off ox,
An’ by an’ by you lift up your eyes,
An’ see such a clump of hollyhocks,
A-holdin’ their own in some grand place,
With their shiny leaves spread in the sun,
Noddin’ so friendly, seemin’ to say
“Come in old neighbor, an’ share the fun!”
There’s no flower nicer it seems to me,
There’s nothin’ prettier grows nor blows,
Though some folks call them old-fashioned things,
A-thinkin’ them homely I suppose.
But you come across them some fine day
When you’re so homesick you can’t get air
Enough for your lungs down through your throat,
Because of the lump that’s stoppin’ there.
An’ say, I would’nt wonder a bit
In you felt a mist come in your eyes
At sight of the bright familiar things,--
The nicest flowers under the skies.
For they set me thinkin’ of a house,
That stands by itself among the trees,
With a big wide porch, an’ stragglin’ walk
Bordered by jest such flowers as these,
Till you hear the old familiar sounds,
The chirpin’, the buzzin’ soft an’ low,
An’ sniff the breath that comes with the wind
From the ripe, red clover down below.
Till a big warm feelin’ swamps your heart,
You’re not so lonesome, there on their stalks
Are friends a-plenty, smilin’ at you,
The pretty old-fashioned hollyhocks.
Folks write of pansy, rose, and fern,
But if I was a poet an’ could rhyme,
I wouldn’t bother with common things,
I’d write of hollyhocks, every time.
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
The Miscreant
He glares out from the gathering dusk
With furtive glancing eye,
A creature hunted, and at war
With every passer-by.
Such a malignant face he turns,
You feel a sudden fear,
Born of the knowledge which proclaims
An evil thing is near.
A man goes by--ah, mark that scowl--
A woman young and fair,
Evil the look he bends on her--
Then comes a gallant pair.
A laddie tall, and by his side
A baby-girl, who cries
_Good night!_ out to the miscreant,
And laughs up in his eyes.
At strife is he with all the world,
But for a moment’s space,
Something akin to tenderness
Flares up in that dark face.
Her Birthday
Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes,
And the dower of youth and zest,
It is kind of heaven to give us this day,
When the world is looking its best,
When the crimson roses are all abloom
With their sisters of paler grace,
When the sun makes warm, and the dew makes glad
Each velvety beautiful face.
When the breeze which comes seems a heavy breath,--
From the lungs of the earth o’ergrown
With the fairest things, and the sweetest things
That ever was seen, or known,
When the bird has an added note of pride
In each carol of joy he sings,
_Do you know? can you guess? my pretty mate,
And the wee things under my wings!_
Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes
And the fair young cheek and brow,
Your birthday, my girl with the smiling lips,
What things shall I wish for you now?
Come close--put your two hands into my own
While I wish you a happy year,
While I wish you the best that heaven can give
To a maiden so sweet and dear.
While I wish you love with never a stint,
For the riches of love are great--
While I wish that shadows may flee your path,
And the glorious sunshine wait,
While I wish you the happiness, full and deep,
The gladness and brightness of life,
A place in your heart for the white dove of peace,
But none for the whisper of strife.
Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes
And the shimmering braids of hair--
I say as I look through a mist of tears,
It is good to be young and fair,
It is well to lean on the Father’s arm,
Love forces the words in a flood:
_God bless my girl with the tender eyes!
God bless her and keep her good!_
[Illustration: Decorative image unavailable.]
Slander
The man who with the breath lent him by heaven
Speaks words that soil the whiteness of a life
Is but an assassin, for death is given
As surely by the tongue, as by the knife.
He does the devil’s basest work--no less--
Who deals in calumnies--who throws the mire
On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press
His foul lips to. The pity of it! _Liar_,
Yet half believed, by such as deem the good
Or evil but the outcome of a mood.
O slanderer, if fierce imps meet in hell
For converse, when the long day’s toil is through,
Of _you_ they have this worthy thing to tell,
_He does the work we are ashamed to do!_
Summer Holidays
School’s out! they cried, two happy wights;
School’s out for such a while,
The old bell won’t ding-dong to-day
And make us run a mile.
It seems too good--no lessons now
To tire us right out,
We’ve not a single thing to do
But run, and play, and shout.
We’re going fishing in the creek
With bran new hook an’ line,
We’re going hunting in the woods,
O, holidays are fine!
We’re going to wade out in the pond
And scare the ducks and drake,
We’re going haying in the field,
And swimming in the lake.
We’re going to jump, we’re going to sing,
And yell, and make a noise--
’Cause holidays come from the sky
For tired-out, shut-up boys.
That mean old bell that called so loud
Each time that it was rung,
_Come right straight in and hurry up!_
Has just to hold its tongue.
Violet