_To Jack, away from home,
Old Grannie says, get ready
For the Kingdom come._
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The Ever and Ever so Long Ago
O, life has its seasons joyous and drear,
Its summer’s bloom, and its frost and snow,
But the fairest of all, I tell you, dear,
Was the sweet old spring of the long ago--
The ever and ever so long ago!
When we walked together among the flowers,
When the world with beauty was all aglow,
O, the rain and dew! O, the shine and showers
Of the sweet old spring of the long ago,
The ever and ever so long ago!
A hunger for all of the past delight
Is stirred by the winds that softly blow,
O, spare but a thought, dear, from heaven to-night
For the sweet old spring of the long ago,
The ever and ever so long ago!
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The Height
The climbing step by step up pathways steep
Had wearied me upon that summer day,
Till, by-and-by, a strong hand seemed to sweep
All save the joyousness of life away,
The heavens stretched their azure folds above--
I stood, my feet upon the dizzy height
I had not thought to reach save in my dreams;
The whirring of an eagle’s wings in flight
Towards rarer winds, and still more dazzling gleams
Of the red sun, was every sound abroad.
Full sweet the silence of the solemn place
Where nature, radiant, drew so close to God,
You saw His very kiss upon her face,
And heard the mystic murmur of His love.
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Her Portrait
A little child, she stood that far-off day,
When Love, the master-painter, took the brush
And on the wall of mem’ry dull and grey
Traced tender eyes, wide brow, and changing blush,
The gladness and the youth, the bending head
All covered over with its curls of gold,
The dimpled arms, the two hands filled with bread
To feed the little sparrows brown and bold
That flutter to her feet. It hangs there still,
Just as ’twas painted on that far-off day,
Nor faded is the blush upon the cheek,
The sweet lips hold their smiling and can thrill,
And still the eyes--so tender, and so meek--
Light up the walls of mem’ry dull and gray.
God Loveth Us
God loveth us! in pain or bliss,
O heart, be true and strong!
God loveth us, and knowing this
We know life’s sweetest song.
God loveth us! O eyes that find
Life’s lesson hard to read,
By tears of loss made dim and blind
Learn His great love instead.
God loveth us! O hands that grasp
At human tenderness,
And then in emptiness unclasp,
He waits to fill and bless.
God loveth us! O weary feet
That find life’s pathway long,
His love provides a rest so sweet
The hope of it makes strong.
God loveth us! O hearts that ache
With striving all in vain,
His tender hand is reached to take
The bitterness and pain.
God loveth us! O fallen one
Creep upward to the light,
God’s radiant stars shine on and on,
Until the dawn grows bright.
God loveth us! in pain or bliss,
O heart be true and strong,
God loveth us! and knowing this,
We know life’s sweetest song.
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An Etching
A harvester throws up the sheaves,
And hums a merry old refrain,
Some thistles show their prickly leaves
Among the swaths of yellow grain.
The briar bushes soft and green
Quite hide the zig-gag fence away,
And all the space that lies between
Is carpeted with new-mown hay.
The heat of noonday presses all
To rest and silence, full and deep,
And still the cheery robins call
To show that they are not asleep.
Shadows
“O sweet white rose, I pray you tell
Why in that fragrant heart of thine
Where golden sunbeams seldom fell,
All grace and gladness seems to dwell,
And summer fragrance hold its shrine?”
“Sweet, am I,” west wind, sweet and white,
Then leave me in the shadow pray,
Here soft dews bathe me all the night,
And no harsh sunbeam comes at light,
To kiss the great white tears away.”
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A Merrie Christmasse Untoe Ye
A Merrie Christmasse untoe ye!
The wishe is olde, the sweete refraine
Of that song carolled longe agoe,
When Love crepte downe o’er hille and plaine
Singing, full-toned, to heartes in paine,
“Peace ande goodwille!”
Lete white flowers growe,
A Merrie Christmasse untoe ye!
Marguerite
All light and love, and golden grace,
One full glad day, one summer day
Goes ever with me on my way,
And to no other yields a place.
Do you remember Marguerite,
Ah! faithful one, I need not ask,
Since to forget is such a task,
My strength fails toiling at it, sweet.
We climbed the path among the hills,
And laughed to see the wild-birds go
All startled, flying to and fro
Afraid of great and unknown ills.
The wind laughed with us, and grew warm
With breath of leaf, and stalk, and flower,
No space of that delicious hour
But held a fresh and subtle charm.
Till, by-and-by, we stood and knew
Ourselves upon the height alone,
For us the blue sky smiled and shone,
The great world only held us two.
So fair, so cold--it could not be!
Thou wert so proud, my Marguerite,
Thou wert so proud, and O, so sweet
I scarce could look at all on thee.
Till in me grew a madness born
Of the wind blowing from the south,
I bent and kissed thee on the mouth,
The ripe, red mouth--the bow of scorn.
No scorn was on it then, my sweet,
But tenderness beyond compare,
Thy white soul laid its secret bare,
Thy love was mine--_mine_--Marguerite!
I whispered foolish things and fond,
O bliss, for which I vainly yearned!
Not, not for me, the truth I learned,
Thine hand had signed stern duty’s bond.
It was the end, we did not say
The lover’s lingering good-bye,
Only the day’s glad soul did die,
And earth and heaven alike were grey.
Did I forget? is mine a heart,
One apt to yield up all its store?
I loved thee ever, more and more
Through all the years we dwelt apart
One walked with me a little space,
To her I gave affection mild,
As to a pretty winning child
Who sought to cheer me with her grace.
With pretty tasks she filled each day,
Walked in my home with gentle pride,
Called me a dreamer, oft would chide
My thoughts for soaring far away.
Her robes swept softly to her feet,
Her hair fell down a golden fleece,
Yet, when mine arm embraced Bernice,
My soul embraced _thee_, Marguerite.
We cannot change, we cannot pass
To other things until we die;
Who knows, the old love may not lie
Within the grave, beneath the grass?
Perhaps ’twas wrong, but this I know
My longing I could never still,
For love was stronger than my will,
And mem’ry would not let thee go.
I know where one long silky braid
Fell down upon thy snowy neck,
And how the blushes came to deck,
And where the cunning dimples laid.
Each of thy little tricks of speech
Hath kept its echo all the while,
Thy laughter growing from a smile
Which sadness oft would chase and reach.
And now we stand alone again,
With naught to keep us far apart;
Come to thy home within my heart,
And there forget all loss and pain.
Come, with that glow upon thy face
We will go back a dozen years,
Back past the graves, back through the tears,
To that cold day of youth and grace.
And there take up the golden store
Of life and love so weighty grown--
I hold thy heart against mine own,
And thus will hold forever more.
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The Hoar Frost on the Wood
Look through the glistening stubble-fields to where
Last night, in sullen and complaining mood,
Over the fate that left them grim and bare,
The trees in yonder dear old forest stood.
“The spring,” they moaned, “Ah, it will be a while
Ere she can reach us with her magic wand!”
Who was it heard? To-day, mile upon mile,--
There stretches out a white enchanted land,
Each tall tree hath a weight of gems that shine--
Mark how the sun can draw its beauties out--
On every soft white thing its kisses fall,
Till in the air we see a dazzling line
Of sparkling gems--it is a glorious rout
Of nature’s children holding Carnival.
Two Creeds
The Priest was earnest and sincere--
He deemed that this stout cavalier,
This stranger unto Christ’s dear grace,
Who rested with him for a space,
Should hear the truth, what saith the creed?
“To every man that stands in need.”
Though weary miles of pilgrimage
Has tried his strength, yet would he wage,
Stout war of argument to-night,
With heathen ignorance of right,
With faltering tongue he then began
To picture to this fellow-man--
In error born, on error nursed,
By pride and passion doubly cursed--
The glories of a city fair,
To which men climb on narrow stair
Of self-denial, prayer and fast,
And zeal unflagging to the last.
“Its gates that flash the sunlight back,
What touch of splendor do they lack?
I see them lift themselves upright--
Of pearl, unblemished, pure and white--
Its streets gleam yellow in the sun,
Through fields of green its waters run,
And o’er it all no shadow flies,
The sun sets not in Paradise.
“From every throat swells forth a song,
Not one is mute of that vast throng,
Who, through the weeping and the night,
Have found their way to Heaven’s delight.
No bitterness, no cry of pain,
No grieving over mortal strain,
No shrinking will, no coward fear,
No breaking heart, no scalding tear,
In the fair city built above,
For this is heaven, and heaven is love.”
The other bowing courteously,
“Thanks for this kindness done to me.
I doffed my boldness and my pride,
And sat here meekly by your side,
While you, for a brief moment’s space,
Painted the beauty of that place,
Where white souls live, now list to me,
And bare your head as reverently,
While I set forth before your eyes
The glories of _my_ Paradise.
“A garden hidden quite away,
Where stranger footsteps never stray,
The yellow sun shines all day long,
The wild-bird sings his choicest song;
There at the gate my angel stands
To welcome me with out-stretched hands;
A lotus-bud gleams in her hair,
Her round, soft arms all white and bare,
Between her lips warm kisses hide,
Love in her eyes that open wide.
A perfume comes up from the beds
Of lilies hanging their white heads,
The pearls of dew begin to fall,
A night-bird to its mate doth call,
The changing shadows softly move
But never touch the face I love;
You know, O Priest, so learned and wise,
The sun sets not in Paradise.
You tell of rest that waits the few,
That strive with earnest zeal and true
To gain it, as the years go past,
By toil, and care, and patient fast,
O Priest! my heaven gives richer dole,
It takes the laggard, worthless soul,
And fills it up with rapture sweet,
And makes it know itself complete.
Rest! never penance won such rest
As comes to me when her white breast
Is made a pillow for my cheek,
When her dark eyes look down and speak;
O Love! the world and all its care
Lies quite outside this garden fair,
You know, O Priest, so learned and wise
The sun sets not in Paradise.
You look for heaven after death--
I draw it in with every breath--
I am content, be you the same,
If I mistake, be mine the blame,
But in one fair sweet odored grove
Lies heaven, if heaven means peace and love.”
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His Ex-Platonic Friend
I’ve lost a thing of value great,
And, woe is me, I’ll now find it
The very choicest thing of all,
Or sure, you know I wouldn’t mind it.
Some call it friendship--I don’t know.
But take their word as is my duty,
But if the definition’s true,
Then friendship is a thing of beauty.
For mine took on so fair a form
It charmed away all care and sadness,
It flashed out beams so strong and warm,
Away went everything but gladness.
It looked from tender eyes of brown,
And spake my greatest fault forgiven,
In wondrous sweetness there it shone--
In truest eyes outside of heaven.
I felt it in the hand I clasped,
So small, and yet so strong to guide me
Through waters deep, or breakers past,
Or aught that threatened to betide me.
With ripe red lips it spake to me,
O voice, that always soothes and blesses!
While I, Philistine, felt to pray
That I might silence it with kisses.
I’ve lost all this by my mistake,
I walked, you see, not circumspectly,
I pressed a claim for love’s sweet sake,
And friendship took to flight directly.
And I am left to think with pain
How folly caused my loss and sorrow,
Had I my friendship back again
I’d do the very same to-morrow.
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The Grave
O the grave is a quiet place, my dear,
So still and so quiet by night and by day,
Reached by no sound either joyous or drear,
But keeping its silence alway, alway.
O the grave is a restful place, my dear,
Unvext by the weightiest loss or gain,
All the undone work of the speeding year
May beat at its portals in vain, in vain.
O the grave is a tender place, my dear,
The Love immortal, the faith, the trust,
The grace and the beauty, lie buried there,
So pure and so white in a robe of dust.
O the grave is a home-like place, my dear,
Where we all do gather when day is done,
Where the earth mother folds us close and near,
And the latch-string waits for the laggard one.
Settled by Arbitration
The three sat at meat in a country inn,
And Patrick’s face wore an elegant grin,
For the Scotchman lean, and the Englishman stout
Were having a nice little quarrel out.
Now, it all begun when five times had gone
The glass and bottle to everyone,
The Englishman, he had a stubborn jaw
And could quote whole pages of English law,
While the Scotchman, was as stern and as gray
As the rocks of his country far away.
The bottle it made him but look more stern,
But the other one took a boasting turn,
He talked of their big brave ships on the sea,
Of their soldiers as brave as brave could be,
Of the English beef that no land could beat,
Of their puddings and pastries good to eat;
And the Scotchman listened to every word
And seemed agreeing with all that he heard,
Till the squared-jawed fellow by-and-by claimed
His country the wittiest ever named;
“The Henglish wit, sir, hit shines like the sun”
“Aye! the sun in a fog,” the other one,
Then the arguments flew so thick and fast--
They’d have come to blows ere the thing was past
Had not Patrick, good hearted, blithe and gay,
Chanced to travel with them that summer day,
“Now sure,” said he, “you know ’tis the fashion
To settle disputes by arbitration,
Faith, a rale ould shindy’s the thing for me,
But the rale ould shindy has ceased to be,
Let’s be the powers, and raison a bit,
Whist now! and ould Erin will settle it.”
Then these two disputants, they both agreed
To take his finding in word and deed.
“The English wit, sir--let’s take off our hats--
Can’t be seen by folks that are blind as bats,
’Tis none of your common everyday stuff,
Nor like that of Ireland, vulgar and bluff,
Sure, ’tis something I would only compare
To what is well known as precious and rare,
Say to the famous philosopher’s stone--
Or elixir of life to ould sages known;
No Irishman from the hill or the bog
Would say it was like the sun in a fog,
That statement, sirs, on the face is untrue
For sometimes the fog will let the sun through.”
One pacified man went off with good grace,
And Patrick laughed at the other’s stern face,
“You think me a blarney--hark, what I say,
I tould the truth in an iligant way,
Sure you know, and I know, and everyone,
The fable of the philosopher’s stone,
For stone, elixir, and Englishman’s wit
Men have searched long, and found nivir a bit,”
Then low to himself, “faith, that joke’s so clear
That even a Scotchman may see it--_next year_!”
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The Circuit
A pretty port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
As day down golden stairway
Climbed to the world below.
Ho, mariner! come tell me,
Come tell me of a truth
Know you a track will lead me back
Unto the shores of youth?
A pretty port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
The blue sky stretching over,
Blessed all the world below.
I laughed good-bye so lightly,
Nor recked I then, forsooth,
That leagues of years and mist of tears
Would hide the shores of youth.
Yet ever follows after,
A breath of fragrance rare
From hearts of flowers that blossom
But in its tender air.
And ever hear I, sweet and clear,
The music of its birds--
The whistling flight of wings at night--
The songs too sweet for words.
And ever see its beauty,
The smiling of its shore,
And ever wait, and ever long
To anchor there once more.
Ho mariner! Ho mariner!
Come tell me of a truth
Know you a track will lead me back
Unto the shores of youth?
A pretty port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
As day, down golden stairway,
Passed to the world below.
Sail on! Sail on! till light is done,
Ho mariner, so wise!
’Tis far behind--so far behind--
This port I sailed from, lies.
Sail on! Sail on! you tell me,
And in the twilight’s glow
I’ll reach the port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago.
If this be so, then we may know
That all who lose will find
Each ship will come to love and home,
And all it left behind.
Youth’s golden shore lies on before,
So gaily sail we on,
For the port we reach at even
Is the port we leave at dawn.
The harbor bar shines golden,
O sweetness of the truth,
We’ll cross it o’er, and come once more
Unto the shores of youth.
Gethsemane
O Blessed Christ! O blessed Christ!
The night is deep and long,
And there is none to watch with me
Of all the careless throng.
O blessed Christ! O blessed Christ!
The world lies fast asleep,
Think Thou on dark Gethsemane
And count the tears I weep.
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My Friend
I have a friend, if you should ask
Why ’tis I love her well,
Indeed, ’twould be a weighty task
These reasons all to tell.
First, she is good enough to see--
A pretty face and kind,
That somehow fairer is to me
Than others I can find.
She has two lips with laughter filled,
That hold not scorn nor sneer,
She is a little bit self-willed--
Gangs her ain gait, I fear.
She has two strong and supple hands,
Two bright and tender eyes,
She has a heart that understands,
She has a judgment wise.
Her voice--at least to me--is fine,
I like to lie and rest,
And hear her reading, line by line,
The poems I love best.
No jealousy, no trace of spite
Is in her nature strong,
She is so loyal to the right,
So gentle with the wrong.
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The Prodigal
They sat alone by the fireside, a couple old and gray,
Brooding over a sorrow keen at the close of a winter’s day.
The woman spake to the man at length, tenderly, wistfully,
“The pillar of fire still guides by night, the cloud still guides by day.
If you would but take the ills of life, the losses, the sorrow vain,
To the One whose ear is open to hear each cry of pain!
You are thinking now of Willie, the boy we loved so well,
And who left his home to wander--whither--Ah, who can tell!
His room stands just as he left it--I go upstairs each day
And smooth the pillows with my hands, and for my darling pray.
He may not have--sometimes my heart grows fairly sick with dread--
In cold, or storm, or in sickness, a place to lay his head.
My heart would break did I not know the Father of us all
Stoops down to make my sorrow less, counts all the tears that fall.
You will not turn where comfort lies, towards Him you will not move,
O husband, give the Lord your heart--prove, prove His faithful love.”
“If I had sought the Lord,” said he, “when youth and strength were mine,
I might have had to cheer me now as dear a faith as thine.
But God is just, His laws so stern, I’ve broken year by year,
God is a judge--I feel that now--just, holy, and severe.
I scorn to seek Him after all the years I’ve walked in sin--
’Tis too near to life’s ending now for me to just begin.
My heart lies heavy in my breast, but I must bear my load,
My pride has kept me all along a sad and dreary road.
Yes, I’m thinking, wife, of Willie, the boy who went away--
Thoughts of him fill the heart of me when comes this time of day.
I watch you praying for his soul, a light in your dear e’e,
Methinks a soul from heaven itself might well come back to see.
But I--I cannot pray at all; the words they will not come,
My soul rebels and will not bow--_my boy is far from home_.
My lad I was so proud of, though often I was stern,
Wilful was he, but ah, to-night for his presence I yearn.”
There’s a step on the walk outside, trembling hands at the door,
And some one is kneeling by them, sobbing out o’er and o’er:
“Father, your prodigal has come, unworthy of your name,
Broken in spirit, buffeted, baptised with bitter shame.
But say _forgiven_, and lay your hand on me in the old way;
Pride kept me long from you, but I had to come home to-day.”
Such a welcome he got from them--the old love changeth not,
Faithful to death, unswerving--miracles hath it wrought.
The father turned a glowing face, and whispered: Let us pray,
My pride has kept me long from God, but I’ll go home to-day.
And then with the firelight shining, leaving his heavy load,
A prodigal old and hoary came tremblingly back to God.
He knew the truth, deep as the sea, high as the heaven above,
Knew that the Fatherhood of God was made and crowned with Love.
At Quebec
Quebec, the grey old city on the hill,
Lies with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair--so still--
Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride, of tenderness--her stirring past--
The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,
She lies, touched with the sunsets golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her grey old face.
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The Tea Kettle’s Tune
I like to hear the kettle sing
At this time of the day,
Such cheery thoughts it seems to bring,
All worries flee away.
_Now spread your table cloth so white_,
It tells me as I wait,
_Come, bustle ’round, ’tis almost night--
The goodman’s at the gate._
Long time ago it heard John say
Some foolish lover things,
And do you know that to this day
They’re in the song it sings.
It caught the gladness in my tone
When baby Grace arrived,
My pride when Jim first stood alone,
My joy when Robbie thrived.
All this was such awhile ago,
You’d think it would forget,
But ah, the tune--I love it so--
It sings me sometimes yet.
When I was vexed with John last night,
And sat here full of pride,
It sang away with all its might,
And shamed me till I cried.
’Tis humming now, _Come, broil the ham
Or supper will be late,
Put on the biscuits and the jam,
You’re goodman’s at the gate._
The Creed of Love
I have a creed, I’ll tell it you,
Since you have asked me to define
On what I build my hopes of heaven.
My creed--yes, I can call it mine,
Since it belongs to every soul
That reaches upward toward the light,
And trusts in Christ for guidance sure,
And strength and will to do the right.
You’ll find it written down, my friend,
In that old Book upon the shelf,
’Tis: _Love the Lord with all thine heart
And love thy neighbor as thyself_.
Not _quite_ enough? ’Twas counted so
By One Who walked by Galilee,
His creed of love to God and man
Is quite enough for you and me.
In the Clover Field
The air is sweet as sweet can be,
The azure sky spreads smoothly over,
And rest and joy keep company,
In this wide field of sun-kissed clover.
Among the heavy heads of pink,
The avaricious bees are straying,
A glad full-throated bobolink,
His highest note is now essaying.
The earth is holding on her breast,
The sweetest flowers of all her growing,
The white clouds float, from out the west
A soft delicious wind is blowing.
Oh, life is good on such a day,
The blue sky bending smoothly over,
For neither care nor cross will stay,
In this wide field of sun-kissed clover.
Lullaby
Going off to sleep on mamma’s breast,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
He’s the baby mamma loves best--
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Rosy cheeks have been kissed by the sun,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
He’s so tired chasing after fun,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Pretty white “nighty”--isn’t he sweet?
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Reaching right from his chin to his feet,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Never mind staring up at the sky,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
The stars will wink at you by and by,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Fast asleep on his mamma’s breast,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
Put him down in his little white nest,
Hush-a-bye, baby boy!
A Sunset Talk
How sweet the pink flush there in the west,
With the golden bars--let us sit a space--
I want to talk to you as we rest--
Sit where my eyes can dwell on your face.
I have been thinking of you to-day,
You smile as you listen. Is there an hour
I’m not in her thoughts, I hear you say--
Look at that butterfly hid in a flower.