My Palace.
I built me a little palace,
Somewhere in the ether land,
Wherein my soul might revel
And rest at my command.
The spot, a royal summit,
I let my will select,
And Fancy came inspecting
With Thought, the architect.
We went down to the quarry
For the foundation rock,
And purchased hewn and polished
Love’s marble corner block.
For years we toiled together,
And one day warm and sweet
I woke and found my palace
Before me and complete.
It was a gorgeous building--
The window lights of red
Came from the sunset’s furnace,
Or Northern light instead.
Each peak, each tower and turret
The sunlight’s love had won,
And straight there came a voice
From heaven and said “well done.”
I planted a grove beyond it,
And hedged up the terraced yard,
And I dug a groove so a brooklet
Could play on the level sward.
I wanted a flower to cheer me,
And off on a breezy slope
I scattered the seed of roses
And the purple heliotrope.
I peopled the rooms with volumes
Of men with talents rare,
Who climbed upon Fame’s spire
And waved their banners there.
I purchased the costliest paintings,
And swung them from the walls;
And music, like harps of heaven,
Resounded throughout the halls.
I gave a royal banquet,
The nuptial feast was spread,
And then, when all was ready,
There Love and I were wed.
But when the guests departed,
A rap came on the door,
And a gaunt figure faced me
I ne’er had seen before.
“My name,” she said, “is Envy;
I wish to stop with you;
Your dwelling just completed,
The inmates must be few.”
Her breath, like fumes of sulphur,
Into my face was blown,
And like a demon’s curses
Was her departing tone.
The night came on, and fingers
Tapped on the beveled glass,
A face looked in the window
With eyes that shone like brass;
But Love beheld the visage,
And o’er the window drew
A shade that shut Suspicion
Forever from my view.
And then a pond’rous knocking
Bombarded at the door,
And like an earthquake’s tremor
Upheaved the palace floor.
I glanced into the key-hole,
And, like the brand of Cain,
I saw on Slander’s forehead
A dark and bloody stain.
I barred the palace entrance,
And turning in the hall
We faced another figure
More dreadful than them all;
He said: “My name is Ruin--
Unbidden here I stand,
To curse your happy homestead
And desolate your land.
“The lichen I have sprinkled
Upon your crumbling tower,
The ivy and the myrtle
Shall choke each blooming flower.”
And then he smote the castle,
It trembled to its base,
And fell? No, no--I shouted
And laughed out in his face:
“You can not wreck our palace,
Love is the corner stone,
And we are master workmen,”
I said, in jocund tone.
He seized his trailing garments,
Departed with a groan,
And love and I together
Were once more left alone.
Next day as they debated
What course to next pursue,
I heard a sweet voice calling--
Love said the tone he knew.
The step, low as a mother’s
Upon the nursery floor,
Was like advancing music
That halted at our door.
As when a fairy’s castle
Yields to a magic key,
Our door swung on the hinges
The guest was--_Sympathy_.
“Come in, our worthy sister,”
I heard Love then repeat;
“For happiness without you
Could never be complete.”
And while we sat together,
Weaving our garland sweet,
For many a bridal altar,
For many a burial sheet,
We heard another footstep;
And, like an angel sent,
There came and smiled upon us
The face we loved--_Content_.
The circle was completed--
My palace stands sublime
Still on that cloudland summit,
And laughs at threats of Time.
No curses thunder o’er us,
No heavy rains can fall;
For heaven’s open window
Slants sunshine over all.
Death of Summer.
Summer’s dying, close the shutters,
Make the light subdued and sweet,
The last accent that she utters
I’ll record here at her feet.
See, the pulses quiver faintly,
But her heart, alas! ’tis still;
See how pale she lies and saintly,
Feel her hands, they’re white and chill.
Close the eyes made sad from weeping,
Smooth the tangles from her head,
Leave her like an angel sleeping,
Friends are here to view the dead.
See, the rose a tear is dropping
As she leans above her face,
At the door the lily stopping,
Finds her handkerchief of lace.
There the two like sisters sorrow,
As above the corse they bend,
Planning for the sad to-morrow--
For the burial of a friend.
Then the daisy from the mountain,
That in mourning shawl was dressed,
Brought a snowdrow from the fountain,
Lay it on the summer’s breast.
To the pillow crept the lilacs,
But the flowers at her throat
Were the heliotrope and smilax--
This was gained by casting vote--
And the jasmine sought her fingers,
While the fuschias kissed her hair;
At her lip a violet lingers
To deny them, who would dare?
Then the autumn’s sunny treasure
Came the sturdy golden rod,
For the coffin took the measure,
For the grave removed the sod.
Long and mournful the procession
That I watched across the hill,
For to you I’ll make confession,
Autumn doth my spirit kill.
Drives me from the scene of sadness
While on poison nature feeds;
Decks her out in robes of gladness
To conceal the heart that bleeds;
At the summer’s grave there lingers
None more sad to drop a tear
Than the friend whose trembling fingers
Write this in memoriam here.
Spring and Summer.
I heard a footstep on the hill,
The little brook began to trill,
I looked--a sweet and childlike face,
Reflected like a blooming vase,
Was smiling from the water clear,
With buttercups behind her ear.
A flock of swallows hove in sight,
On came the summer clad in white,
With sunshine falling from her hair
Upon her shoulders white and bare,
And pressing through the tangled grass,
A daisy rose to watch her pass.
Under the Snow.
What have you hidden down under the snow,
So dear that you weep when the northern blasts blow?
Why your face pressed to the cold window pane,
Longing to mingle your tears with the rain--
Is there something down under the snow?
Is it only a blossom, a summer’s delight,
That is freezing and dying this cold, bitter night?
That is only a fancy, the floweret is warm,
And the drift has enfolded it safe from the storm--
Is there something yet under the snow?
Something near to the heart down under the snow,
That has robbed the wan cheek of its once carmine glow,
That has stolen the beam of the eye--tears instead
Bespeak how in anguish the sore heart hath bled
For a little child under the snow.
For a dear little prattler that littered the floor,
And laughed as he tumbled your work o’er and o’er
For a little gold head that made sunny the room,
Now bright’ning the darkness and chill of the tomb,
That is dreaming out under the snow.
Only resting awhile in garments all white,
Away from the blackness and sin of to-night;
Away from the vice and the wrong of the street,
Not heeding the song of the rain or the sleet,
Still sleeping down under the snow.
How many a mother her darling would lay
In the last, narrow home--hide her treasure away--
If only to know its soul was at rest
With an innocent heart in an innocent breast,
Far, far down under the snow!
The Prettiest Girl in Town.
Have you e’er seen her, this beautiful girl
With that classical head and complexion of pearl?
So pale and enchanting that sometimes I deem
Her a sweet revelation as when in a dream,
Through wild variations of trouble and fear,
You suddenly feel that an angel is near.
Now guess, if you can, without half of that frown,
For to me she’s the prettiest girl in the town.
The poets all sing of these quaint Highland girls
With enchanting dimples and loose tangled curls;
Or they weave a love-tale from her budding lip’s glow
While chasing the reindeer o’er mountains of snow;
This is only the skill of a well tinctured pen,
Dipped in Romance’s cup for the praises of men,
Who value this maid in the coarse homespun gown
Something less than the prettiest girl in the town.
You must all have watched the calm light of her eyes,
And ethereal figure with heavy drawn sighs;
Pondered often in secret of some magic gift
To win you this face--so like a snowdrift--
I would whisper a secret: On Valentine’s day,
With Cupid commune in a sly, cunning way,
Else only in dreams she is thine; for a crown
Could not purchase the prettiest girl in the town.