Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still:
They have forged our chains of being for good or ill;
And their invisible hands these hands yet hold.
Our perishable bodies are the mould
In which their strong imperishable will--
Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil--
Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.
Vibrations infinite of life in death,
As a star's travelling light survives its star!
So may we hold our lives, that when we are
The fate of those who then will draw this breath,
They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar,
And curse the heritage which we bequeath.
MATHILDE BLIND.
ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD.
Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,
For a great sign the icy stair shall go
Between the heights to heaven.
One moment stood he as the angels stand,
High in the stainless eminence of air;
The next, he was not, to his fatherland
Translated unaware.
FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS.
THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.
As I came wandering down Glen Spean,
Where the braes are green and grassy,
With my light step I overtook
A weary-footed lassie.
She had one bundle on her back,
Another in her hand,
And she walked as one who was full loath
To travel from the land.
Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"--for she
Had hair of flowing gold,
And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,
Right pleasant to behold--
"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee,
On this bright summer day,
To travel sad and shoeless thus
Upon the stony way?
"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,
And thou art burdened so;
March lightly now, and let me bear
The bundles as we go."
"No, no!" she said, "that may not be;
What's mine is mine to bear;
Of good or ill, as God may will,
I take my portioned share."
"But you have two, and I have none;
One burden give to me;
I'll take that bundle from thy back
That heavier seems to be.
"No, no!" she said; "_this_, if you will,
_That_ holds--no hand but mine
May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean
'Cross the Atlantic brine!"
"Well, well! but tell me what may be
Within that precious load,
Which thou dost bear with such fine care
Along the dusty road?
"Belike it is some present rare
From friend in parting hour;
Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont,
Thou tak'st with thee thy dower"
She drooped her head, and with her hand
She gave a mournful wave:
"Oh, do not jest, dear sir!--it is
Turf from my mother's grave!"
I spoke no word: we sat and wept
By the road-side together;
No purer dew on that bright day
Was dropped upon the heather.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
THE OLD SEXTON.
Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral train at the open gate.
A relic of bygone days was he,
And his locks were white as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
"I gather them in: I gather them in.
"I gather them in! for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I 've builded the houses that lie around,
In every nook of this burial ground;
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude, one by one:
But come they strangers or come they kin--
I gather them in, I gather them in.
"Many are with me, but still I'm alone,
I'm king of the dead--and I make my throne
On a monument slab of marble cold;
And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold:
Come they from cottage or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!
Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin--
I gather them in, I gather them in.
"I gather them in, and their-final rest
Is here, down here, in earth's dark breast!"
And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train
Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain!
And I said to my heart, when time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old
Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din--
"I gather them in, I gather them in."
PARK BENJAMIN.
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow.
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remember the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That _my_ kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
THE MORNING-GLORY.
We wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."
So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem,--
For sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.
But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,
As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift
To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.
We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,
Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!
The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round,--
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;
The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth.
Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain;
But up in groves of Paradise
Full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
MARIA WHITE LOWELL.
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
A widow--she had only one!
A puny and decrepit son;
But, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all--
The Widow's Mite.
The Widow's Mite--ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
Though friends were fewer:
And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then,--and now I see
That, though resigned and cheerful, she
Has sorrowed much:
She has, He gave it tenderly,
Much faith; and carefully laid by,
The little crutch.
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.
ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?
Each day, when the glow of sunset
Fades in the western sky,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go tripping lightly by,
I steal away from my husband,
Asleep in his easy-chair,
And watch from the open door-way
Their faces fresh and fair.
Alone in the dear old homestead
That once was full of life,
Ringing with girlish laughter,
Echoing boyish strife,
We two are waiting together;
And oft, as the shadows come,
With tremulous voice he calls me,
"It is night! are the children home?"
"Yes, love!" I answer him gently,
"They're all home long ago;"--
And I sing, in my quivering treble,
A song so soft and low,
Till the old man drops to slumber,
With his head upon his hand,
And I tell to myself the number
At home in the better land.
At home, where never a sorrow
Shall dim their eyes with tears!
Where the smile of God is on them
Through all the summer years!
I know,--yet my arms are empty,
That fondly folded seven,
And the mother heart within me
Is almost starved for heaven.
Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,
I only shut my eyes,
And the children are all about me,
A vision from the skies:
The babes whose dimpled fingers
Lost the way to my breast,
And the beautiful ones, the angels,
Passed to the world of the blest.
With never a cloud upon them,
I see their radiant brows;
My boys that I gave to freedom,--
The red sword sealed their vows!
In a tangled Southern forest,
Twin brothers bold and brave,
They fell; and the flag they died for,
Thank God! floats over their grave.
A breath, and the vision is lifted
Away on wings of light,
And again we two are together,
All alone in the night.
They tell me his mind is failing,
But I smile at idle fears;
He is only back with the children,
In the dear and peaceful years.
And still, as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go trooping home to rest,
My husband calls from his corner,
"Say, love, have the children come?"
And I answer, with eyes uplifted,
"Yes, dear! they are all at home."
MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER.
JIM'S KIDS.
Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill,
Over the beach lived he and his wife,
In a little house--you can see it still--
An' their two fair boys; upon my life
You never seen two likelier kids,
In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise,
Than them two boys!
Jim would go out in his boat on the sea,
Just as the rest of us fishermen did,
An' when he come back at night thar'd be,
Up to his knees in the surf, each kid,
A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim;
He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar
Of the waves on the shore.
But one night Jim came a sailin' home
And the little kids weren't on the sands;
Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come,
And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands,
And he learnt the worst up on the hill,
In the little house, an' he bowed his head,
"The fever," they said.
'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim,
With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes,
They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him,
For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries
Were about the waves and fisherman Jim
And the little boat a sailin' for shore
Till they spoke no more.
Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on,
And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came,
But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone,
And he never was heard to speak the name
Of the little kids who were buried there,
Upon the hill in sight o' the sea,
Under a willow tree.
One night they came and told me to haste
To the house on the hill, for Jim was sick,
And they said I hadn't no time to waste,
For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick
An' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like,
An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see,
An' had called for me.
And fisherman Jim sez he to me,
"It's my last, last cruise, you understand,
I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea,
But off on the further shore, on the sand,
Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name
Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know,
In the long ago."
No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die,
For all that night he seemed to see
His little boys of the years gone by,
And to hear sweet voices forgot by me;
An' just as the mornin' sun came up,
"They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried,
And so he died.
EUGENE FIELD.
THE MAY QUEEN.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,--
Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
There's many a black, black eye, they say, but _none_ so bright as mine;
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say:
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,--
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white;
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
They say he's dying all for love,--but that can never be;
They say his heart is breaking, mother,--what is that to me?
There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;
For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play,
For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year;
To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,
For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year.
It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,--
Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me.
To-night I saw the sun set,--he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;
And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,--
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There's not a flower on all the hills,--the frost is on the pane;
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again.
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,--
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave.
Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,--
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother--you have another child.
If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say.
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.
Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,--
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor.
Let her take 'em--they are hers; I shall never garden more.
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set
About the parlor window and the box of mignonette.
Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,--
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
CONCLUSION.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.
O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies;
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise;
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow;
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go.
It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done!
But still I think it can't be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.
O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair,
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.
He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin;
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in.
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be;
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,--
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,--
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.
For, lying broad awake, T thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I prayed for both,--and so I felt resigned,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed;
And then did something speak to me,--I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,--it's mine;"
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars;
Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.
So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know
The blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;
But Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away.
And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,--
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,--
Forever and forever with those just souls and true,--
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?
Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,--
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,--
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,--
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
ON ANNE ALLEN.
The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,
And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree--
Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith--
Heaping them up before her Father's door
When I saw her whom I shall see no more--
We cannot bribe thee, Death.
She went abroad the falling leaves among,
She saw the merry season fade, and sung--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,
And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good--
She knew thee not, O Death.
She bound her shining hair across her brow,
She went into the garden fading now;
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
And if one sighed to think that it was sere,
She smiled to think that it would bloom next year!
She feared thee not, O Death.
Blooming she came back to the cheerful room
With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,
And placed the fairest at her Father's side--
She cannot charm thee, Death.
Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;
We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,
As she went singing softly up the stair--
No voice can charm thee, Death.
Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,
That made sweet music of the winter wind?
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
Idly they gaze upon her empty place,
Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face--
She is with thee, O Death.
EDWARD FITZGERALD.
SONNET.
(SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)
Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear,
And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes;
He stands upon the threshold, quick to close
The gate of happiness ere should appear
Death's dreaded presence--ay, but Death draws near,
And large and gray the towering outline grows,
Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knows
Full well, too well, alas! that Death is here.
Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in,
Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,
Would bar the way--poor Love, whose wings begin
To droop, half-torn as are the roses dead
Already at his feet--but Death must win,
And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread!
LADY LINDSAY.
JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR.
The bier descends, the spotless roses too,
The father's tribute in his saddest hour:
O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,--
The fair young girl and flower.
Give them not back unto a world again,
Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,--
Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,--
That fair young girl and flower.
Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now,
Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower;
They both have perished in their morning glow,--
The fair young girl and flower.
But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale,
Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower,
And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail,
O fair young girl and flower!
From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND.
THE DEATH-BED.
We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied--
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
Another morn than ours.
THOMAS HOOD.
A DEATH-BED.