All sweet and dim, and soft with haze,
I argue with my unwise heart,
That fain would choose the idler's part.
My heart says, "Let us lie and dream
Under the sunshine's softened beam.
This is the dream-time of the year,
When Heaven itself seems bending near.
"See how the calm still waters lie
And dream beneath the arching sky.
The sun draws on a veil of haze,
And dreams away these golden days.
"Put by the pen--lay thought aside,
And cease to battle with the tide,
Let us, like Nature, rest and dream
And float with th' current of the stream."
So pleads my heart. I answer "Nay,
Work waits for you and me to-day.
Behind these autumn hours of gold,
The winter lingers, bleak and cold.
"And those who dream too long or much,
Must waken, shivering, at his touch,
With naught to show for vanished hours,
But dust of dreams and withered flowers.
"So now, while days are soft and warm,
We must make ready for the storm."
Thus, through the golden, hazy weather,
My heart and I converse together.
And yet, I dare not turn my eyes
To pebbly shores or tender skies,
Because I am so fain to do
E'en as my heart pleads with me to.
October, 1872.
_LINES WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES BUELL_
Something is missing from the balmy spring.
There is no perfume in its gentle breath;
And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing,
And all the bees chant of the grave and death.
Something is missing from the earth. One morn
The angels called a new name on the roll;
A spirit soldier to their ranks was borne,
And all Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul.
He died. Two little words, but only God
Can understand the awful depths of woe
They hold for those who pass beneath the rod,
Praying for strength, from Him who aimed the blow.
He died. The soldier who fought long and well,
Who walked with Death upon the battle-field,
Among the bellowing guns--the shrieking shell--
In poison prison dens--and would not yield.
A six month three times told, he languished there,
And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave!
Thank God, who heard the oft repeated prayer;
Thank God, he does not fill a Southern grave;
That when he died, the loved ones gathered round,
And eased the anguish of those last, sad hours.
That gentle hands can keep the precious mound
All green with mosses, and abloom with flowers.
He was so young and fair; and life was sweet.
Christ give the mourners strength to drain the cup!
He went to make the Heavenly ranks complete,
God sent the angel Death, to bear him up.
So young, and fair and brave; beloved by all;
The lisping child--life's veteran, bent and gray--
And eyes grow dim, and bitter tear-drops fall
Upon the mound where lies the soldier's clay.
Oh! it is sweet to feel that God knows best,
Who called in youth this brother, friend and son,
And sweet to lean upon the Saviour's breast,
And looking upward, say, "Thy will be done."
But something is missing from the balmy spring;
There is no perfume in its gentle breath,
And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing,
And all the bees chant of the grave, and death.
_UNDER THE WILLOW_
Under the willow, you and I
Walked in the gloaming, when love ran high;
That wild first love, that was almost pain,
That we never on earth can know again.
The winds were soft, and the night was calm;
You held my hand in your throbbing palm.
With the fire of passion your dark eyes glowed,
And the tide of my pulses madly flowed.
You drew me closely against your side--
You asked me softly to be your bride.
I trembled, and flushed, and could not speak,
But you knew my answer, and kissed my cheek.
"When earth has perished, and time is dead.
Our love will still live on," we said.
"It shall have a steady and quenchless ray,
Though youth and strength, and life decay."
The night-bird warbled a song just then;
It sounded to us like a glad amen,
As we built our castles, and made our vows,
Under the willow's drooping boughs.
* * * * *
Under the willows, to and fro
We walked in the gloaming, when love ran low.
The tide had ebbed, the current dried,
And our wild, mad passion had slowly died.
I know not wherefore, but widely apart
We had steadily drifted, heart from heart.
Something invisible came between--
I know not what--it was fate, I ween.
The scales had dropped from our youthful eyes,
And we viewed each other in strange surprise;
And she you deemed an angel before,
You found was a woman--and nothing more.
And the idol I worshiped for gold, alway,
I found was the poorest kind of clay.
And so it perished, at one cold breath,
The passion we said would live through death.
And under the willow again we strayed,
And sundered the vows that once were made.
We felt no sorrow--we knew no woe--
Since _love_ had perished, 'twere better so.
We have dreamt our dream; we have reached the end.
You said so calmly, "farewell, my friend."
The night-bird uttered a wailing cry;
It sounded to me like a last good-bye.
I am glad that we sundered our vows, that night.
My pathway is pleasant, my heart is light.
But I feel, my friend, as the days flow on,
That something of youth from my life is gone.
And never, on earth, can we know again,
That first, mad passion, so near to pain,
When under the willow, you and I
Walked in the gloaming, and love ran high.
_DOUBTING_
Sometimes we mortals, writhing in bitter anguish,
Crushed by great griefs, that seem too hard to bear,
And led to doubt God's goodness and his wisdom,
And will not lift our burdened hearts in prayer.
I think these moments are the very darkest,
The blackest and the coldest that we know,
And I think God, and Christ, and all the angels,
Pity us most, in this phase of our woe.
I had a little child I fondly cherished;
A winsome, playful, tender-hearted boy,
Strong willed, yet gentle, gay, yet mild and loving.
He was our household idol and our joy.
We lavished on him stores of pure affection;
We gave him the best love our hearts possessed,
We dressed him in rich robes of finest texture,
And gazing on him, felt this earth life-blest.
We taught him all things good, and true, and noble;
We told him of the dear Lord crucified;
We planned for him a bright and happy future;
We guarded him from danger--yet he died.
Not all the gold and riches we might lavish,
Not all our gold could save him from the tomb.
He died! and when the sweet eyes closed forever,
They shut the sunshine in, and left but gloom.
To-day I saw a drunkard's child--a vagrant;
Ill-clad, ill-fed, uncombed, unwashed, and wild;
His home the street--his lessons vice and sorrow--
His garments rags--his youthful lips defiled
With rum, tobacco, lies and loud blaspheming;
What can his future be, but one of crime?
And thinking of this, and of my boy who slumbered,
My heart felt hard, just for a little time.
It seemed so strange, that he, a homeless vagrant,
Unloved, unloving, treading the road to sin,
That he was spared; and mine so fondly cherished--
Mine so beloved, whose life seemed so twined in
And round our heart strings, that when he was taken,
It left them torn and bleeding--he should die;
Ah me, it seemeth strange; and yet God's wisdom
I can not doubt, nor must I question why.
He, being all-wise, Father, King, Creator,
It would be strange, if you, or I should know
All that He knows, or understand His wisdom,
All things He does, or why He does them so.
Were all this plain, unto our mortal vision,
There would be nothing new to learn above;
So, though the cross be great, and the prize hidden,
I need not doubt His wisdom or His love.
1871
_AT SUNSET_
I sit at my cottage window,
In the light of the sun's last rays,
And the hill-tops glow with splendor,
And the west is all ablaze.
My room is flooded with glory,
My soul, with a wild delight,
And my heart is filled with poems,
That I can not speak, or write.
O, darker, and deeper, and grander,
The glory flames on high,
And I trace the walls of a city.
In that beautiful western sky:
A city all gold and crimson--
All purple and amber red;
And the streets are paved with crystal,
Where the feet of angels tread.
O, soulless pen and pencil.
Thy efforts are weak and vain;
The pen of the poet falters.
And his heart is full of pain:
And the artist drops his pencil,
And weeps in mute despair,
For he cannot paint the glory
That lies in the sunset there.
But the city fadeth--fadeth;
The glory turns to grey;
The golden lights are dying,
And the splendor melts away.
And I know it was only the shadow
Of the city built on high--
Only the poor, pale shadow,
That I saw in the sunset sky.
And I long for that other city--
The city that God hath made,
Where the glory never paleth.
And the splendors never fade.
O, there at the feet of Jesus,
In anthems of praise, I know
My soul shall utter the poems
That fill it to overflow.
1869
_A TWILIGHT THOUGHT_
The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her head
On the breast of her dusky lover Night;
The sun has made her a couch of red,
And woven a cover of dim twilight;
And the lover kisses the maiden's brow,
As low on her couch she sleepeth now.
Here at my window, above the street,
I sit, as the day lies in repose;
And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And I watch this human tide that flows,
Upward and downward, to and fro.
As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.
Over and over the busy town,
Hither and thither, through all the day;
One goes up, and another down--
Each in his own allotted way.
Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet,
And jar, and jostle upon the street.
People that never met before--
People that never will meet again:
A careless glance of the eye--no more,
And both are lost in the sea of men.
Strangers, divided by _miles_ in heart,
Under my window meet and part.
But whether their feet pass up, or down,
Over the river, east or west,
Whether it's in or out of the town,
To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest,
We are journeying to a common goal--
There is one last point for every soul.
Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe,
Whether their aims are great or small,
Whether their paths lie high, or low--
There is one last resting place for all.
Then upward, and downward, go surging by--
Under my window--you _all_ must die.
1870
_TRUE WARRIORS_
Not always those who walk on steadily,
In the straight path, where martyr's feet have trod,
Whose raiments seem of spotless purity,
Not always are they most beloved of God.
Although he sees, and knows their righteousness,
And from his throne, with loving eyes, looks down,
And hovers near, to comfort and to bless,
And holds for each fair brow a starry crown--
Yet there are those, who sometimes wander out
Into forbidden paths of sin, and grief,
Who sometimes hover on the brink of doubt,
Crying, "Oh, God, help thou mine unbelief!"
Whose lives are one long battle with their sins,
Who long for righteousness, yet cling to earth;
And he who battles thus, and battling wins,
God holds, and prizes, as of truer worth.
For greater is he, fighting this good fight,
Falling repeatedly, and prone to wrong,
Than he who walketh calmly in the light,
And never falls, because he is so strong.
Who never sins, because sin tempts him not.
To him who fights temptation one by one,
How sweet God's words when the last fight is fought,
"Beloved servant, well, and nobly done."
1870
_ONE OF THESE_
Some have robes, of silk and velvet,
Cast like manna, down;
Others toil through wind and weather,
For a homespun gown.
Some are born to ride in coaches,
Sitting at their ease;
Others plod foot-sore and weary.
(I am one of these.)
Some have sounding name and title,
Here upon the earth;
Others dwell apart from glory--
No one knows their worth.
Some have wealth, and fame, and beauty,
All the things that please;
Some are poor, and plain and lonely.
(I am one of these.)
Some complain, in midst of pleasures,
Of a hard, sad lot,
Doubting God, denying heaven,
Loving, trusting not.
Others, hedged about with sorrows,
Do, on bended knees,
Praise and bless the Lord forever.
(I am one of these.)
_A FANCY_
Drop down the crimson curtains,
And shut out the dazzling snow,
The cold white mantle that covers
The hills, where the grasses should grow;
And stir up the fire till it burneth,
With a heat like the midsummer sun.
And hang up the cage by the window,
And bring in the plants, one by one.
Till they perfume the air with a fragrance
As rare as the summer can bring.
And call to the bird, till he trilleth
The sweetest of notes he can sing.
And let me lie here, while you fan me,
Till the lazy air stirs, like a breeze.
That comes o'er the hills in the summer,
And rustles the tops of the trees.
Then sing me a song of the summer,
A song full of warmth and sunlight,
And I will forget that the winter
Stalks over the earth in his might.
I will dream that I lie in the clover,
And your voice is the voice of the breeze,
And the bird in the cage is the robin,
That sends down his song from the trees.
1871
_TIRED_
My heart and soul are all too tired to tell;
So weary, Lord,
Of this long, ceaseless work of doing well,
Without reward.
Oh, I have been thy servant now for years,
Nor made complaint,
Though my life cup has been abrim with tears,
But now I faint.
And I have worked for thee, with all my strength,
In pain and woe.
My Master, canst thou chide me, if at length
I ask to go?
Oh, if the soul is purified by fire,
Then I am blest.
The laborer is worthy of his hire--
Lord, give me rest.
I know that I have sinned in many ways--
A sinner made.
But I have _tried_ to serve thee all my days--
I'm not afraid.
I know full well my record is not clear,
Nor white as snow;
But better meet it than to linger here.
Lord, let me go.
_NEVER_
I said, last winter, When the grasses grow,
And there are flowers abloom in every place,
And soft south winds have melted all the snow,
Then I shall meet my darling face to face;
And I shall clasp, and hold her hand in mine,
And I shall see her blue eyes glow and shine.
And now the grass is green on moor and lea;
The snow has vanished, and the spring is here,
The robins shout from every forest tree,
The meadow larks are singing loud and clear,
And there are flowers abloom in every place--
And yet I do not see my darling's face.
All soft and mild, the gentle south wind blew,
The snow clouds vanished, and the sunshine fell
Upon the meadow, and the daisies grew,
And violets and pansies graced the dell.
The bees are busy, while they softly hum,
And yet--and yet--my darling does not come.
Alas! for never will she come again,
She sleepeth, sleepeth, still and silent now;
Her couch is hollowed from the grassy plain,
And daisies bloom and blow above her brow;
And I can never hold her hand in mine,
And I can never see her blue eyes shine.
1869
_TRUE LOVE_
I think true love is something like a tree;
The oak, that lifts its branches to the sky.
The woodman's axe may strike it fatally,
Or it may fall, when mighty winds sweep by.
And where it grew, the flowers may bloom instead,
And all may seem as though the tree were dead.
But underneath the grass, and flowers, there lies,
Hid from the gaping world, a tiny root,
A little living germ, that never dies;
And ever and anon its branches shoot
Up through the earth, and mock, and strive to be
The mighty forest king--the parent tree.
So love may wither, at the hand of Fate,
Or fall beneath the killing winds that blow;
And other loves may spring up, soon or late,
And flowers of forgetfulness may grow,
Over the spot where love once grew instead,
And we may think the old-time passion dead.
And still the little germ lies in the heart,
So closely hidden that it is not known;
And ever and anon its branches start--
Vain mimics of the passion that has flown.
Though love, once slain, can live not, as of yore,
I think its ghost will haunt us evermore.
1871
_HIS SONG_
A poet wandered the city street,
With tattered garments, and aching feet;
Want and hunger had dimmed his eye,
And the children jeered him, as he passed by.
But one of the children sang, at play,
A song his mother had sung that day.
The poet listened, with cheeks aflame,
For the song was his own, and this was fame!
But his heart was lightened. The song of the boy
Had thrilled the strings, with a strange, sweet joy.
"Though I may lie with the nameless dead,
The songs I have written will live," he said.
1872
_WHEN YOU GO AWAY_
When you go away, my friend,
When we say our last good-bye,
Then the summer time will end,
And the winter will be nigh.
Though the green grass decks the heather,
And the birds sing all the day,
There will be no summer weather,
After you have gone away.
When I look into your eyes,
I shall thrill with sharpest pain;
Thinking that beneath the skies,
I may never look again.
You will feel a moment's sorrow--
I shall feel a lasting grief;
You forgetting on the morrow--
I, to mourn with no relief
When we say the last, sad words,
And you are no longer near,
All the winds, and all the birds,
Can not keep the summer here.
Life will lose its full completeness,
Lose it, not for you, but me;
All the beauty and the sweetness
Earth can hold, I shall not see.
1870
_BLEAK WEATHER_
Dear love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew,
The white snows are falling;
And all through the wood, where I wandered with you,
The loud winds are calling;
And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,
Neath the elm--you remember,
Over tree-top and mountain has followed the June,
And left us--December.
Has left, like a friend that is true in the sun,
And false in the shadows.
He has found new delights, in the land where he's gone,
Greener woodlands and meadows.
What care we? let him go! let the snow shroud the lea,
Let it drift on the heather!
We can sing through it all; I have you--you have me,
And we'll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die, and a new one be born
That is bleaker and colder;
But it cannot dismay us; we dare it--we scorn,
For love makes us bolder.
Ah Robin! sing loud on the far-distant lea,
Thou friend in fair weather;
But here is a song sung, that's fuller of glee,
By two warm hearts together.
1870
_THE TALE THE ROBIN TOLD_
I walked to-day, in the grassy dell,
Where the cunning ground-bird hides her nest,
And just where the plum-tree's shadow fell,
I sat me down for a while to rest.
And a robin came, and sat in the tree,
And told a long-lost tale to me.
Of a maiden, pure as the morning light,
And fresh as a white rose, bathed in dew.
Of a youth with eyes like a stormy night,
And a heart that nothing of candor knew.
And all through the valley, green and fair,
The youth and the maiden wandered there.
He plucked the violets, blue and pale,
The lily white, and the roses red,
With every flower that decked the vale--
But the maid was fairest of all, he said.
And the robin saw him kiss her cheek,
And the maiden blushed, but did not speak.
And he held her hand, in a lover's way,
And he saw the blush that his glance awoke,
And with eye, and tone, he seemed to say
The words that his false lips never spoke.
And of her strength, and her life a part,
Was the love that grew in the maiden's heart.
But the summer died, and the autumn came,
And the maiden walked in the vale alone;
And the hopeless love, like a scorching flame,
Burned out her life, but she made no moan.
And she drooped, and died, as the year grew old,
And this was the tale that the robin told.
_A MEMORY_
Oh, do you remember that night, long ago,
When I gave you the rose from my hair?
And you whispered, "I'll wear it close over my heart,
As I cherish the sweet giver there?"
'Twas a long time ago? you've forgotten, perhaps,
That such a thing ever occurred.
But to-night, as I sit in the firelight's glow,
My heart's with the memory stirred.
And I seem to live over my girlhood again,
When my life was as warm as the spring:
Before it had read the sharp lesson of pain,
And when you were my hero, arid king.
Oh! you were not worthy the love that I gave,
Like the sun in midsummer, it burned;
While a passionless fancy, an idle day-dream,
Was the poor, shallow thing you returned.
Long ago--long ago! time has softened the pain,
That threatened to shadow my life.
I am older, and wiser I think, now, than then,
And you have a beautiful wife--
As pure as the angels, as fair, too, they say,
With her blue eyes and snowy-white lid.
But I cannot help wondering, here to myself,
If she loves you as well as I did.
Ah me! it can never harm you, or your bride,
For me to dream over that night,
When you whispered sweet words o'er the rose from my hair.
And my foolish heart throbbed in delight.
1868
_WAITING_
The days flow on, and on,
And never one comes back.
Another year has vanished and gone,
As the waves of the sea wash out the track
On the shining sands o' th' shore.
And patience waneth, and hope is spent,
As I wait and watch for the one who went,
And cometh to me no more.
The spring-time lived and died,
And the summer followed fast;
And I watched through both, with a heart that cried,
For the one who vanished into the past,
Like a beautiful star from the sky;
Who sailed in a good ship over the sea,
And the ship came back: But "where is he,
Oh, treacherous ship," I cry?
The autumn, gold and brown,
Rose from the summer's grave,
And the rain and my tears fell down and down,
As day by day, I stood by the wave.
And cried aloud in my pain.
But what cares the sea for a tortured soul!
It mocks at grief, and the breakers roll,
Singing a loud refrain.
And never a word from thee,
But a silence deep as death;
Though the winter gleameth on moor and lea,
And the cold, cold wind, with its cruel breath,
Blows over the angry sea.
Yet alway and ever, till life is done,
Shall I watch, and wait, and weep for one
Who cometh never, to me.
1869
_DRIFTING APART_
Farther apart, each day, our lives are drifting;
Farther apart at every set of sun.
The clouds between us show no signs of lifting,
But droop, and gather shadows, one by one.
Drifting apart! the visions that I've cherished,
Within my loving, foolish heart for years,
At those two meaning words, have rudely perished,
And in their place is naught but bitter tears.
I do not weep--I do not sigh, and languish,
And murmur at the hard decree of fate.
I walk my way, in silent, smiling anguish,
Knowing remorse, and tears, are all too late.
But oh, my darling! I am only human,
And though 'tis weakness, I do love you yet.
Mine is the heart, of clinging, constant woman,
Whose lot it is to love, and not forget.
I know that we can never stem the current,
That bore the sunshine of my life away;
Our feet can never cross the unbridged torrent
That flows between us, wider every day.
Perhaps, when we have passed the heavenly portal,
And all our tears are dried by Christ, the Friend,
And we have entered on the life immortal,
Perhaps our path ways There may meet, and blend.
I cannot tell; the mystic, grand To-morrow
Was never meant for earthly, mortal eyes.
But it is sweet, to think all tears and sorrow,
Will vanish at the dawn of heavenly skies.
1868.
_ONCE MORE TOGETHER_
[To H. A. M.]
What sounds so sweet as the glad words of greeting?
And what starts the tears,
Like the warm kiss that is given at meeting
After long years.
Friend of my heart, we are once more together;
Hand clasped in hand.
We sit and we walk in the beautiful weather
That gladdens the land.
Oh, rare golden days, in the heart of September;
Days more than sweet--
Days that my heart will forever remember,
Ye are too fleet!
Why haste away! the greedy "Past's" measure
Already runs o'er;
But like a miser who hoards up rare treasure,
He cries out for "more."
Oh, bright Autumn days! If you only would linger
And loiter, and stay!
Too soon old time shall be pointing his finger
And bidding me say.
That word "Good-bye," that's so hard to be spoken.
Hearts have been stirred
Almost to breaking; and fond hearts _have_ broken
At that last word.
Away with these sad thoughts! this rare golden weather
Shall not find me sad,
Because we cannot _always_ wander together,
But I will be glad
Of the days that are left. No foreboding of sorrow
Shall darken my sky.
Nor To-day be o'erclouded, because some To-morrow,
I must say good-bye.
1871
_ONCE IN A WHILE_
Once in a while, in this world so strange,
To lighten our sad regrets,
We find a heart that is true through change--
A heart that never forgets.
Oh, rare as a blossoming rose in December--
As a bird in an Arctic clime,
Is a heart, a _heart_ that can remember
Through sorrow and change and time.
Once in a while we find a love
That will live through life and death,
Ay! that will follow the soul above.
Not passing away with the breath.
But rarer, Oh, rarer by far and stranger
Than a spring in the desert sand,
Is a love that will last, with toil, and danger,
And strife on every hand.
Once in a while we find a friend
That will cling through good or ill,
Whose friendship follows us e'en to the end,
Be it up or adown the hill,
But the heart so true, and the love so tender,
And friendship's faithful smile,
Whether we dwell in squalor or splendor,
We find but "once in a while."
1872
_BEAUTY_
Though thy cheek be fair, as the roses are,
Thy brow like the drifted snow,
And thine eye as bright, as the diamonds light,
Yet if in thy heart doth grow
But noxious weeds, and selfish deeds
Follow thy steps alway,
What in the end availeth it, friend,
If thy face is fair, I pray.
For the smoothest brow, old Time will plow,
And he dimmeth the brightest eye;
And the fairest face, and the form of grace,
In the lowly grave must lie.
But our deeds live on, when life is done.
Nor Time, nor death destroy;
And the words we say, will make their way
With sorrow, or with joy.
And even the thought, that we utter not,
In heaven is like a shout.
And bad or good, it is understood,
And the angels write it out
But they do not care, if the face be fair,
Or what the world deems plain.
They look to the heart, and the deathless part,
For the rest is poor and vain.
1870
_A PLEA FOR FAME_
Let those slander fame who will--
Call her cheat and blame her ways.
It may all be true; and still
I shall give her words of praise.
She has been my faithful friend,
True and constant to the end.
Since I saw her hand first beckon
Far above my lowly plain,
I have had no need to reckon
What my loss, or what my gain.
She has made sweet blossoms blow
In whatever path I go;
She hath made the dark ways light.
Made the somber places bright;
She has filled my empty cup
Full to overflow with pleasure,
And, though I may drink it up,
She again refills the measure.
She has never promised aught
That she has not more than brought.
She has stood by me in danger,
Made a friend of many a stranger--
Made a welcome warm for me
Whereso'er my lot may be;
Thrown wide open many a door
That was closed to me before;
Given me every boon and blessing--
Almost--that is worth possessing.
All my life, I never knew
Any other friend so true.
Youth and Love are fleeting things;
Wealth has light and airy wings--
Fame, once mine, will never flee,
She has been a friend to me.
Let who will condemn her ways,
I shall always sing her praise.
1872
_SOMEWHERE_
Somewhere there is a spot of ground,
Covered with grass, or snow, may-be,
That one day will be spaded 'round
And dug up to make room for me.
And I unconsciously have trod,
Perhaps, and so again may tread
Upon the very voiceless sod,
That will be roof above my head.
Somewhere upon the earth to-day
Are dwelling men, who yet shall spade
And cut and dig the earth away,
Until my narrow house is made.
Perchance they have clasped hands with me;
Those hands, that, after I am dead,
Shall measure me so reverently,
To find how long to make my bed.
How strangely, solemn thoughts like these
Will come, when life seems blithe and gay;
Like voices of the passing breeze,
Saying "All things must pass away-"
_OUR ANGEL_
Upon a couch all robed by careful hands
For her repose, the maiden Mable lies,
Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands--
A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes
May, wondering, gaze upon a little while;
That mortal hands may touch a few times more.
Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile,
As if the glories of that mystic shore,
When first they fell upon her spirit eyes--
All the rare splendors of that unseen way
Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise,
And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast--
Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow.
And they have robed her for her peaceful rest.
Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe,
But in that garb we loved to see her wear;
A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand.
I wonder, as I see her lying there,
If God will give her spirit in His land
Another shape. She could not be more fair.
I think he will not change her form, or face,
But with the same long, rippling, golden hair
She will kneel down before the throne of grace,
And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raise
Up to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand.
And will with her own sweet voice, sing God's praise,
And still be fairest in the Angel band.
1872
_A SUMMER IDYL_
I hear the sound of the reapers,
All in the golden grain,
And voices of strong young binders,
Singing a sweet refrain.
The winds are asleep on the hilltops,
And the sun smiles down in the vale,
Till the rose faints under his glances,
And her cheek grows wan and pale.
The meadows are green as the ocean;
And the winds, when they wake from rest,
Ripple and billow the grasses,
Like waves on the ocean's breast.
The vine grows over my window,
Where the humming bird comes each day,
And the robin and thrush in the willow,
Are singing their lives away.
Oh, beautiful, languid Summer!
You are so fleet, so fleet.
Oh, youth, and joy, and gladness,
You are so sweet--so sweet!
My life is a wonderful poem,
Complete in measure and rhyme,
And the sweetest of all the stanzas
Is written this summer time.
But the golden harvest is going--
The summer will fade and pass.
The thrush and the robin will vanish,
And the snow fall over the grass.
The vine at my window will perish.
And the beautiful poem of life
Will change to a measure of sorrow,
And be marred and broken by strife.
Then revel in youth, and summer;
Oh, heart, be glad and gay,
For sorrow, and blight, and winter,
Are coming to us one day.
1872
_THE MUSICIANS_
The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not hear
The wailing and moaning of souls a-weary--
The strains of sorrow that floated around,
For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
Played louder and louder in joyful glee;
But sometimes a discord was heard by others--
Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder, and faster and faster
The hands of the brothers played strain on strain,
When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master
Swept them aside; and Pain,
Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;
Each note was an echo of awful anguish,
As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow,
And my soul for a season seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of woe.
With skillful hands, that were never weary,
This Master of Music played strain on strain,
And between the bars of the miserere,
He drew up the strings of my heart again:
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
To see that they did not snap in two.
"They are drawn so tight they will break asunder,"
I thought, but instead, they grew,
In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;
And I could hear on the stilly air--
Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer--
The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair,
And my soul grew tender and kind to others;
My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad;
And I held all men to be my brothers,
Linked by the chastening rod.
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
And when on my heart-strings fell again
The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even,
There was never a discord to mar the strain.
For Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
Attuned the strings with a Master hand,
And whether the music be major or minor,
It is always sweet and grand.
1872
_IN VAIN_
The artist looks down on his canvass,
And smothers a heart-weary sigh,
And he sees not the beautiful picture
That glows with the hues of the sky.
For a picture that cannot be painted
Burns into the artist's brain,
And he weeps as he sits at his easel,
And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
The poet reads over his poem,
The thoughts of a Heaven-lent soul--
And sweet as the ripple of waters
The beautiful sentences roll.
But a poem that cannot be written,
Burns into the poet's brain,
And he weeps in a passion of anguish,
And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
The musician sits at his organ,
And the air echoes sweet melodies.
But his heart cries for sounds that are better
Than the sounds that he draws from the keys.
For a chord that has never been sounded--
A passionate,--ecstatic strain.
And he weeps as he sits at the organ,
And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
Oh, Artist, Musician and Poet!
Three souls that were lent to the earth
To brighten with fingers of beauty
This bare, barren planet of dearth!
You dream of the glories of Heaven,
And vainly are striving to show
To the gaze of the clay-fettered mortals,
The things that no mortal shall know.
1871
_BABY EVA_
[Lines to the sweetest little girl in the world.]
Sitting and watching the fire-light fall
In fitful gleams, on floor, and wall,
I think of the fairest of baby-girls,
With bright blue eyes, and sunny curls,
With two round cheeks, and a dimpled hand--
The sweetest baby in all the land.
I think of her thousand coaxing arts,
That won her place in my heart of hearts;
And how at twilight, the baby's hour--
A winsome queen, she ruled in power;
And laid on my shoulder her head of gold
And named the stories she wanted told.
"Goosey Loosey," "Cat and Mouse,"
"London Bridge," and "Jack and his House,"
"Peter's Pig," and "the Foolish Frog,"
"The Mooley Cow," and "the Poly-wog."
And when these were told, as many more,
Till I needs must add, to my ample store.
I can think how the bright little eyes would glow
At the tale of the kid that was made to go.
How they filled with tears, when Old Mother Hubbard
Opened the door on an empty cupboard.
How they sparkled with glee, and glowed with fun
When she heard how the wasp made the hornet run.
Over and over the winsome elf
Would plead for the stories she knew herself;
She would sigh o'er the fate of poor Hen-Pen
Who foolishly hid in the Fox's den,
And grieve o'er the poor little mouse that was drowned
Before his "great long tail" was found.
And sitting alone in the fire-light's glow,
And thinking about it, all I know
That not on the earth, in any place,
Is there such another winsome face--
Is there another, so sweet and wise,
As baby Eva--beneath the skies.
1873
_I SHALL NOT FORGET_
I shall not forget you. The years may be tender,
But vain are their efforts to soften my smart;
And the strong hands of Time are too feeble and slender
To garland the grave that is made in my heart.
Your image is ever about me--before me,
Your voice floats abroad on the voice of the wind;
And the spell of your presence, in absence, is o'er me,
And the dead of the past, in the present I find.
I cannot forget you. The one boon ungiven,
The boon of your love, is the cross that I bear.
In the midnight of sorrow, I vainly have striven
To crush in my heart the sweet image hid there;
To banish the beautiful dreams that are thronging
The halls of my memory--dreams worse than vain;
For the one drop withheld, I am thirsting and longing,
For the one joy denied, I am weeping in pain.
I would not forget you. I live to remember
The beautiful hopes that bloomed but to decay,
And brighter than June glows the bleakest December,
When peopled with ghosts of the dreams passed away.
Once loving you truly, I love you forever;
I mourn not in weak, idle grief for the past;
But the love in my bosom can never, oh never
Pass out, or another pass in, first or last.
_THE OLD AND THE NEW_
As a mother who dies in travail--
Who closes her eyes in death,
And sinks in the sleep that is long and deep,
With her babe's first wailing breath,
In the hush of the midnight watches,
So, the old year passed away,
And the new was born, and was hailed this morn,
As the "Happy New Year Day."
The day when our eyes look backward,
To see what our hands have done,
Through the hours of gold that the dead year told,
Like the beads of a pious Nun--
When we shut up the blotted ledger,
With its record of joy and grief,
Of losses and gains, and pleasures and pains,
And turn to the new white leaf
We hoped, we planned, and we promised,
When the year that is dead was young:
But our hopes are like leaves that are withered,
And the year like a song that is sung.
We planned out some wonderful project,
That should bring to us riches and fame:
Hour by hour, day by day, our plans fell away,
And our project was only a name.
We promised that life should be better,
As the sphere of our labors grew broad,
That "those things behind" should pass from the mind,
As we reached for the prize of our God.
But alas, for the promises given!
Lo, what were our good resolves worth?
They were lost to our sight, and we strayed from the light,
And worshiped the poor things of earth.
And so, while we builded our castles,
With turrets of sapphire and gold,
Till they glowed in the sun, the months one by one,
Slipped away, and the year grew old--
Grew feeble and old and departed
In the shadows and gloom of the night;
And some said 'twas a year full of sorrow,
And some, 'twas a year of delight.
Some, sitting in darkness and weeping,
Sob, "Oh. but the year was so long!"
And some, full of cheer, say the beautiful year
Was only one verse of a song.
To some it brought gladness and pleasure,
To others but sorrow and gloom.
It gave one the sweet orange blossoms,
Another, the dust of the tomb.
There are mothers to-day who are sitting,
With arms that are aching to hold
The small form of grace, and the dear little face,
And the head with its crown of spun gold;
And they think of the last happy New Year,
And the voice that made music all day,
And, sitting alone in the silence, they moan,
For the babe that is hidden away.
There are maidens, in love-letters, reading
The story so old and so new;
And their happy hearts beat, in a rhythm so sweet,
As they read of the love strong and true;
And they think that of all the glad New Years,
There was never another so glad;
And they heed not the wail of the mother, so pale,
Who thinks the day dreary and sad.
There are some leaning over the coffin
Of a hope that went out with the year;
And their sad eyes are dry, and the lips white that cry,
"The hope of a life-time lies here."
God pity and comfort such mourners,
For God alone knoweth the pain
Of these suffering hearts, when a dear hope departs,
And is buried to rise not again.
It is sad to lean over a loved one,
And cover the face with a pall,
But who mourns, with bowed head, o'er a hope that is dead,
Has the bitterest sorrow of all.
God grant that this New Year may bring them,
Some other hope, fully as sweet;
May it cull the bright flowers from happiness' bowers,
And cast them in wreaths at their feet.
Despair and delight walk together;
The sunshine falls over the tomb;
And close by the weary, whose lives are all dreary,
Walk those who are crowned with earth's bloom.
Some wearing the laurels of glory,
And flushed with the glow of success,
May their wreaths never pale, or their honors grow stale,
Or their hopes or their happiness less.
Oh, wonderful year that has left us!
Full of tragedy, sorrow and change,
Was there ever another so fateful,
Was there ever another so strange?
Great hearts that were throbbing last New Year
Are food for the grave-worms to-day,
And lips whose least word a whole nation heard,
Are nothing but cold, silent clay.
There was one who was crowned with the Fern Leaves,
Whose ringing tones, full of good cheer,
Lightened hearts that were sad, and made weary ones glad,
On many a weary New Year.
There was one double-dowered by heaven,
Twice gifted and favored by God,
REID, whose brush, and whose pen, made him king among men,--
He, too, lieth under the sod.
And another, the hero of battles.
Before whom the enemy fled
In alarm and dismay, while he won the day,
MEAD,--warrior and hero, is dead.
There was one who climbed up the steep ladder,
Step by step, on rounds that he made;
And carved out his name, on the summit of Fame,
In letters that never will fade.
He struggled for knowledge and riches,
Position and glory, and _won_.
But, reaching too far, like a child for a star,
He fell, with the words, "It is done!"
It is done, all the climbing and toiling;
It is done, all the worry and strife,
All the bitter and sweet, th' success and defeat,--
It is done, the great drama of life.
It is done, all the year could do for us,
Its mixture of shadow and sun,
Its smiles and its tears, its hopes and its fears,
Its labors and duties, all done.
We stand face to face with the New Year,
Nor know what it hides from our sight;
God grant that it be kind to you, and to me,
That it lead us in ways that are light.
The bells in the steeples are joyful,
The children are shouting in glee,
There is mirth and good cheer in the happy New Year--
All hail to young '73!
Come out of the shadows, ye mourners!
And drop, for this one day at least,
And take part in the revel and feast.
Let us laugh like gay children together,
Forgetting we ever shed tears--
Forgetting the losses, the sorrows and crosses
That came to our lives with the years--
Remembering only the perfume,
The beauty, the bloom, and the sun,
Let us talk of the New Years departed,
And call this the happiest one.
January 1st, 1873.
_DECORATION POEM_
A year that was solemn, and sad and strange,
Has passed away to its tomb,
Since we made the graves of our dear, dead braves
Like a garden, all abloom,--
A year that brought sorrow, and want, and change--
A year with a fateful breath:
And the dreaded beat of its flame-shod feet
Wrought ruin, and woe, and death.
High and higher the tongues of fire
Leaped up in a single night,
Till the walls of a town went crumbling down,
And a city fell in her might.
And with flame and disease, and woes like these,
Death laughed in his mad, wild glee;
And Pestilence loosened his imps in the land,
And ships went down at sea.
But with all of the passion, and pain, and fear,--
With all of the long, sad hours,--
We have not forgotten to offer here
Our yearly tribute of flowers.
I think the heart in a loyal breast
Knows no such word as _forget_;
And I think--nay, know--that in weal or in woe,
_We_ shall remember our debt.
The debt of a nation redeemed from shame,
And a million of slaves set free,
Of a spotless fame, and cherished name,
Honored on land and sea.
Of the dear old flag kept out of the dust,
The flag of the brave and true,
And this is the debt we are owing yet
To the boys who wore the blue.
Thousands are sleeping in Southern graves,
With no slab to tell us where;
But the land where the sweet magnolia waves,
God's hands keep fresh and fair.
And the angels above; in pity and love,
Watch over the unknown mound,
Where some heart's joy, some mother's boy,
A nameless grave has found.
To a clear sweet song that is free and strong,
Yet sad with a minor strain,
I liken the lives of the boys in blue,
Who died ere they knew our gain;
To a glad, glad song, that rings loud and bold,
In a stirring major key,
I liken in thought, the boys who fought,
And were crowned with victory.
To the hero who comes with the beating of drums,
We can give the laurels of fame;
And with mirth, and music, and song and feast,
We can honor and praise his name;
But we bring to the bed of the sainted dead,
Only these wreaths to-day;
Yet they speak with their bloom and sweet perfume,
More than our lips can say.
They speak of a love that can never die,
But strengthen and grow with time;
Of lives that blossom again on high,--
Of a faith and hope sublime.
They tell how a grateful nation's heart
Remembers her tried and true,
And how tears are shed for the honored dead,
For the boys who wore the blue.
They speak of the higher and purer life
That the Lord's dear angels know;
Where nought can enter of pain or strife,
And tears can never flow.
Sleep on brave boys your graves are as green
As the thoughts we give to ye,
And these blooms will say ye are shrined alway
In the halls of memory.
Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30th, 1872.
_AT SET OF SUN_
If we sit down at set of sun,
And count the things that we have done,
And counting, find
One self-denying act, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance, most kind,
That fell like sunshine where it went--
Then we may count that day well spent.
Or, on the other hand, if we,
In looking through the day, can see
A place or spot
Where we an unkind act put down,
Or where we smiled when wont to frown,
Or crushed some thought
That cumbered the heart--ground where it stood--
Then we may count that day as good.
But if, through all the life-long day,
We've eased no heart by yea or nay;
If through it all
We've done no thing that we can trace,
That brought the sunshine to a face--
No act most small
That helped some soul, and nothing cost--
Then count that day as worse than lost.
1869
_LOVE SONG_
When the glad spring time walked over the border,
And the brown honey bee crept from his cell;
When the sun and the west wind put nature in order,
And decked her in robes that became her so well,
Then did my torpid heart waken from slumber,
Then did I first spring to life and to light.
For what were the years passed without thee; they number
Only as one long, dark, flavorless night.
In the flush of the spring time, I saw thee, and seeing,
Loved with the love that had waited for thee.
A life that I never had known, sprang to being--
A life and a love that were heaven to me.
There never before was such warmth in the summer,
There never before were such hues in the fall,
Never such balm in the breath of that comer
Who shrouds the dead seasons, and rules over all.
Love, I have drunk in the charm of thy presence,
The elixir that grants me perpetual life.
My blood leaps, and bounds! I am thrilled with the essence,
And soar over trials, and troubles, and strife.
We live, and we love! and what grief can alarm us;
Darling, my darling, the world is our own!
Life never can rob us--death cannot disarm us
Of this, our vast riches, our wealth, love, alone.
The summer is dead! Did'st know it, my darling?
Did'st know that the winter walked over the earth?
The gold-breasted thrush, and the quaker-crowned starling
Make glad other lands, with their innocent mirth.
Ah no! for the summer of love in thy bosom,
Make summer and sunlight, for thee, everywhere.
_I_ should not have known: but I missed the bright blossom
That all through the summer, I saw in thy hair.
1870
_DISPLAY_
Oh, households wherein skeletons abide!
Keep the dark closet closed, nor think it wise
To throw the door open for stranger eyes,
To see the grinning, fleshless thing inside.
I hate that senseless, imbecile display
Of loathsome things, that calls the gaping crowd
To gaze and comment. Let the screening shroud
Cover the faces of the dead, I say.
And if a household counts a skeleton,
Then keep the ghastly phantom closeted;
Nor flaunt the bones of the unquiet dead
For all the vulgar throng to gaze upon.
Oh, you whose souls are burdened cruelly,
Who shrink in anguish at the bitter smart
That gnaweth, burneth, at your very heart--
Cover the wounds, that strangers shall not see!
Think you a bleeding heart will sooner heal,
To hang where all the cutting winds that blow,
And all the birds of prey can mock its woe?
I hate that vain parade, of all we feel.
Whoever knew the world to give relief
To any private sorrow of a heart!
Its sneering pity is a poisoned dart!
Then closet well your phantoms, and your grief.
1869
_AT THE WINDOW_
Every morning, as I walk down
From my dreary lodgings, toward the town,
I see at the window near the street,
The face of a woman, fair, and sweet,
With soft brown eyes, and chestnut hair,
And red lips, warm with the kiss left there.
And she lingers as long as she can see
The man who walks, just ahead of me.
At night, when I come from my office, down town,
There stands the woman, with eyes of brown,
Smiling out through the window-blind,
At the man who comes strolling on behind.
This fellow and I resemble each other;
At least, so I'm told, by one and another.
(But I think I'm the handsomer, far, of the two.)
I don't know him at all, save to "how d'ye do,"
Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at work
In a dry goods store, as a salaried clerk.
And I am a lawyer, of high renown;
Have a snug bank account, and an office down town.
Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite:
(It has no better name, so I speak it outright.)
There were symptoms before: but it's grown, I believe,
Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve,
When passing the little house, close by the street,
I heard the patter of two tiny feet,
And a figure in pink, fluttered down to the gate,
And a sweet voice exclaimed, "Oh, Will, you are late
And, darling, I've watched at the window until--
Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will."
I passed on my way, with an odd little smart
Beneath my vest pocket, in what's called the heart.
For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will;
And that voice crying "darling" sent such a strange thrill
Throughout my whole being. "How nice it would be,"
Thought I, "if it were in reality me
That she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout."
(It was envy made me use that word, no doubt,
For he's a fine fellow, and handsome, ahem!)
But then it's absurd that this rare little gem
Of a woman, should be on the look-out for him,
Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim,
While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary, and bare,
With no one to welcome me, no one to care
If I'm early, or late--no soft eyes of brown
To watch when I go to, or come from, the town.
This bleak, wretched bachelor life, is about,
If I may be allowed the expression--played out.
Somewhere there must be, in this wide world, I think,
Another fair woman, who dresses in pink.
And I know of a cottage for sale just below,
And it has a French window, in front, and--heigho
I wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be,
Before coming home from the office I'll see
A nice little woman there, watching for me.
1870.
_HOW_
How can I let my youth go by?
How can I let Time mark my brow,
And steal the light of a laughing eye,
And whiten the locks that are nut brown now.
And the tide that goes,
And ripples, and flows,
Like a beautiful river, on forever,
Over my head, through every vein,
And fills me, and thrills me, with joy like pain,
Old cruel Time,
With a touch of rime,
Will drug, and chill, and freeze, until
It likes a stream,
In its winter dream.
Ho! ho! old Time! you may chuckle and smile,
But Death may cheat you, and beat you yet;
What shall you say, if, after a while,
Ere the sun of my youth has set,
I go with him, to a closet dim,
And closing my eyes, in a long, long rest,
Lie white and cold,
And never grow old,
With my two hands clasped over my breast.
Always young,
With my song half sung--
Lying under the graves' green mould;
And the world, for a day
Would miss me, and say,
"When will the rest of the tale be told?"
And then go on,
Gaily on.
Till its hopes were fears, and its young were old.
And, lying there,
What should I care,
Though Time, in a phrenzy of baffled rage,
Should beat on my grave,
And howl and rave,
That I would not barter my youth, for age;
But lie and sleep,
Down low and deep.
Though suns of a thousand seasons set.
Always young,
Never old,
With my song half sung.
And my tale half told--
Ho, ho, old Time, I may cheat you yet!
December, 1869.
_BY AND BY_
Sometime fame shall come to me;
Sometime in the "yet to be."
Not to-day, and not to-morrow;
After years of toil and sorrow,
After losing youth and grace,
In the weary, foolish chase.
After weeks of bitter tears,
After months, and after years,
After waiting day on day,
Throwing love, and peace away,
I shall find the phantom nearing--
I shall find the shadows clearing.
I shall reach the thing I sought,
I shall reach, and find it--what?
Will it recompense, and pay
For the joys I cast away?
In the weary, weary race,
When I lost my youth, and grace?
Is it worth the wear, and strife--
Worth the best part of a life?
Thus have men and women queried,
Standing on the summit, wearied
With the long and steep ascent,
When their youth and grace were spent.
Time sweeps onward with his cycle:
Life is brief, and love is fickle.
I will pause not at his calling,
I will heed not tear-drops falling:
Fame, but Fame, will satisfy,
I shall find it by and by.
1870
_KING AND SIREN_
The harsh king, Winter, sat upon the hills,
And reigned, and ruled the earth right royally.
He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills.
"I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he,
"But a stern monarch, born to rule and reign,
And I will show my power to the end;
The summer's flowery retinue I've slain,
And taken the bold, free North-Wind for my friend.
"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were,
With their vast troops of flowers, birds, and bees,
And winds, that made the long, green grasses stir--
They lost their own identity in these.
I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all!
And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand.
The trusty North-Wind answers to my call,
And breathes his icy breath upon the land."
The Siren, South-Wind, listening the while,
Now floated airily across the lea.
"Oh, King!" she said, with tender tone and smile,
"I come to do all homage unto thee.
In all the sunny region whence I came,
I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand.
Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame;
I kiss in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."
Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face.
He listened rapt, to her soft-whispered praise.
She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace;
"Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raise
But songs of thy unrivalled splendor! Lo!
How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine--
I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh,
Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."
The vain king listened, in a trance of bliss,
To this most sweet sweet voiced Siren from the south.
She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kiss
Upon the stern white pallor of his mouth.
She hung upon his breast--she pressed his cheek--
And he was nothing loth to hold her there.
While she such tender, loving words did speak
And combed his white locks, with her fingers fair.
And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles,
And stole his strength with every glance she gave,
And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles,
And with her loving words she dug his grave.
And then she left him: old, and weak, and blind--
And unlocked all the rivers, lakes and rills,
While the Queen Spring, with her whole troop behind,
Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came over the hills.
1871
_AFTER?_
After the summer glory has departed,
After the sun slides low adown the skies,
After each snowy rose, and the red-hearted,
Droops in the chilling blast, and faints, and dies,
When the brown bee no longer seeks the clover,
But flies away, and hides in his honeyed den.
And from the bleak hills cutting winds blow over,
Full of keen darts--ah, will you love me then?
Or is it but the passion heat of Summer,
That you mistake for love within your heart?
And will not Winter, that unwelcome comer,
With his cold, scornful sneers, make it depart?
Have not the subtle odors of the flowers
Drugged you, and made you drunk with rare perfumes?
And when the winter crashes through the bowers,
Will not your love fade, with the fading blooms?
If so, I will not listen to your wooing;
And I will turn from words and glances sweet.
Because I will not hear a drunkard's suing--
Drunken with rose-scents, and the summer heat.
But if you woo me, in sound mind, and reason,
And can convince me fully it is so,
And that your love will last through any season,
Why then, my answer will not _quite_ be--No.
1870
_IF YOU HAD BEEN TRUE_
Love, in the glow of the sunset,
I have been thinking of you.
Thinking what you might have made me,
If you had been constant and true.
You know I built wonderful castles,
And you had a part in them all;
But you cheated me, Love, you remember.
And down fell each beautiful wall.
Well, you see I lost faith in all women--
The very worst thing I could do.
Thought they were all of one pattern,
And that was inconstant, untrue.
I know it was but a mad fancy:
Know women are truer than men.
But I wish I had found it out sooner,
Or could live my life over again.
For you see I have wasted my manhood;
I don't really care to tell how.
And if I could live it all over,
I think I could better it now.
I would marry some nice little woman--
Some other, if I couldn't get you.
And I would be tender and faithful,
And she would be constant and true.
1870
_AFLOAT_
Once there was a boat, locked fast to a shore,
But rust ate the chain, day by day,
And the boat was loosened more and more,
As the fastenings slipped away.
Yet, any day, an outstretched hand,
Could have caught, and locked it again to land.
But never a hand was stretched to save,
And the boat at last was free;
And shot like an arrow over the wave,
And drifted out mid-sea.
And never, oh never, across the main,
Will the boat to the shore be brought again.
So was my heart, love--linked to thine;
But neglect ate the chains away:
Yet a tender word love, I opine,
Would have saved it, any day.
Ay! a tender word, said first or last,
Would have mended the chain, and held it fast.
But the word was lacking: and so my heart,
Slipped from its chains, like the boat.
And then as the last link fell apart,
It sped o'er the waves--afloat.
Nor pleading hands, nor words, you see,
Brings the boat to shore, or my heart to thee.
_ROSES AND LILIES_
Roses and Lilies, both are sweet;
Lily and Rose, both are fair;
But which to gather for mine alway,
Which to gather, and keep, and wear,
That is the question that bothers me,
For I cannot wear them both, you see.
Rose is the brightest and blithest of girls:
I could lay my heart at her tiny feet,
And gaze forever in those dark eyes,
And kiss forever those lips so sweet.
And holding her soft, white, clinging hand,
Dreamily float into Eden land.
And Lily--Lily, my ocean pearl,
So sweetly tender, so moonlight fair,
I could float to heaven upon her smile,
And kiss forever her silken hair,
That droppeth down, like a golden veil
Over her cheek, and brow--snow pale.
Lilies and Roses--both are fair:
Rose, or Lily, which shall it be?
I love them both with my heart of hearts.
But I cannot wed them both, you see.
Dark-eyed Rose, my winsome girl--
Moon-faced Lily, my ocean pearl.
1870
_IN HEAVEN WITH YOU_
'Tis said, when we shall go across the river,
Whose bridge is death, and gain the other side,
There in that land, with God, the mighty Giver,
The heart shall evermore be satisfied.
And yet, sometimes I cannot help but wonder,
How I can live in heaven without your love;
How live, rejoicing, through all time, I ponder,
And not have you, even with God above.
We bear such things on earth, for we remember
That life is but a little span, at best.
Its passion summer, but precedes December,
And in the grave, we say, there will be rest.
But after death, time stretches with no limit:
Your love, no time can ever bring to me.
Is heaven so bright this shadow can not dim it?
It seems so long--that strange Eternity.
How could my heart, and soul, change so completely
That I should never think of this up there?
But in the angel choruses join sweetly,
Nor ever feel this gnawing grief, and care.
How vast God's lore! how vain the skill of mortal!
He did not mean that we should understand,
Until our feet had crossed the shining portal,
The things so deep, and fathomless, and grand.
And He has made a heaven--a place most holy,
For His redeemed to sometime enter in.
And there is room for all the meek and lowly,
Whose faith, through sorrow hath washed out all sin.
And I believe, when we shall cross the river,
Whose bridge is death, and reach the other side,
There in that land, with God the gracious Giver,
Our hearts shall evermore be satisfied.
1869
_THOU DOST NOT KNOW_
Thou dost not know it! but to hear
One word of praise from thee,
There is no pain I would not bear--
No task too great for me.
My hands could tireless toil all day,
My feet could tireless run,
If at the close thy lips would say,
"Brave, noble heart, well done."
Thou dost not know it! but to win
Approval from thine eyes,
My soul has conquered many a sin,
And conquering, neared tee skies.
And though the reward may not be given,
In all my earthly days,
I feel that after death--in heaven,
Thy lips will give me praise.
Thou dost not know--may never know,
That all I strive to be,
All things praiseworthy that I do,
I strive, and do, for thee.
And though I seldom see thy face,
Or touch thy hand, my friend,
Those meetings are the means of grace,
That help me to the end.
Thou dost not know that thy grand life
Has been my beacon light.
I aim to conquer in the strife,
That I may reach thy height.
I strive to live, so that my feet
May walk the fields most fair,
For the afterlife, seems, oh! so sweet,
Because _thou_ wilt be there.
Thou dost not know how brave and strong
A woman's heart can be.
But few could hide so well and long
What mine has hid from thee.
So well, that should this idyl chance
To meet thine eye, my friend,
Thou'd scan it with a careless glance,
Nor dream to whom 'twas penned.
1872
_A GOLDEN YEAR_
Linger, linger, oh royal year!
For I grieve to see you dying.
Rest on the hilltops--loiter near;
Wait, O Time, in your flying.
For never, in all the twice ten years,
You have brought to build my twenty.
Never was one so free from tears--
So overflowing with plenty.
Filled to the brim with the purest draughts,
That I sip in fearless pleasure;
While an unseen spirit watches and laughs,
And again refills the measure.
My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes,
The year has gathered together,
And right bountifully they have come to me.
From the Spring to the Autumn weather.
The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet,
That grew in the world Ideal,
Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet,
And blossomed among the Real.
And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows,
Passion-hearted, yet tender.
And my path is strewn with the glories of June,
And I'm hedged about with its splendor.
Care flew over the hills, one day,
And I sang, as he swift retreated;
And Hope took his crown, and Joy settled down,
On the throne where Care had been seated.
Contentment hedged me all round about,
And Love built his blazing fire;
And Happiness poured his treasures out,
And left me with no desire.
I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss:
I have loved my God, and my brother.
There never before was a year like this--
There never can be another.
Linger, loiter, a little while,
For I grieve to see you dying!
But even in grief, I can only smile,
For my heart is too light for sighing.