And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod.
"Oh, faithful soul," she cried, "and brave,
'Twas you that led me back to God!
"Back from the sin, the shame, the snare--
Forget your trust and faith?--not I;
Each helpful word, each tender prayer,
I will remember till I die!"
Two men that sleep: above the one
The monument an artist's hand
Has fashioned from the block of stone,
A thing of beauty, tall and grand;
Above the other naught--what then?
Ere he did fold his hands for rest,
He builded in the hearts of men
The fairest monument and best.
THE LONESOMEST HOUSE.
It's the lonesomest house you ever saw,
This big gray house where I stay.
I don't call it living at all, at all,
Since my mother's gone away.
Only four weeks now--it seems a year--
Gone to heaven, the preacher said,
And my heart is just broke awaiting her,
And my eyes are always red.
I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze,
'Cause every identical room
Seems empty enough to scare a boy,
And packed to the door with gloom.
Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals,
And her not there in her place,
Pouring the tea, and passing the things,
With that lovin' shine on her face!
But night-time is worse. I creep up the stair
And to bed as still 's a mouse,
And cry in my pillow, it seems so hard
To stay in this old gray house!
And nobody giving me good-night hugs,
Or smoothing my hair back--so;
Things a boy makes fun of before his chums,
But things that he likes, you know.
There's no one to go to when things go wrong--
Oh, she was so safe and sure!
There wasn't a thing could tackle a boy
That she couldn't up and cure.
There's lots of women, it seems to me,
That wouldn't be missed so much,
The women whose boys are 'most growed up,
And old maid aunties, and such.
I can't understand it at all, at all,
Why on earth she should have to go,
And leave me here in this old gray house,
Needin' an' wantin' her so!
Oh, the very lonesomest thing of all
In the wide, wide world to-day
Is a big boy of twelve whose heart's just broke
'Cause his mother's gone away!
DADDY'S BOY.
It is time for bed, so the nurse declares,
But I slip off to the nook,
The cozy nook at the head of the stairs,
Where daddy's reading his book.
"I want to sit here awhile on your knee,"
I say, as I toast my feet,
"And I want you to pop some corn for me,
And give me an apple sweet."
I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
"You can't have a pony this year at all,"
Says my stingy Uncle Joe,
After promising it--and there's the stall
Fixed ready for it, you know.
One can't depend on his uncle, I see,
It's daddies that are the best,
And I find mine and climb up on his knee
As he takes his smoke and rest.
I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
I want to skate, and oh, what a fuss
For fear I'll break through the ice!
This woman that keeps our house for us,
She isn't what I call nice.
She wants a boy to be just like a girl,
To play in the house all day,
Keep his face all clean and his hair in curl,
But dad doesn't think that way.
I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
"You're growing so big," says my dad to me.
"Soon be a man, I suppose,
Too big to climb on your old dad's knee
And toast your ten little toes."
Then his voice it gets the funniest shake,
And oh, but he hugs me tight!
I say, when I can't keep my eyes awake,
"Let me sleep with you to-night."
I tickle him under the chin--just so--
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
JANET.
Janet, she was trim and small,
Swift her feet could go;
Sandy, he was great and tall,
Sandy, he was slow.
Dark the curls on Janet's heid,
Dark her een, and true;
Sandy's hair was straicht an' reid,
Sandy's een were blue.
Sandy had been coortin' lang,
Sandy wasna bold,
Blushed when Janet trilled the sang,
Sweet as it is old:
_"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?"_
Janet's lips were reid and ripe,
Full o' sic delichts;
Longing for them spoiled the pipe
Sandy smoked o' nichts.
Janet laughed when he would sigh,
Janet wasna kin'.
Spite o' a' as days went by
Janet filled his min'.
When in kirk he sat and heard
Sermons deep and lang,
Every fluttering bird ootside
Seemed piping Janet's sang.
Through the psalm, and through the prayer,
Thought went wanderin' wide--
O what were toil, what were care,
Wi' Janet by his side?
Janet, wi' the waist sae sma',
Janet, dear indeed;
Sermon, psalm, and prayer, and a',
Sandy didna heed--
Going hame at sober pace
Made confession--sae:
"Hearken, Lord! hide no Thy face
Though I go astray.
"Help me juist tae do my pairt--
Win her if I can--
Sae I plead wi' a' my hairt,
Help a sinfu' mon!"
Surely faith was in that prayer.
Ere an hour went by
Janet cam' wi' lichtsome air
Through the fields o' rye.
Sandy, tak' ye hairt o' grace--
Surely 'tisna wrang--
Here's the lass wi' saucy face,
How runs Janet's sang?
_"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?"_
THE LAD FROM INVERNESS.
He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock;
Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock.
Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast,
Been quite blind to all his follies,--but he loved his country best.
"I'll come home again," he told her; "I'll come home again some day,"
Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away.
Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home,"
Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams:
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"
His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair;
The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair;
But a man's heart, true and gallant, beat beneath the tartan plaid,
And a strong right arm he boasted, did this bonnie Highland lad.
Oh, the battlefield is gruesome, with its dying and its dead,
But 'twas to the field of battle that the drum and bugle led--
Magersfontein--and the bullets biting fiercely left and right,
And the lad in kilt and hose there in the thickest of the fight.
Fearful odds, and none to help them, fight they boldly, undismayed,
Gallant clansmen of the north land! Brave old Highlander brigade!
Someone blundered, this we know,
When you met the ambushed foe,
But you fought as heroes fight, and died as heroes die;
This we know, this we know.
Where the fighting had been fiercest, as the sun sank in the west,
Did they find the widow's laddie, with a bullet in his breast,
And his smiling face turned upward. Did he dream at last--who knows--
Of the far-off hills of Scotland? Lying there in kilt and hose,
With the gold hair gleaming brightly underneath the bonnet blue,
And the tartan plaid laid gently o'er the heart so brave and true.
Stilled forever! With death's coming did there fall upon his ear
Music that he loved to list to, bugle call so high and clear,
Thrilling, stirring, sweeter, shriller, and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him through the shadows, calling softly through the shadows,
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"
ALL ON AN APRIL MORNING.
The teacher was wise and learned, I wis,
All nonsense she held in scorning,
But you never can tell what the primmest miss
Will do of a bright spring morning.
What this one did was to spread a snare
For feet of a youth unheeding,
As March, with a meek and lamb-like air,
To its very last hour was speeding.
Oh, he was the dullard of his class,
For how can a youth get learning
With his eyes aye fixed on a pretty lass
And his heart aye filled with yearning?
"Who finds 'mong the rushes which fringe a pool,"
She told him, "the first wind blossom,
May wish what he will"--poor April fool,
With but one wish in his bosom.
Her gray eyes danced--on a wild-goose chase
He'd sally forth on the morrow,
And, later, she'd laugh in his sombre face,
And jest at his words of sorrow.
But penitence and a troubled mind
Were fruits of the night's reflection;
After all, he was simple, and strong, and kind--
'Twas wrong to flout his affection.
They met on the hill as she walked to school;
He said, unheeding her blushes,
"Here's the early flower your April fool
Found growing among the rushes.
"Take it or leave it as you will"--
His voice ringing out so clearly
Awoke in her heart a happy thrill--
"You know that I love you dearly."
Day-dreams indulged as she taught the school
Held lovers kneeling and suing;
"Take it or leave it"--her April fool
Was masterful in his wooing.
He gave her the flower--she gave him a kiss--
His suit she had long been scorning;
But you never can tell what the primmest miss
Will do of a bright spring morning.
BILLY.
O! He was the boy of the house, you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad;
He never was sick, he never was tired,
And nothing could make him sad.
If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end,
But his bed-time came too soon.
Did someone urge that he make less noise,
He would say, with a saucy grin:
"Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir--
O sakes! I wish I was a twin.
"There's two of twins, and it must be fun
To go double at everything;
To holler by twos, and whistle by twos,
To stamp by twos, and to sing!"
His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy;
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.
You met him out on the garden path,
The terrier at his heels,
And knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.
The maiden auntie was half distraught
With his tricks as the days went by;
"The most mischievous child in all the world!"
She said with a shrug and a sigh.
His father owned that her words were true,
His mother declared each day
He was putting wrinkles into her face,
And turning her brown hair gray.
His grown-up sister referred to him
As "a trouble," "a trial," "a grief";
The way he ignored all rules, she said,
Was something beyond belief!
It never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in racket and din,
Had only one regret in the world--
He hadn't been born a twin!
* * * * *
There's nobody making a noise to-day,
There's nobody stamping the floor,
'Tis strangely silent upstairs and down--
White ribbons upon the door.
The terrier's whining out in the sun:
"Where's my comrade?" he seems to say.
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There's no frolic for you to-day.
The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
Is sobbing her young heart out.
Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
The laugh and the merry shout.
The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him "angel" and "sweet,"
And the maiden aunt is nursing the boots
He wore on his restless feet.
So big, so solemn the old house seems--
No uproar, no racket, no din,
No shrill peal of laughter, no voice shrieking out,
"O sakes! I wish I was a twin!"
A man and a woman white with grief
Watch the wearisome moments creep--
Oh! the loneliness touches everything,
The boy of the house is asleep!
SLY BOY.
I was the slyest boy at home,
The slyest boy at school,
I wanted all the world to know
That I was no one's fool.
I kept my childish hopes and schemes
Locked closely in my breast,
No single secret shared with Bob,
The chum I liked the best.
I never showed my squirrel's nest,
Nor beaver dam, nor cave,
Nor fortress where I used to go
To be a soldier brave.
Oh, I was sly, just awful sly,
In winter, summer, spring,
While Bob would tell me all he knew,
I never told a thing.
And yet Bob always got ahead;
I'd find the careless knave
Asleep within my fortress walls,
And fishing in my cave.
"What, yours!" he said, in great surprise,
"You should have told me so.
You never said a word, old chum,
And how was I to know?"
My slyness hurt more than it helped;
If Bob had known, you see,
He was too kind to do his best
To get ahead of me.
I still was sly when I grew up.
I fell in love with Nan,
But scorned to own it to myself
Or any other man.
So sly was I, Nan never guessed--
No more did handsome Bob--
That every time she looked my way
My heart, it stirred and throbbed.
The same old story! Ere I knew,
My chum had loved and won.
When I explained I'd picked her out
To be my very own,
"What, yours!" he said in great surprise,
"You should have told me so.
You never said a word, old chum,
And how was I to know?"
I've learned my lesson, lost my girl;
You'll own 'tis rather rough.
Henceforward I'll not be too sly--
I'll be just sly enough.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
QUEEN VICTORIA.
1837.
The sunshine streaming through the stained glass
Touched her with rosy colors as she stood,
The maiden Queen of all the British realm,
In the old Abbey on that soft June day.
Youth shone within her eyes, where God had set
All steadfastness, and high resolve, and truth;
Youth flushed her cheek, dwelt on the smooth white brow
Whereon the heavy golden circlet lay.
The ashes of dead kings, the history of
A nation's growth, of strife, and victory,
The mighty past called soft through aisle and nave:
"Be strong, O Queen; be strong as thou art fair!"
A virgin, white of soul and unafraid,
Since back of her was God, and at her feet
A people loyal to the core, and strong,
And loving well her sweetness and her youth.
1901.
Upon her woman's head earth's richest crown
Hath sat with grace these sixty years and more.
Her hand, her slender woman's hand, hath held
The weightiest sceptre, held it with such power
All homage hath been hers, at home, abroad,
Where'er hath dwelt a chivalrous regard
For strength of purpose and for purity,
For grand achievement and for noble aim.
To-day the cares of State no longer vex;
To-day the crown is laid from off her brow.
Dead! The great heart of her no more will beat
With tenderness for all beneath her rule.
Dead! The clear eyes of her no more will guard
The nation's welfare. Dead! The arm of her
No more will strike a mighty blow for right
And justice; make a wide world stand amazed
That one so gentle as old England's Queen
Could be so fearless and so powerful!
Full wearily the sense of grief doth press
And weight us down. The good Queen is no more;
And we are fain to weep as children weep
When greedy death comes to the home and bears
From thence the mother, whose unfailing love
Hath been their wealth, their safeguard, and their pride.
O bells that toll in every zone and clime!
There is a sound of sobbing in your breath.
East, west, north, south, the solemn clamor goes,
Voicing a great, a universal grief!
THANKFULNESS.
I thank Thee, Lord,
For every joyous hour
That has been mine!
For every strengthening and helpful word,
For every tender sound that I have heard,
I thank Thee, Lord!
I thank Thee, Lord,
For work and weariness
That have been mine!
For patience toward one groping toward the light,
For mid-day burden and for rest of night,
I thank Thee, Lord.
THE NATIVE BORN.
There's a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long,
And the summer winds are blowing, and the summer sun is strong,
When the orchards and the meadows throw their fragrance on the air,
When the grain-fields flaunt their riches, and the glow is everywhere.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
There's a thing we love to think of when the frost and ice and snow
Hold high carnival together, and the biting north winds blow.
There's a thing we love to think of through the bitter winter hours,
For it stirs a warmth within us--'tis this fair young land of ours.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
Ours with all her youth and promise, ours with all her strength
and might,
Ours with all her mighty waters and her forests deep as night.
Other lands may far outshine her, boast more charms than she can claim,
But this young land is our own land, and we love her very name.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
Let the man born in old England love the dear old land the most,
For what spot a man is born in, of that spot he's fain to boast;
Let the Scot look back toward Scotland with a longing in his eyes,
And the exile from old Erin think her green shores paradise,
Native born are we, are we,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
Well we love that sea-girt island, and we strive to understand
All the greatness, all the grandeur, of the glorious Mother Land;
And we cheer her to the skies, cheer her till the echoes start,
For the old land holds our homage, but the new land holds our heart!
Native born are we, are we,
Canada, fair Canada!
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
THE KING'S GIFT.
TO E. S. R.
The new year coming to us with swift feet
Is the King's gift,
And all that in it lies
Will make our lives more rounded and complete.
It may be laughter,
May be tear-filled eyes;
It may be gain of love,
Or loss of love;
It may be thorns, or bloom and breath of flowers,
The full fruition of these hopes that move--
It may be what will break these hearts of ours,
What matter? 'Tis the great gift of the King--
We do not need to fear what it may bring.
THE PASSAGE.
O soul on God's high seas! the way is strange and long,
Yet fling your pennons out, and spread your canvas strong;
For though to mortal eyes so small a craft you seem,
The highest star in heaven cloth lend you guiding gleam.
O soul on God's high seas! look to your course with care,
Fear most when winds are kind and skies are blue and fair.
Your helm must sway at touch of no hand save your own--
The soul that sails on God's high seas must sail alone.
O soul on God's high seas! sail on with steady aim,
Unmoved by winds of praise, untouched by seas of blame.
Beyond the lonely ways, beyond the guiding star,
There stretches out the strand and golden harbor bar.
AIR CASTLES.
I built a castle in the air--
A radiant thing made out of dreams;
Love's dear desire its golden stair--
Naught heavier than a hope was there--
A thing of mist and rainbow gleams.
But when it fell--ah! when it fell,
Though made o' dreams and mist and shine,
The mystery of it who can tell?
Its falling shook both heaven and hell,
And ground to dust this heart of mine.
YOUTH AND JUNE.
I was your lover long ago, sweet June,
Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still,
And follow gladly to the wondrous tune
You pipe on golden reeds to vale and hill.
I am your lover still--to me you seem
To hold the fragrance of the joys long dead--
The brightness and the beauty of the dream
We dreamed in youth--to hold the tears we shed,
The laughter of our lips--the faith that lies
Back in that season dear to every heart,
Life's springtime, when God's earth and God's blue skies
Are, measured by our glance, not far apart.
THE MOTHER.
As "Peace on earth!" the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn,
"Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ
is born!"
As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring,
As harpers strike their harps of gold and "Glory! Glory!" sing,
Upon the City's threshold fair
A woman steps, and lingers there.
The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim,
"Tell Christ," she says, "a mother waits who fain would speak
with Him."
Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note
Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float;
And hearing it, straight from His throne
Comes down to her the Kingly One
With shining face and eyes that hold
Such wealth of love and peace,
She feels her trembling heart grow bold,
Her doubt and grieving cease.
"Dear Lord!" she cries, and lowly kneels, "I have a prayer to make;
O do Thou hear and answer it for Thine own mercy's sake,
Since heaven will not seem fair to me
If one dear face I may not see.
"Dear Christ, a mother's love is great
To shield, to guide, to watch, to wait.
The last kiss that I gave on earth was to my wayward son,
Whose soul, though deeply stained by sin, may yet by love be won
To penitence, to higher walk, to purer, holier way;
O wilt Thou let me to go to him and guard him night and day?
"Thou wert a babe in Bethlehem, a mother guarded Thee.
I pray Thee now, for her dear sake, to hearken unto me!
Remember how she held Thee close, and crooned Thee, sweet and low,
The lullabies that mothers sang long centuries ago,
And bared her snowy breast to Thee,
And stroked Thy forehead tenderly.
"And kissed Thee oft, and told herself, again and yet again,
To hold Thee thus one hour outweighed the travail and the pain!
Dear Christ, this city is most fair; its glories thrill and move;
O doth it grieve Thee that my heart cleaves to an earthly love?
That on mine eyes heaven's beauties dim
Because my heart is back with him?
"With him--the wandering son of mine, the wayward one--whose need
Of patient love and guiding hand is very great indeed!
Think not I love Thee not, dear Lord, nor long for heaven's rest;
'Tis only that the mother-heart throbs fiercely in my breast.
On this glad morning of Thy birth,
O grant me leave to visit earth!"
Lo! on her head she feels the touch of tender wounded hand,
"Fear not," she hears, "a love like thine the Christ can understand.
No mother prays in vain to Me on this day of the year,
For when the faltering words she speaks fall on My waiting ear,
I do remember that My cheek
Lay on a bosom warm,
I do remember Bethlehem,
And Mary's cradling arm."
LOVE'S LESSON.
One lesson let us bear in mind--
Be very gentle with our own,
Be to their faults a little blind,
Nor wound them by a look or tone.
Put self behind! turn tender eyes;
Keep back the words that hurt and sting;
We learn, when sorrow makes us wise,
Forbearance is the grandest thing.
Be patient lest some day we turn
Our eyes on loved one fast asleep,
And whisper, as we lean and yearn,
"How often I have made you weep!
"Some loved you not and words let fall
That must have pierced your gentle breast,
But I, who loved you best of all,
Hurt you far more than all the rest."
One lesson let us keep in mind--
To hold our dear ones close and fast,
Since loyal hearts are hard to find,
And life and love so soon are past.
IMMORTALITY.
The fluttering leaves above his grave,
The grasses creeping toward the light,
The flowers fragile, sweet, and brave,
That hide the earth clods from our sight,
The swelling buds on shrub and tree,
The golden gleam of daffodil,
The violet blooming fair and free
Where late the winds blew harsh and chill,
The lily lifting up its breath
Where snowdrifts spread but yesterday--
All cry: "Where is thy sting, O death?
O grave, where is thy victory?"
Each Eastertide the old world sings
Her anthem sweet and true and strong,
And all the tender growing things
Join in her resurrection song.
AUGUST.
God in His own right hand doth take each day--
Each sun-filled day--each rare and radiant night,
And drop it softly on the earth and say:
"Touch earth with heaven's own beauty and delight."
A SONG OF HARVEST HOME.
Praise God for blessings great and small,
For garden bloom and orchard store,
The crimson vine upon the wall,
The green and gold of maples tall,
For harvest-field and threshing-floor!
Praise God for children's laughter shrill,
For clinging hands and tender eyes,
For looks that lift and words that thrill,
For friends that love through good and ill,
For home, and all home's tender ties!
Praise God for losses and for gain,
For tears to shed, and songs to sing,
For gleams of gold and mists of rain,
For the year's full joy, the year's deep pain,
The grieving and the comforting!
THE USURER.
Fate says, and flaunts her stores of gold,
"I'll loan you happiness untold.
What is it you desire of me?"
A perfect hour in which to be
In love with life, and glad, and good,
The bliss of being understood,
Amid life's cares a little space
To feast your eyes upon a face,
The whispered word, the love-filled tone,
The warmth of lips that meet your own,
To-day of Fate you borrow;
In hunger of the heart, and pain,
In loneliness, and longing vain,
You pay the debt to-morrow!