Afternoon songs
s>^^SS^^^^S^jS«!SS>SS^v\<s!S^^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. i-8^^ UNITEB STATES OF AMERICA. AFTERNOON SONGS AFTERNOON SONGS BY JULIA C. R: DORR P NEW-YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1885 "O Copyright, 1885, by Charles Scribner's Sons. /•?-3//^/ Press of J. J. Little & Co., Nos. 10 to 20 Astor Place, New York. L TO S. M. D. ET us go forth and gather golden-rod ! O love, my love, see Jurw upon the hills. Where still the war??t air palpitates ajid thnlls. And earth lies breathless in the smile of God, Like plumes of serried hosts its tassels nod ! All the green vales its golden glory fills ; By lonely waysides ajzd by mountain rills Its yellow banners flaunt above the sod. Perhaps the apple-blossoms were more fair ; Perhaps, dear heart, the roses zoere more szveet Jttne^s dewy roses, with their buds half blown Yet what care we, while tremulous and rare This golden sunshine falleth at our feet And song lives on, though summer birds have flown ? August, 1884. Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart! Although no more for thee in earthly bowers Shall bloom the earlier or the later flowers ; — Although to-day ''tis spring-tifne where thou art. While I, with Aictumn, wander far apart, — Yet, in the naine of that long love of ours. Tested by years and tried by sun and shozvers, Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart/ September, 188^. CONTENTS PAGE. Dedica tion. (To S. M. D.) v Introductory Poem xi Silence i When Lesser Loves 2 Knowing 3 Darkness 4 George Eliot 5 Sanctified 6 To-morrow. L — II 7 A Thought 9 A Message 10 The Place. I.— II.— Ill 11 Gifts for the King 14 Recognition. I. — II 15 '' O Earth ! art Thou not Weary ? " 17 Alexander 18 To A Goddess 19 O. W. H 20 vii viii CONTENTS. PAGE. A Dream of Songs Unsung 21 OuESTioxixG A Rose 33 The Fallow Field 36 Out and In 40 Her Flowers 42 Three Laddies 45 Summer, 1882. (K. W. E.) 48 Thornless Roses 50 Treasure- Ships 52 Choosing 55 Not Mine 57 The Chamber of Silence 60 Three Roses 65 Four Letters. (Inscribed to Dr. O. W. Holmes) 66 Valdemar 69 Jubilate ! 84 Easter Lilies 86 " O Wind that Blows Out of the West " 88 A Summer Song 91 The Urn 93 The Parson's Daughter 95 March Fourth. 18S1-1882 100 Roy 102 CONTENTS. IX PAGE. The Painter's Prayer ." 104 From Exile 108 A Mother-Song 114 Easter Morning 116 Sealed Orders 122 No More the Thunder of Cannon " 126 An Anniversary 128 Martha ■ 131 The Hour 133 The Closed Gate 135 Content 138 Wonderland 140 The Guest 144 Foreshadowings 147 An Old-fashioned Garden 150 Discontent 154 The Doves at Mendon 159 A Late Rose 163 Periwinkle 165 Afternoon 168 The Lady of the Prow 172 Grant 176 Thou and 1 182 /T is mid-afternoon. Long-, long- cig-o Each morning -g-lory sheathed the slender horn It bleiv so gayly on the hills of morn, find faintedj in the noontide's fervid glow. G-one are the deiv-drops from the rose's heart, — G-one ivith the freshness of the early hours, ^he songs that filed the air -with silver showers^ ^he lovely dreams that were of morn a part. Yet still in tender light the garden lies, 9^he warm, sweet zuinds are whispering soft and lozu; ^rovjn bees and hutterflies flit to and fro ; 'd^he peace of heaven is in the overarching sJcies find here be four-o' clocks, just opening wide ' ^heir many-colored petals to the sun, fis glad to live as if the evening- dun Were far away, and morning had not died ! SILENCE. 0 GOLD EN Silence, bid our souls be still, And on the foolish fretting of our care Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware ! Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill With soft reverberations. Thou wert there, And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair,- A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill. Bring us thy peace, O Silence ! Song is sweet ; Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low Murmur of dying winds among the trees, And dear the music of Love's hurrying feet; Yet only he who knows thee learns to know The secret soul of loftiest harmonies. WHEN LESSER LOVES. When lesser loves by the relentless flow Of mighty currents from my arms were torn, And swept, unheeding, to that silent bourn Whose mystic shades no living man may know. By night, by day, I sang my songs ; and so, Out of the sackcloth that my soul had worn, Weaving my purple, I forgot to mourn. Pouring my grief out in melodious woe ! Now am I dumb, dear heart. My lips are mute. Yet if from yonder blue height thou dost lean Earthward, remembering love's last wordless kiss, Know thou no trembling thrills of harp or lute, Dying soft wails and tender songs between. Were half so voiceful as this silence is ! KNOWING. One summer day, to a young child I said, " Write to thy mother, boy." With earnest face, And laboring fingers all unused to trace The mystic characters, he bent his head (That should have danced amid the flowers instead) Over the blurred page for a half-hour's space; Then with a sigh that burdened all the place Cried, " Mamma knows ! " and out to sunshine sped. O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long, And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray. Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong ! God knows ! What though the lips be dumb with pain, Or the pen drops ? He knows what thou wouldst say. DARKNESS. Come, blessed Darkness, come, and bring thy balm For eyes grown weary of the garish Day ! Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray, Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palm The poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm ! Come with thy patient stars, whose far-off ray Steals the hot fever of the soul away, Thy stillness, sweeter than a chanted psalm ! O blessed Darkness, Day indeed is fair. And Light is dear when summer days are long, ~~ And one by one the harvesters go by; But so is rest sweet, and surcease from care, And folded palms, and hush of evensong, And all the unfathomed silence of the sky! GEORGE ELIOT. Pass on, O world, and leave her to her rest ! Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow Weaves its white pall above her, lying low With empty hands crossed idly on her breast. O sisters, let her sleep ! while unrepressed Your pitying tears fall silently and slow. Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow, Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed. Are we so pure that we should scoff at her, Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb ? God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore, Even what time their petals were astir In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume. Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore! SANCTIFIED. A HOLY presence hath been here, and, lo, The place is sanctified! From off thy feet Put thou thy shoes, my soul ! . The air is sweet Even yet with heavenly odors, and I know If thou dost listen, thou wilt hear the flow Of most celestial music, and the beat Of rhythmic pinions. It is then most meet That thou shouldst watch and wait, lest to and fro, Should pass the heavenly messengers and thou, Haply, shouldst miss their coming. O my soul, Count this fair room a temple from whose shrine, Led by an angel, though we know not how. Thy friend and lover dropped the cup of dole. And passed from thy love to the Love Divine ! TO-MORROW. Mysterious One, inscrutable, unknown, A silent Presence, with averted face Whose lineaments no mortal eye can trace. And robes of trailing darkness round thee thrown, Over the midnight hills thou comest alone ! What thou dost bring to me from farthest space, What blessing or what ban, what dole, what grace, I may not know. Thy secrets are thine own ! Yet, asking not for lightest word or sign To tell me what the hidden fate may be. Without a murmur, or a quickened breath, Unshrinkingly I place my hand in thine, And through the shadowy depths go forth with thee To meet, as thou shalt lead, or life, or death ! TO-MORROW. II. Then, if I fear not thee, thou veiled One Whose face I know not, why fear I to meet Beyond the everlasting hills her feet Who Cometh when all Yesterdays are done ? Shall I, who have proved thee good, thy sister shun ? O thou To-morrow, who dost feel the beat Of life's long, rhythmic pulses, strong and sweet, In the far realm that hath no need of sun — Thou who art fairer than the fair To-day That I have held so dear, and loved so much — When, slow descending from the hills divine, Thpu summonest me to join thee on thy way. Let me not shrink nor tremble at thy touch, Nor fear to break thy bread and drink thy wine! A THOUGHT. (Suggested by reading "A Miracle in Stone.") Oh, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One, Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings, In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings; Thou at whose word the morning stars begun With song and shout their glorious course to run; Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings, And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute brings From every shore that smiles beneath the sun; Thou who didst write thy name upon the hills And bid the mountains speak for thee alway, Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills. And to each flower that breathes its life away — Oh ! dost thou smile, or frown, when man's conceit Seeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet ? A MESSAGE. I BID thee sing the song I would have sung, — The high, pure strain that since my soul was born. Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn, Through all its chambers hath divinely rung ! In thee let my whole being find a tongue ; Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn, Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn. Youth holds the world in fee, — and thou art young ! O my glad singer of the tuneful voice. Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar, Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach, Beyond the plummet of a woman's speech. Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice! THE PLACE. "I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU." I. O Holy Place, we know not where thou art 1 Though one by one our well-beloved dead From our close claspings to thy biiss have fled, They send no word back to the breaking heart; And if, perchance, their angels fly athwart The silent reaches of the abyss wide-spread. The swift white wings we see not, but instead Only the dark void keeping us apart. Where did he set thee, O thou Holy Place ? Made he a new world in the heavens high hung. So far from this poor earth that even yet Its first glad rays have traversed not the space That lies between us, nor their glory flung On the old home its sons can ne'er forget? 12 THE PLACE. II. But what if on some fair, auspicious night, Like that on which the shepherds watched of old, Down from far skies, in burning splendor rolled, Shall stream the radiance of a star more bright Than ever yet hath shone on mortal sight — Swift shafts of light, like javelins of gold, Wave after wave of glory manifold, From zone to zenith flooding all the height ? And what if, moved by some strange inner sense, Some instinct, than pure reason wiser far. Some swift clairvoyance that annulleth space. All men shall cry, with sudden joy intense, " Behold, behold this new resplendent star — Our heaven at last revealed! — the Place! the Place ! " THE PLACE, 13 III. Then shall the heavenly host with one accord Veil their bright faces in obeisance meet, While swift they haste the Glorious One to greet. Then shall Orion own at last his Lord, And from his belt unloose the blazing sword. While pale proud Ashtaroth with footsteps fleet, Her jewelled crown drops humbly at his feet. And Lyra strikes her harp's most rapturous chord. O Earth, bid all your lonely isles rejoice ! Break into singing, all ye silent hills ; And ye, tumultuous seas, make quick reply! Let the remotest desert find a voice ! The whole creation to its centre thrills. For the new light of Heaven is in the sky ! GIFTS FOR THE KING. (H. W. L., Feb. 27TH.) What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King, O royal poet, on this day of days ? No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays ; No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring, O'er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling; For well we know thy beckoning finger sways A mightier empire, and the world obeys. No lute, for thou hast only need to sing; No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet The air about thee, even as when the rose Swings its bright censer down the garden-path. Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet; Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows. What can we bring to him who all things hath? ^4 RECOGNITION. (H. W. L.) I. Who was the first to bid thee glad all-hail, O fi:iend and master? Who with winged feet Over the heavenly hills flew, fast and fleet. To bring thee welcome from beyond the veil? The mighty bards of old? — Thy Dante, pale With high thoughts even yet, Virgil the sweet. Old Homer, trumpet-tongued, and Chaucer, meet To clasp thy stainless hand? What nightingale Of all that sing in heaven sang first to thee ? Through all the hallelujahs didst thou hear Spencer still pouring his melodious lays. Majestic Milton's clarion, strong and free. Or, golden link between the far and near, Bryant's clear chanting of the eternal days ? 1 6 RECOGNITION. II. Nay, but not these ! not these ! Even though apace, Long rank on rank, with swift yet stately tread They came to meet thee — the immortal dead — Yet Love ran faster! All the lofty place, All the wide, luminous, enchanted space Glistened with Shining Ones who thither sped — The countless host thy song had comforted ! What light, what love illumed each radiant face ! The Rachels thou hadst sung to in the dark, The Davids who for Absaloms had wept. The fainting ones who drank thy balm and wine, High souls that soared with thee as soars the lark, Children who named thee, smiling, ere they slept — These gave thee first the heavenly countersign ! "O EARTH! ART THOU NOT WEARY?" O Earth ! art thou not weary of thy graves ? Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy breast How are they heaped from farthest east to west ! From the dim north, where wild the storm-wind raves O'er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves, To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed, Where roses bloom alv/ay and song-birds nest, How thick they lie — like flecks upon the waves! There is no mountain-top so far and high, No desert so remote, no vale so deep. No spot by man so long untenanted. But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky, Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep ! O Earth ! art thou not weary of thy dead ? 17 ALEXANDER. There was a man whom all men called The Great. Low lying on his death-bed, we are told, He bade his courtiers (when he should be cold, Breathless, and silent in his last estate. And they who were to bury him should wait Outside the palace) that no cerecloth's fold Or winding-sheet should round his hands be rolled: Those helpless hands that once had ruled the state ! Thus spake he : " On the black pall let them lie, Empty and lorn, that all the world may see How of his riches there was nothing left To Alexander when he came to die." Lord of two worlds, as treasureless was he As any beggar of his crust bereft ! i8 TO A GODDESS. Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair ! Let its hght stream across the waiting seas As banners float upon the yielding breeze From tlie king's tent, his presence to declare. And as his heralds haste to do their share, Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees, So let the waves in loftiest symphonies Proclaim thy glory to the listening air ! Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee, For thee the patient earth has waited long, — To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands From the far hills and o'er the rolling sea. Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong, A beacon-light to earth's remotest lands. 19 O. W. H. August 29, 1809. " How SHALL I crown this child ? " fair Summer cried. "May wasted all her violets long ago; No longer on the hills June's roses glow, Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide. My stately lilies one by one have died; The clematis is but a ghost — and lo ! In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow; How shall I crown this Summer child ? " she sighed. Then quickly smiled. " For him, for him," she said, " On every hill my golden-rod shall flame, Token of all my prescient soul foretells. His shall be golden song and golden fame — Long golden years with love and honor wed, — And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles ! " A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG, Whence it came I did not know, How it came I could not tell, But I heard the music flow Like the pealing of a bell; Up and down the wild-wood arches, Through the sombre firs and larches. Long I heard it rise and swell; — Long I lay, with half-shut eyes, Wrapped in dreams of Paradise ! Then the wondrous music poured Yet a fuller, stronger strain, Till my soul in rapture soared Out of reach of toil and pain ! Then, oh then, I know not how. Then, oh then, I know not where, I was borne, serene and slow. 22 A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. Through the boundless fields of air — Past the sunset's golden bars, Past long ranks of glittering stars, To a realm where time was not, And its secrets were forgot! Land of shadows, who may know Where thy golden lilies blow ? Land of shadows, on what star In the blue depths shining far, Or in what appointed place In the unmeasured realms of space, High as heaven, or deep as hell. Thou dost lie, what tongue can tell ? Send from out thy mystic portals With the holy chrism to-day, One of all thy high immortals Who shall teach me what to say ! O beloveds, all the air Was a faint, ethereal mist Touched with rose and amethyst, — A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 23 Glints of gold, and here and there. Purple splendors that were gone, Like the glory of the dawn. Ere one caught them. Soft and gray, Lit by many a pearly ray. Were the low skies bending dim To the far horizon's rim; And the landscape stretched away, Fair, illusive, like a dream Wherein all things do but seem ! There were mountains, but they rose O'er the subtile vale's repose. Light as clouds that far and high Soar to meet the untroubled sky. There were trees that overhead Wide their sheltering branches spread. Yet were empty as the shade By the quivering vine-leaves made. There were roses, rich with bloom, Swinging censers of perfume Sweet as fragrant winds of May Blowing through spring's secret bowers ; 24 A DREA.U OF SONGS UNSUNG. Yet SO phantom-like were they That they seemed the ghosts of flowers. Oh the music sweet and strange In that land's enchanted range I Like the peaUng of the bells When the brazen flowers are swinging And the angelus is ringing, Soaring, echoing, far and near, Through the vales and up the dells, — Softly on the enraptured ear A melodious murmur swells ! As the rhythm of the river Day and night goes on forever, So that pulsing stream of song Rolls its silver waves along. Even silence is but sound, Deeper, softer, more profound ! All the portals were thrown wide; Stretching far on either side Ran the streets, like silver mist. By the moon's pale splendor kissed ; A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 25 And adown the shadowy way, Forth from many a still retreat, One by one, and two by two, Or in goodly companies; Gliding on in long array, Light and fleet, with silent feet. One by one, and two by two, Phantoms that I could not number. Countless as the wraiths of slumber. Passed before my wondering eyes ! Then I grew aware of one Standing by me in the dun, Gray half-twilight. All the place Grew softly radiant ; but his face, Albeit unveiled, I could not see For the awe that compassed me. Swift I spoke, by longings swayed Deeper than my words betrayed : " Master," with clasped hands I prayed, " Who are these ? Are they the dead ? " " Nay, they never lived," he said ; 4 26 A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. " Whence art thou ? How earnest thou here?" Low I answered, then, in fear: " Sir, I know not ; as I lay- Dreaming at the close of day, Wondrous music, thrilling through me, To this land of phantoms drew me. Though I knew not how or why, Even as instinct draws the bird Where Spring's far-off voice is heard. Tell me, Master, where am I ? " " Thou art in the border-land ; On the farthest, utmost strand Of the sea that lies between All that is and is not seen. Thou art where the wraiths of song Come and go, a phantom throng. 'Tis their heart's melodious beat Fills the air with whispers sweet ! These, O child, are songs unsung — Songs unbreathed by human tongue. These are they that all in vain Mightiest masters wooed amain — A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. z'j Children of their heart and brain - That they could not warm to life By their being's utmost strife. Every bard that ever sung Since the hoary earth was young, Knew the song he could not sing Was his soul's best blossoming; Knew the thought he could not hold Shrined his spirit's purest gold. Look ! " Where rose the city's gate In majestic, sculptured state, From a far-ofif battle-plain, Through the javelins' silver rain Bearing buckler, lance, and shield, And their standard's glittering field, Eager, yet with shout nor din. Came a great host trooping in. Burned their eyes with martial fire, And the glow of proud desire. Such as gods and heroes filled When their mighty souls were thrilled By old Homer's golden lyre ! 28 A DREAM OF SOXGS UXSUXG. Under dim cathedral arches Pacing sad, pacing slow, As to beat of funeral marches Or to music's rhythmic flow, — With their solemn brows uplifted, And their hands upon their breasts, Where the deepest shadows drifted, One by one pale phantoms pressed. Lost in dreams of heights supernal. Mystic dreams of Paradise, Or of woful depths infernal, Slow they passed before mine eyes. Oh the %-ision's paUid splendor I Oh the grandeur of their mien — Kin, by birthright proud and tender. To the matchless Florentine! In stately solitude, Whereon might none intrude — Majestic, grand and calm. And bearing each the palm ; Dwelling, serene and fair. In most enchanted air. A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 29 Where softest music crept O'er harp-strings deftly swept, And organ-thunders rolled Like storm-winds through the wold, They stood in strength sublime Beyond the bounds of time, — They who had been a part Of Milton's mighty heart ! And where, mysterious ones, Are Shakspeare's princely sons, Bearing in lavish hands The spoil of many lands ? From castles lifted far Against the evening star, Where royal banners float O'er rampart, tower, and moat, And the white moonlight sleeps Upon the Donjon keeps ; — From fairy-haunted dells Among the lonely fells; From banks where wild thyme grows And the blue violet blows; 30 A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. From caverns grim, and caves Lashed by the deep sea waves; From darkHng forest shade, From busy haunts of trade. From market, court, and camp, Where folly rings her bells. Or sorrow tolls her knells, Or where in cloister cells The scholar trims his lamp, — Wearing the sword, the gown, The motley of the clown, The beggar's rags, the dole Of the remorseful soul. The wedding-robe, the ring, The shroud's white blossoming, O myriad-minded man. Thus thine immortal clan Passed down the endless ways Of the eternal days ! Then said I to my spirit : — " These are they who wore the crown ; A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. 31 Well the king's sons may inherit All his glory and renown. Where are they, — the songs unsung By the humbler bards whose lyres Through earth's lowly vales have rung, Like the notes of woodland choirs ? They whose silver-sandalled feet Never climbed the clouds to meet ? " Where ? — the air grew full of laughter Low and sweet; and following after Came the softest breath of singing As if lily bells were ringing ; — And from all the happy closes, Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses. Bearing woodland ferns for palm boughs in their hands, From the dim secluded places, Through the wide enchanted spaces. With their song-illumined faces Swept the shadowy minstrel bands! 32 A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG. Songs unsung, the high and lowly, Songs, the holy and unholy, In that purest air grown wholly Clean from every spot and stain! And I knew as endless ages Still were turning life's full pages, Each should find his own again — Find the song he could not sing, As his soul's best blossoming! QUESTIONING A ROSE. It was fair, it was sweet, And it blossomed at my feet. '' O thou peerless rose ! " I said, " Art thou heir to roses dead, — Roses that their petals shed In the winds of long ago ? Who bequeathed to thee the glow Of thy perfect, radiant heart ? What proud queen of fire and snow Lived to make thee what thou art ? " Who gave thee thy nameless grace And the beauty of thy face, Touched thy lips with fragrant wine. Pledging thee in cups divine ? 5 33 34 QUESTIOKIXG A ROSE, On some long-forgotten day, When earth kept glad holiday, One bright rose was born, I think, Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink ; — Born, more blest than others are, To be thy progenitor I " Oh the roses that have died In the imremembered Junes! Oh the roses that have sighed Unto long-forgotten runes ! Dost thou know their secrets dear ? Have they whispered in thine ear Mysteries of the rain and dew, And the sunshine that they knew ? Have they told thee how the breeze AVooed them, and the amorous bees ? " Silent, art thou ? Thy repose Mocks me, yet I fain would know Art thou kin to one rare rose Of a summer long ago ? QUESTIONING A ROSE. 35 It was sweet, it was fair; Some one twined it in my hair, When my young cheek, blushing red, Shamed the roses, some one said. Dust and ashes though it be, Still its soul lives on in thee." THE FALLOW FIELD. The sun comes up and the sun goes down ; The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town; But if it be dark or if it be day, If the tempests beat or the breezes play, Still here on this upland slope I lie, Looking up to the changeful sky. Naught am I but a fallow field; Never a crop my acres yield. Over the wall at my right hand Stately and green the corn-blades stand. And I hear at my left the flying feet Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat. 36 THE FALLOW FLELD. 37 Often while yet the morn is red I list for our master's eager tread. He smiles at the young corn's towering height, He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, But he glances not at the fallow field Whose idle acres no wealth may yield. Sometimes the shout of the harvesters The sleeping pulse of my being stirs, And as one in a dream I seem to feel The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel, Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain As they heap their wains with the golden grain. Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud. Though on every tongue your praise is loud. Our mother Nature is kind to me, And I am beloved by bird and bee, And never a child that passes by But turns upon me a grateful eye. 38 THE FALLOW FLELD. Over my head the skies are blue ; I have my share of the rain and dew; I bask Hke you in the summer sun When the long bright days pass, one by one, And calm as yours is my sweet repose Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows. For little our loving mother cares Which the corn or the daisy bears. Which is rich with the ripening wheat, Which with the violet's breath is sweet, Which is red with the clover bloom, Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room. Useless under the summer sky Year after year men say I lie. Little they know what strength of mine I give to the trailing blackberry vine; Little they know how the wild grape grows, Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. THE FALLOW FIELD. 39 Little they think of the cups I fill For the mosses creeping under the hill ; Little they think of the feast I spread For the wild wee creatures that must be fed : Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, And the creeping things that no eye may see. Lord of the harvest, thou dost know How the summers and winters go. Never a ship sails east or west Laden with treasures at my behest, Yet my being thrills to the voice of God When I give my gold to the golden-rod. OUT AND IN. A SHIP went sailing out to sea, A gallant ship and gay, When skies were bright as skies could be, One sunny morn in May. The light winds blew, The white sails flew. The pennants floated far; No stain I saw. Nor any flaw, From deck to shining spar! And from the prow, with eager eyes, Hope gazed afar — to Paradise. A ship came laboring in from sea, One wild December night; Ah ! never ship was borne to lee In sadder, sorrier plight ! 40 OUT AND IN. 41 Rent were her sails By furious gales, No pennants floated far; Twisted and torn And all forlorn Were shuddering mast and spar ! But from the prow Faith's steady eyes Caught the near light of Paradise ! HER FLOWERS. " Nay, nay," she whispered low, " I will not have these buds of folded snow, Nor yet the pallid bloom Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume, Nor lilies waxen white, To go with her into the grave's dark night. " But now that she is dead Bring ye the royal roses blushing red; Roses that on her breast All summer long, by these pale hands caressed. Have lain in happy calm, Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm ! 42 HER FLOWERS. 43 Roses for all the joy Of perfect hours when life had no alloy; When hope was glad and gay, And young Love sang his blissful roundelay; And to her eager eyes Each new day oped the gates of Paradise. But, for that she hath wept, And over buried hopes long vigil kept, Bring mystic passion-flowers, To tell the tale of sacrificial hours When, lifting up her cross. She bore it bravely on through pain and loss ! Then at her blessed feet, That never more shall haste on errands sweet, Lay fragrant mignonette And fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set. Dear humble flowers, that make Each passer-by the gladder for their sake ! 44 HER FLOWERS. For she who lieth here Trod not alone the high paths shining clear, With light of star and sun Falling undimmed her lofty place upon ; But stooped to lowliest ways, Filling with fragrance all the passing days ! THREE LADDIES. O SAILORS sailing north, Where the wild white surges roar, And fierce winds and strong winds Blow down from Labrador — Have you seen my three brave laddies, My merry, red-cheeked laddies, Three bold, adventurous laddies. On some tempestuous shore ? O sailors sailing south. Where the seas are calm and blue, And light clouds, and soft clouds, Are floating over you, Say, have you seen my laddies. My three bright winsome laddies, My brown-haired, smiling laddies, With hearts so leal and true ? 45 46 THREE LADDIES. O sailors sailing east, Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by; O sailors sailing west, Ask the eagles soaring high, If they have seen my laddies. My careless, heedless laddies. Three debonair young laddies. Beneath the wide, wide sky? O sailors, if you find them. Pray send them back to me ; For them the winds go sighing Through every lonely tree — For these three wandering laddies, My tender, bright-eyed laddies, The laughter-loving laddies. Whom they no longer see. There are three men who love me, Three men with bearded lips; But oh ! ye gallant sailors Who sail the sea in ships — THREE LADDIES. 47 In elf-land, or in cloud-land, Or on the dreamland shore, Can you find the little laddies Whom I can find no more ? Three quiet, thoughtful laddies. Three merry, winsome laddies, Three rollicking, frolicking laddies. On any far-off shore ? SUMMER, 1882. R. W. E. O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou ? In what far sunUt land of balm and bloom. What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume, Are roses crowning thine imperial brow ? Where art thou, Summer ? We should see thy feet Even now upon the mountains. All the hills Rise up to greet thee. Nature's great heart thrills, Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet ? And Summer answered : " Lo ! I wait ! I wait ! To the far North I bend my listening ear; By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hear One high, clear strain that rises soon nor late ! SUMMER, 1882. 49 "Why should I haste where light and song have fled? The ' Woodnotes ' wake no more the Master's lyre; The ' haughty day ' fills no ' blue urn with fire ' When its great lover lieth cold and dead ! " THORNLESS ROSES. " No ROSE may bloom without a thorn ? " Come down the garden paths and see How brightly in the scented air They bloom for you and me ! See how, like rosy clouds, they lie Against the perfect, stainless blue ! See how they toss their airy heads. And smile for me, for you ! No scanty largess, meanly doled — No pallid blooms, by two, by three, But a whole crowd of pink-white wings Fluttering for you and me. 50 THORNLESS ROSES. 51 So fair they are I cannot choose; I pluck the rich spoils here and there ; I heap them on your waiting arms ; I twine them in your hair. There is no thorn among them all — No sharp sting in the heart of bliss — No bitter in the honeyed cup — No burning in the kiss. Nay, quote the proverb if you must, And mock the truth you will not see; Nathless, Love's thornless roses blow Somewhere for you and me. TREASURE-SHIPS. O BEAUTIFUL, Stately ships, Ye come from over the seas, With every sail full spread To the glad, rejoicing breeze! Ye come from the dusky East, Ye come from the golden West, As birds that out of the far blue sky Fly each to its sheltered nest. All spoils of the earth ye bring; From the isles of far Cathay, From the fabled shores of the Orient, And realms more rich than they: The prisoned light of a thousand gems, The gleam of the virgin gold, Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl, Shut up in the narrow hold. 52 TREASURE.SHIPS. 53 Shawls from the looms of Ispahan ;. Ivory white as milk; Shimmer of satin and rare brocade, And fold upon fold of silk ; Gauzes that India's maidens wear; Spices, and rare perfumes; Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups The wealth of the summer blooms. The blood of a thousand vines ; The cotton's drifted snow ; The fragrant heart of the precious woods That deep in the tropics grow; The strength of the giant hills; The might of the iron ore ; The golden corn, and the yellow wheat, From earth's broad threshing-floor. Yet, O ye beautiful ships ! There are ships that come not back. With flying pennant and swelling sail. Over yon shining track! 54 TREASURE-SHIPS. Who can reckon their precious stores, Or measure the might have been ? Who can tell what they held for us — The ships that will ne'er come in ? CHOOSING. Meadow-sweet or lily fair — Which shall it be? Clematis or brier-rose, Blooming for me? Spicy pink, or violet With the dews of morning wet, Sweet peas or mignonette — Which shall it be? Flowers in the garden-beds, Flowers everywhere; Blue-bells and yellow-bells Swinging in the air; Purple pansies, golden pied; Pink- white daisies, starry-eyed; Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed, Climbing everywhere! 55 56 CHOOSING. Oh, the roses darkly red — See, how they burn ! Glows with all the summer heat Each crimson urn. Bridal roses pure as snow, Yellow roses all a-blow, Sweet blush roses drooping low, Wheresoe'er I turn ! Life is so full, so sweet — How can I choose ? If I gather this rose, That I must lose? All are not for me to wear; I can only have my share ; Thorns are hiding here and there; How can I choose ? NOT MINE. It is not mine to run With eager feet Along life's crowded ways, My Lord to meet. It is not mine to pour The oil and wine, Or bring the purple robe And linen fine. It is not mine to break At his dear feet The alabaster-box Of ointment sweet. It is not mine to bear His heavy cross, 8 57 S8 NOT MINE. Or suffer, for his sake, All pain and loss. It is not mine to walk Through valleys dim, Or climb far mountain-heights Alone with him. He hath no need of me In grand affairs, Where fields are lost, or crowns Won unawares. Yet, Master, if I may- Make one pale flower Bloom brighter, for thy sake, Through one short hour; If I, in harvest fields Where strong ones reap, May bind one golden sheaf For Love to keep; NOT MINE. 59 May speak one quiet word When all is still, Helping some fainting heart To bear thy will; Or sing one high, clear song, On which may soar Some glad soul heavenward, I ask no more ! THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. One autumn day we three, Who long had borne each other company,— Grief, and my Heart, and I, — Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky. The fields were bare and brown : From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down There were no birds to sing, Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing. We sought the barren sand Beside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand, Paced its slow length, and talked Of our supremest sorrows as we walked. Slow shaking each bowed head, "There is no anguish like to ours," we said; 60 THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. 6i " The glancing eyes of morn Fall on no souls more utterly forlorn." But suddenly, across A narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss, We saw before our eyes, High hung above the tide, a temple rise — A temple wondrous fair, Lifting its shining turrets in the air, All touched with golden gleams. Like the bright miracles we see in dreams. Grief turned and looked at me. " We must go thither, O my friends," said she ; Then, saying nothing more. With rapid, gliding step passed on before. And we — my Heart and I — Where Grief went, we went, following silently, Till in sweet solitude Beneath the temple's vaulted roof we stood. 62 THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. 'Twas like a hollow pearl — A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirl Of passion stirred not, where A luminous splendor trembled in the air. " O friends, I know this place," Said Grief at last, "this lofty, silent space, Where, either soon or late, I and my kindred all shall lie in state." " But do Griefs die ? " I cried. "Some die — not all," full calmly she replied. "Yet all at last will lie In this fair chamber, slumbering quietly. » " Chamber of Silence, this ; Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss. Mine hour hath come. We three Will walk, O friends, no more in company." Then was I dumb. My Heart And I — how could we with our dear Grief part, THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. 63 Who for so many a day Had walked beside us in our lonely way ? But she, with matchless grace, And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face, Said, " Leave me here to sleep, Where every Grief forgets at last to weep." What could we do but go ? We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo ! The pearly door had closed, Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed. " Nay, go not back," she said; " Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead." Then, on the other side. On noiseless hinge another door swung wide, Through which we onward passed Into a chamber lowlier than the last. But, oh ! so sweet and calm That the hushed air was like a holy psalm. 64 THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE. " Chamber of Peace " was writ Where the low vaulted roof arched over it. Then knew we Grief must cease When sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace. THREE ROSES. " Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose, A deep-tinted red rose ? " said she. " In the sunny garden closes, How they burn, the dark-red roses, How they lift up their glowing cups to me ! " " Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose, A dewy, dainty blush rose ? " said she. "At its heart a flush so tender. With what veiled and softened splendor Droopeth now its languid head towards me ! " " Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose, A fair and fragrant white rose ? " said she. " With its pale cheek tinted faintly, 'Tis a vestal, pure and saintly. Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me ! " g 6s FOUR LETTERS. ^ (inscribed to OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.) [In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29, there is this record, " Son b." The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.] Four letters on a yellow page Writ when the century was young ; A few small grains of shining sand Across it lightly flung! A child was born — child nameless yet; A son to love till life was o'er; But did no strange, sweet prescience stir, Teaching of something more ? Thy son ! — O father, hadst thou known What now the wide world knows of him, 66 FOUR LETTERS, 67 How had thy pulses thrilled with joy, How had thine eye grown dim! Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years, Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze. And seen him as he stands to-day, Crowned with unfading bays — While Love's red roses at his feet Pour all their wealth of rare perfume, And Truth's white lilies, pure as snow, His lofty way illume — How had thy heart's strong throbbings shook The eager pen, the firm right hand. That threw upon this record quaint These grains of glittering sand ! O irony of Time and Fate ! That saves and loses, makes and mars, Keeps the small dust upon the scales, And blotteth out the stars! 68 FOUR LETTERS. Kingdoms and thrones have passed away; Conquerors have fallen, empires died, And countless sons of men gone down Beneath War's crimson tide. The whole wide earth has changed its face ; Nations clasp hands across the seas ; They speak, and winds and waves repeat The mighty symphonies. Mountains have bowed their haughty crests, And opened wide their ponderous doors ; The sea has gathered in its dead. Love-wept on alien shores. Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame, Have challenged all the slumbering land ; Yet neither Time nor Change has touched These few bright grains of sand ! VALDEMAR. Within a city quaint and old, When reigned King Alcinor the Bold, There dwelt a sculptor whose renown With pride and wonder filled the town. And yet he had not reached his prime; The first warm glow of summer-time Had but just touched his radiant face, And moulded to a statelier grace The stalwart form that trod the earth As it had been of princely birth. So fair, so strong, so brave was he, With such a sense of mastery. That Alcinor upon his throne No kinglier gifts from life could own Than those it brought from near and far To the young sculptor, Valdemar ! 69 70 VALDEMAR. Mayhap he was not rich — for Fame, To lend its magic to his name. Had outrun Fortune's swiftest pace And conquered in the friendly race. But a fair home was his, where bees Hummed in the laden mulberry trees; Where cyclamens, with rosy flush, Brightened the lingering twilight hush, And the gladiolus' fiery plume Mocked the red rose's brilliant bloom; Where violet and wind-flower hid The acacia's golden gloom amid; Where starry jasmines climbed, and where, Serenely calm, divinely fair. Like a white lily, straight and tall, The loveliest flower among them all, His sweet young wife, Hermione, Sang to the child upon her knee ! Here beauteous visions haunted him, Peopling the shadows soft and dim; Here the old gods around him cast The glamour of their splendors past VALDEMAR. Jove thundered from the awful sky ;. Proud Juno trod the earth once more; Pale Isis, veiled in mystery, Her smile of mystic meaning wore; Apollo joyed in youth divine, And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine; Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned, With virgin footsteps spurned the ground; Here rose fair Venus from the sea, And that sad ghost, Persephone, Wandered, a very shade of shades. Amid the moonlit myrtle glades. Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child, The Holy Mother, meek and mild, Angels on glad wing soaring free, Pale, praying saints on bended knee, Martyrs with palms, and heroes brave, Who for their guerdon won a grave, Earth's laughing children, rosy sweet. And the soul's phantoms, fair and fleet — All these were with him night and day, Charming the happy hours alway ! Oh, who so rich as Valdemar? 72 VALDEAIAR. What ill his joyous life can mar ? With home and glorious visions blest. 