Part 22

In meadows deep with hay, I see The reapers' steel flash sparklingly; And bobolinks at play;-- And in the iris-bordered coves Frail lilies, shaded by the groves, Moor all the golden day. I watch the flicker rise on sun-lit wings High where a pewee sings,-- Apollo's messenger To the lone piper of the fir. Where rolling western hills look like Waves of aërial seas, the sunsets strike; And wrecking, dye the clouds with gold. Moon-wheeled, Eve's chariot is rolled On through the high star-spangled doors, To Night's dark murmurous shores.

LATE AUTUMN

Behold! the maize fields set their pennons free, In this rich golden ending of the year; And asters bloom upon the sunny lea, Smiling as sweet as May, though leaves turn sere. Deep in the dell, the gentle turtle-head Lifts up its tiny spire of pearly bells, And cardinals ring out a richer chime;-- A last brave bee seeks in the gentians' cells A farewell taste of honeyed spring, for dead Is all the clover on its fragrant bed;-- And bloomless rose vines o'er the trellis climb.

Sometimes across the still and cheerless night, The farewells of the flocks are softly heard, As to the warm savannahs they take flight, Following the sad and tuneful mocking-bird. And numerous winds are murmuring sudden loss, Like cries of Hylas through the Mysian land; Or doleful chords on Grecian citherns played By tearful maidens of a funeral band. Of all the wealth of Autumn now is left But that to wound the memory; bereft Is he who wanders in this barren glade.

No more I linger in the Lydian wood, And wait Silenos by each dell and spring; No more the gloaming seems or warm or good When everything of joy has taken wing. I e'en despair of Hellas in my pain; I walk an endless line of cypress shade; I wreck upon the tossing coast of night, When everything of loveliness light made Dissolves into the cold, swift autumn rain, That sweeps interminably o'er the plain, And leaves the dying world in piteous blight.

The reaper Winter cometh on apace, And gleaneth all the wealth of golden-rod, And parsley wild of timid peaceful face,-- Cutting the summer from the close shorn sod. The miser-wind plucks now the last pale leaf From the poor bough that treasured it in hope;-- The chilling mists unroll their purple folds, Leaving the outcast through the wilds to grope, Or fall beneath a silent, hopeless grief, Gathered to ruin with the forsaken sheaf, And all the wreckage of the blasted wolds.

FRANCIS L. DOMINICK WATERS

_From_ "THE WATER LILY"

Then sighed the Wandering Angel sore, And turned one lingering look, and last, Upon the dead; and, rising o'er The lake, the groves, the dell, he passed On sailing pinions, broad and bright, Along the footsteps of the night, And down the pathway of the wind, Until he faded westward far,-- A glory in the deep enshrined, The brother of the morning star-- And dropt upon the burning bar Of the horizon, and passed on Under its shadow, and was gone.

And loud and shrilly sang the lark; And lovely waxed the risen day, And laughed through every dewy spark That on the groves and meadows lay; And all the level leas o'erflowed With light; and all the copses glowed Throughout; and over every slope Trembled a glory, like the hope Of future summers, seen through tears Of autumn, down the rolling years; And from the bosom of the brook A thousand happy memories shook; And on the still and smiling lake The lingering lilies seemed to wake Once more into their bygone bloom, And breathed a soul of fresh perfume: And all the sombre cypress lit In the light shaking over it; And even the hoary willow took A smile from Nature's happy look.

ARTHUR WEIR

A SNOWSHOE SONG

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! Gather, gather ye men in white; The wind blows keenly, the moon is bright, The sparkling snow lies firm and white: Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, We must be over the hill to-night.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! Swiftly in single file we go, The city is soon left far below: Its countless lights like diamonds glow, And as we climb we hear the chime Of church bells stealing o'er the snow.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! Like winding sheet about the dead O'er hill and dale the snow is spread, And silences our hurried tread. The pines bend low, and to and fro The maples toss their boughs o'erhead.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! We laugh to scorn the angry blast, The mountain top is gained and past. Descent begins, 'tis ever fast,-- A short quick run, and toil is done. We reach the welcome inn at last.

Shake off, shake off the clinging snow, Unloose the shoe, the sash untie, Fling tuque and mittens lightly by. The chimney fire is blazing high, And, richly stored, the festive board Awaits the merry company.

Remove the fragments of the feast! The steaming coffee, waiter, bring. Now tell the tale, the chorus sing, And let the laughter loudly ring. Here's to our host, come drink the toast, Then up! for time is on the wing.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! The moon is sinking out of sight, Across the sky dark clouds take flight, And dimly looms the mountain height. Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, We must be home again to-night.

VOYAGEUR SONG

Our mother is the good green earth, Our rest her bosom broad; And sure, in plenty and in dearth, Of our six feet of sod, We welcome Fate with careless mirth And dangerous paths have trod, Holding our lives of little worth And fearing none but God.

Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide Above the fretted sand, Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide Swift through the silent land; Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide Rocks rise on every hand, Our path will we confess denied, Nor cowardly seek the strand.

The foam may leap like frightened cloud That hears the tempest scream, The waves may fold their whitened shroud Where ghastly ledges gleam; With muscles strained and backs well bowed, And poles that breaking seem, We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud Itself our lord did deem.

The broad traverse is cold and deep, And treacherous smiles it hath, And with its sickle of death doth reap With woe for aftermath; But though the wind-vexed waves may leap, Like cougars, in our path, Still forward on our way we keep, Nor heed their futile wrath.

Where glitter trackless wastes of snow Beneath the northern light, On netted shoes we noiseless go, Nor heed though keen winds bite. The shaggy bears our prowess know, The white fox fears our might, And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow, With angry snarls take flight.

Where forest fastnesses extend, Ne'er trod by man before, Where cries of loon and wild duck blend With some dark torrent's roar, And timid deer, unawed, descend Along the lake's still shore, We blaze the trees and onward wend To ravish nature's store.

Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve These calls the echoes wake. We rise and forward fare, nor grieve Though long portage we make, Until the sky the sun-gleams leave And shadows cowl the lake; And then we rest and fancies weave For wife or sweetheart's sake.

THE LITTLE TROOPER

Swift troopers twain ride side by side Throughout life's long campaign. They make a jest of all man's pride, And oh, the havoc! As they ride, They cannot count their slain.

The one is young and debonair, And laughing swings his blade. The zephyrs toss his golden hair, His eyes are blue; he is so fair He seems a masking maid.

The other is a warrior grim, Dark as a midnight storm. There is no man can cope with him: We shrink and tremble in each limb Before his awful form.

Yet though men fear the sombre foe More than the gold-tressed youth, The boy with every careless blow More than the trooper grim lays low, And causes earth more ruth.

Keener his mocking word doth prove Than flame on winter's breath. Men bear his wounds to the realm above, For the little trooper's name is Love, His comrade's only Death.

LITTLE MISS BLUE EYES

Little Miss Blue Eyes opens the door, "Nobody's in," says she. Little Miss Blue Eyes has evermore Stolen my heart from me.

Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, "Will you come in?" says she. "Papa'll be back in an hour or more";-- Blue Eyes has seen through me.

Little Miss Blue Eyes opes her heart's door, "Nobody's in," says she. (Would I might venture that threshold o'er Into its sanctity.)

Little Miss Blue Eyes, if you are kind, Keep me not at the door; Into your love, from the cold and wind, Take me, dear, evermore.

Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, Archly smiling at me: "Papa'll be back in an hour or more, Come in and wait," says she.

A CHRISTMAS LULLABY

The restless clock is ticking out The hours that go before the dawn, And icy moonbeams dart about The snow that shrouds the slumbering lawn,-- The lawn that Santa Claus must cross Ere he shall reach my baby's cot,-- Ah! who shall measure Bertie's loss Should Santa Claus come not! Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds.

What has the little man for thee, My precious babe who slumb'rest there? He brings, sweet one, a gift from me, A mother's love, a mother's care,-- A mother's care that shall not wane, While hands can toil or brain can think, Until that day shall come again When thou shalt cross life's brink. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds.

He brings a cross, he brings a crown, And places them on either hand. Upon the cross thou must not frown, For some day thou shalt understand,-- Shalt understand the preciousness That to the sombre cross pertains, And thou wilt hold the crown far less Than of the cross the pains. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds.

He brings the greatest gift of all In bringing thee this Christmas Day: The deathless love it doth recall Of Him who took thy sins away; And when no more thy mother's care Can guide thy footsteps, Baby Mine, Thy steps shall be secured, eachwhere, By love of One divine. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,-- Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds.

AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD

THE HOUSE OF THE TREES

Ope your doors and take me in, Spirit of the wood; Wash me clean of dust and din, Clothe me in your mood.

Take me from the noisy light To the sunless peace, Where at midday standeth Night Signing Toil's release.

All your dusky twilight stores To my senses give; Take me in and lock the doors, Show me how to live.

Lift your leafy roof for me, Part your yielding walls, Let me wander lingeringly Through your scented halls.

Ope your doors and take me in, Spirit of the wood; Take me--make me next of kin To your leafy brood.

AT THE WINDOW

How thick about the window of my life Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets: Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife, Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets.

If 'mid this swarm of smallnesses remain A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye I note before my freckled window-pane The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky?

TO FEBRUARY

O master-builder, blustering as you go About your giant work, transforming all The empty woods into a glittering hall, And making lilac lanes and footpaths grow

As hard as iron under stubborn snow,-- Though every fence stand forth a marble wall, And windy hollows drift to arches tall, There comes a might that shall your might o'erthrow.

Build high your white and dazzling palaces, Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers, Storm with a loud and a portentous lip; And April with a fragmentary breeze, And half a score of gentle, golden hours, Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship.

THE HAY FIELD

With slender arms outstretching in the sun The grass lies dead; The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one Frail, fallen head.

Of baby creepings through the April day Where streamlets wend, Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May, This is the end.

No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew, No more they reach To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue A whispered speech.

No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close Again to shield Some love-full little nest--a dainty house Hid in a field.

WILLIAM HENRY WITHROW

OCTOBER

Like gallant courtiers, the forest trees Flaunt in their crimson robes with broidered gold; And, like a king in royal purple's fold, The oak flings largess to the beggar breeze. Forever burning, ever unconsumed, Like the strange portent of the prophet's bush, The autumn flames amid a sacred hush; The forest glory never brighter bloomed.

Upon the lulled and drowsy atmosphere Fall faint and low the far-off muffled stroke Of woodman's axe, the school-boy's ringing cheer, The watch-dog's bay, and crash of falling oak; And gleam the apples through the orchard trees, Like golden fruit of the Hesperides.

CLOUD CASTLES

Did you see the snowy castle, Shining far off in the air? Did you mark its massy bulwarks, And its gleaming turrets fair?

Deep and broad seemed its foundations, Stable as the solid rock, Braving in their stern defiance Tempest roar and battle shock.

And its huge and strong escarpment Rose sheer up into the sky, And above its sunset banners Streamed and waved right royally.

Hark! throughout that lordly castle Trumpets peal and lightnings glare, And the thunder's haughty challenge Shakes the wide domains of air.

Now before the rushing tempest All its cloudy pillars bend, And the leven bolts of heaven Smite its bastions deep, and rend.

And the castle sways and totters; A vast breach is in its walls; Now its turrets sink and crumble, And its lofty rampart falls.

So I've seen a gorgeous castle, Built of hopes and visions bright, Sink and disappear for ever, Like a phantom of the night.

O the gay and glorious castles! How we build them up again But to see them melt and vanish As the clouds dissolve in rain.

O my soul! look thou up higher, Where the many mansions be, To that bright and glorious palace That thy Lord hath built for thee.

R. WALTER WRIGHT

EASTER MORN

Hushed is the voice of scorn, Anew the world is born,-- Sweet morn! sweet morn!

Sing songs so loud and clear That all the world must hear Their notes of cheer.

* * * * *

White angels of surprise Whisper from morning skies, Arise! Arise! 'Neath the lightning countenance Sleep men of sword and lance, In heavy trance. Broken the sceptic's seal, Backward the devils reel, The nations kneel.

Christ bids the Old adieu, Christ lives the Ever-New, Faithful and True.

Hushed is the voice of scorn, Anew the world is born,-- Sweet morn! sweet morn!

A STILL SMALL VOICE

In the silence of the morning, through the softly-rising mist, As the chrysolite of dawning ripened into amethyst, Came a voice so clear, peremptory, that my soul could not but list: "Unto thyself be true!"

In the rush and swirl of noontide, 'mid a gale of voices loud, And keen eyes that flashed their lightnings over faces thunder-browed, Came a voice imperious, alien to the voices of the crowd: "Be to thy brother true!"

In the calmness of the evening, when the winds had sunk to rest, When no earthquake heaved its fury, burned no fire within my breast, Came a still small voice so tender, it the heart of Christ confessed: "Unto thy God be true!"

G. F. W.

SENSE AND SPIRIT

The bloom of the roses, the youth of the fair, The voice of the lover, the love-lighted eye, The music of birds as they move through the air, The bright glow of sunshine that tinges the sky, And scintillant dewdrops, the green of the grass-- They will pass, they will pass, they will pass.

But, glory of honor, the freedom of truth, The might of the spirit, the breath of our call, The soul of essentials, eternity's youth, The essence of beauty, the pith of them all, The that which did make them the powers unto me,-- They shall be, they shall be, they shall be!

EVA ROSE YORK

I SHALL NOT PASS THIS WAY AGAIN

I shall not pass this way again-- Although it bordered be with flowers, Although I rest in fragrant bowers, And hear the singing Of song-birds winging To highest heaven their gladsome flight; Though moons are full and stars are bright, And winds and waves are softly sighing, While leafy trees make low replying; Though voices clear in joyous strain Repeat a jubilant refrain; Though rising suns their radiance throw On summer's green and winter's snow, In such rare splendor that my heart Would ache from scenes like these to part; Though beauties heighten, And life-lights brighten, And joys proceed from every pain,-- I shall not pass this way again.

Then let me pluck the flowers that blow, And let me listen as I go To music rare That fills the air; And let hereafter Songs and laughter Fill every pause along the way; And to my spirit let me say: "O soul, be happy; soon 'tis trod, The path made thus for thee by God. Be happy, thou, and bless His name By whom such marvellous beauty came." And let no chance by me be lost To kindness show at any cost. I shall not pass this way again. Then let me now relieve some pain, Remove some barrier from the road, Or brighten some one's heavy load; A helping hand to this one lend, Then turn some other to befriend.

O God, forgive That now I live As if I might, sometime, return To bless the weary ones that yearn For help and comfort every day,-- For there be such along the way. O God, forgive that I have seen The beauty only, have not been Awake to sorrow such as this; That I have drunk the cup of bliss Remembering not that those there be Who drink the dregs of misery.

I love the beauty of the scene, Would roam again o'er fields so green; But since I may not, let me spend My strength for others to the end,-- For those who tread on rock and stone, And bear their burdens all alone, Who loiter not in leafy bowers, Nor hear the birds nor pluck the flowers. A larger kindness give to me, A deeper love and sympathy; Then, O, one day May someone say-- Remembering a lessened pain-- "Would she could pass this way again!"

PAMELIA VINING YULE

THE BEAUTIFUL ARTIST

There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world, And her pencil is dipped in heaven,-- The gorgeous hues of Italian skies, The radiant sunset's richest dyes, The light of Aurora's laughing eyes, Are each to her pictures given.

As I walked abroad yestere'en, what time The sunset was fairest to see, I saw her wonderful brush had been Over a maple tree--half of it green-- And the fairest coloring that ever was seen She had left on that maple tree.

There was red of every possible hue, There was yellow of every dye, From the faintest straw-tint to orange bright, Fluttering, waving, flashing in light, With the delicate green leaves still in sight, Peeping out at the sunset sky.

She had touched the beech, and the scraggy thing In a bright new suit was dressed; Very queer, indeed, it looked to me, The sober old beech tree thus to see, So different from what he used to be, Rigged out in a holiday vest.

Red, and russet, and green, and grey-- He had little indeed of gold-- For the beech was never known to be gay, Being noted a very grave tree alway, Never flaunting out in a fanciful way Like other trees, we are told.

But the beautiful artist had touched him off With an extra tint or so; And he held his own very well with the rest, On which, I am sure, she had done her best, Dressing each in the fairest kind of a vest, Till the forest was all aglow.

There were the willow that grew by the brook, And the old oak on the hill, The graceful elm tree down in the swale, The birch, the ash, and the bass-wood pale, The orchard trees clustering over the vale, And weeds that fringed the rill.

One she had gilt with a flood of gold, And one she had tipped with flame; One, she had dashed with every hue That the laughing sunset ever knew, And one--she had colored it through and through Russet, all sober and tame.

Now this beautiful artist will only stay A very few days, and then She will finish her gorgeous pictures all, And hurry away ere the gusty squall Ruins her work, and the sere leaves fall Darkly in copse and glen.

WARBLE THY LAYS TO ME