Part 2

The eyes of Mary Magdalene, With heavy grief are filled; The tender eyes that oft have seen The strife of passion stilled. And nevermore that tender voice Will whisper “God forgives;” How can the earth at dawn rejoice Since He no longer lives?

O, hours that were so full and sweet! So free from doubts and fears! When kneeling lowly at His feet She washed them with her tears! With head low bowed upon her breast The other Mary goes, “He sleeps,” she says, “and takes His rest Untroubled by our woes.”

And spices rare their hands do hold For Him, the loved and lost, And Magdalene, by love made bold, Doth maybe bring the most. It is not needed, see the stone No longer keeps its place, And on it sits a radiant one A light upon his face.

“He is not here, come near and look With thine own doubting eyes, Where once He lay--the earth is shook And Jesus did arise.” And now they turn to go away, Slow stepping, hand in hand, ’Twas something wondrous he did say, If they could understand.

The sun is flooding vale and hill, Blue shines the sky above, “All Hail!” O voice that wakes a thrill Familiar, full of love. From darkest night to brightest day, From deep despair to bliss, They to the Master run straightway And kneel, His feet to kiss.

O, Love! that made Him come to save, To hang on Calvary, O mighty Love! that from the grave Did lift and set Him free! Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth-- With voice so sweet and strong, Sing, till it thrills through all the earth-- The Resurrection Song!

The Mother’s Lecture

There’s _nothing_, did you say, Reuben? There’s nothing, nothing at all, There’s nothing to thank the Lord for This disappointing fall.

For the frost it cut your corn down, Right when ’twas looking best, And then took half the garden,-- The drouth took all the rest.

The wheat was light as light could be, Not half a proper crop, Then the fire burned your fences, And burned till it had to stop.

The cows were poor because the grass Withered all up in the heat, And cows are things that won’t keep fat Unless they have plenty to eat.

Suppose the frost did take the corn, And the cattle are not fat, Another harvest is coming-- You _might_ thank the Lord for that.

The fire that burned your fences down, And laid your haystacks flat, Left the old house above your head, You _might_ thank the Lord for that.

You’ve lost from field, and barn, and fold, You’ve that word “loss” very pat, But you’ve lost nothing from the home,-- You _might_ thank the Lord for that.

And here is your mother at your side, Braiding a beautiful mat, I’m old, my boy, but with you yet-- You _might_ thank the Lord for that.

Your wife is a good and patient soul, Not given to worry or spat, Nice to see, and pleasant to hear, You _might_ thank the Lord for that.

Here in the cradle at my side Is something worth looking at, She came this disappointing year, You _might_ thank the Lord for that.

Your boy is calling out, “Daddy!” As hard as ever he can, There’s lots of folks would thank the Lord For just such a bonnie man.

Ashamed of yourself, eh, Reuben? Well, I rather thought you’d be-- What! going to keep Thanksgiving In a manner good to see?

To kill the biggest gobbler That’s strutting round the farm? To give poor folks provisions, And clothes to keep them warm?

You’re going to help and comfort Each sad old wight you find? You’re feeling so rich and thankful, And heaven has been so kind?

Ah, now my own boy, Reuben, I’m so glad we’ve had this chat, You’re growing so like your father-- You _might_ thank the Lord for that.

Spring

O, the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep, And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep.

The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves, Give never a murmur or sigh of woe--they are dead--no dead thing grieves.

No carol of love from a song-bird’s throat; the world lies naked and still, For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.

Not a flower,--a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose or jessamine soft, To lay its bloom on the dead river’s lips, that have kissed them all so oft,

But look, a ladder is spanning the space twixt earth and the sky beyond, A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace--the strong, the subtle, the fond!

SPRING, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath, Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.

SPRING, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam’s heart, Thrown over her shoulders, bonnie and bare--see the sap in the great trees start,

Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright, A-stirring and spreading of something fair--the dawn is chasing the night!

SPRING, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein, The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.

SPRING, with the hyacinths filling her cap, and the violet seeds in her hair, With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;

SPRING, with its daffodils at her feet, and pansies a-bloom in her eyes, SPRING, with enough of the God in herself to make the dead to arise!

For see, as she bends o’er the coffin deep--the frozen valley and hill-- The dead river stirs, Ah, that ling’ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!

And then as she closer, and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud, Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!

The hill where she rested is all a-bloom--the wood is green as of old, And ’wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

Reminiscences

There came a dash of snow last night, An’ ’fore I went to bed, I somehow got to thinkin’ ’bout That old place, Kettletread. I’m silly ’bout that spot of earth, Though why, I can’t surmise, For it has got me in more scrapes And made me tell more lies, When me, an’ you, An’ Taylor’s boys, Were always in the spill, A stealin’ off From work to go A-coastin’ down that hill.

Do you rec’lect how we used to stand An’ holler out like sin, “Now one must pass that walnut stump Afore the rest chips in?” An’ if one tumbled in the snow, we only stopped to laugh, An’ all the help we ever gave was aggravatin’ chaff.

Zip! Zip! the frost and snow A pickin’ at our face, The wind just howlin’ ’cause it knowed ’Twas beat fair in the race!

Good gracious! Jim, if I could stand, a-lookin’ down that hill, A-watchin’ you boys tumblin’ off an’ laughin’ at the spill; An’ then grab up my Noah’s Ark, so clumsy and so wide, An’ pull the rope, an’ hold her back, there let her go kerslide--

An’ see that glazy piece of ice A-spannin’ that old crick, An’ know I couldn’t stop this side If ’twas to save my neck--

Now don’t you get excited, Jim, ’cause I’m a-talkin’ so, That would be awful foolish--Gosh! just hear that north wind blow.

Ammiel’s Gift

The City, girded by the mountain strong, Still held the gold of sunset on its breast, When Ammiel, whose steps had journeyed long, Stood at the gate with weariness opprest. One came and stood beside him, called him son, Asked him the reason of his heavy air, And why it was that, now the day was done, He entered not into the city fair?

Answered he, “Master, I did come to find A man called Jesus; it is said He steals The darkness from the eyeballs of the blind, The fever from the veins--Ay, even heals That wasting thing called sickness of the heart. His voice they say doth make the lame to leap, The evil, tearing spirits to depart.”

From Nain there comes a tale Doth make me weep, Of one a widow walking by the bier Of her dead son, and walking there alone, And murmuring, so that all who chose might hear, “A widow and he was my only one!” This Jesus, meeting her did not pass by, But stopped beside the mourner for a space, A wondrous light they say shone in His eye, A wondrous tenderness upon His face; And He did speak unto the dead, “Young man, I say arise”--these tears of mine will start-- The youth arose, straight to his mother ran, Who wept for joy and clasped him to her heart.

Within me, Master, Such a longing grew To look on Him, perchance to speak His name, I started while the world was wet with dew, A gift for Him--Ah, I have been to blame, For when a beggar held a lean hand out for aid, I laid in it, being moved, a goodly share Of this same gift, and then a little maid Lisped she was hungry, in her eyes a prayer, I gave her _all_ the fruit I plucked for Him, His oil I gave to one who moaned with pain, His jar of wine to one whose sight waxed dim-- O, Master, I have journeyed here in vain!

Within the city Jesus walks the street, Or bides with friends, or in the temple stands, But shamed am I the Nazarene to meet, Seeing I bring to Him but empty hands.

The sun had long since sunk behind the hills-- The purple glory and the gleams of light Had faded from the sky, the dusk that stills A busy world was deep’ning into night.

“Son, look on me,” the sweetness of the tone Made Ammiel’s heart begin to thrill and glow, “Full well,” he said, “I know there is but One With simple words like these could move me so.” “Son, look on me,” and lifting up his eyes He looked on Jesu’s face, and knew ’twas He, Knelt down and kissed His feet, and would not rise Because of love and deep humility.

Up in the deep blue of the skies above Were kindled all the watchfires of the night The voice of Jesus, deep and filled with love, Said, “Come, bide with me till the morning’s light. At dawn my beggar asked not alms in vain, Since dawn, have I been debtor unto thee, All day thy gifts within my heart have lain, Fruit, oil, and wine, come through my poor to me.”

Robin

There’s not a leaf on the vine where you swing And the wind is chill and the sky is grey, But all undaunted you flutter and sing, “Ho, the first of May! Ho, the first of May!” There’s never a hint of yesterday’s frost, Of the hunger and cold and waiting long, Never a plaint over what you have lost Thrown into the notes of your happy song; The gladness is pressed in your bosom red, And the gloss is laid on your little head. I thank you for singing, robin to-day, For flaunting before me, jolly and bold, Chirping, “Ho! Ho! do you know it is May, Or are you so dull you have to be told?”

Margot

Now Margot, dinna flout me, O, dinna be unkind! Mayhap to do without me, A hardship you would find.

Ye haud yer head too high, lass, Ye haud yer head too high, What if I wad pass by, lass, Instead o’ lingerin’ nigh?

Ye canna quite forget, dear, The sunny days o’ yore, They haud our twa lives yet, dear,-- The days that are no more.

When in the warld sae wide, dear, One lesson we could spell-- When it was a’ our pride, dear, To love each other well.

When riches had na found ye-- My maid o’ tender face! Before yer pride had bound ye, An’ stolen a’ yer grace.

’Tis best that I should leave ye, Cold are your eyes o’ blue, ’Twould be a sin to grieve ye, A love sae warm an’ true.

Sae put yer hand within mine, Forget--we can but try, Here’s ane kiss for auld lang syne, And here’s ane for good-bye.

What is it that you say, dear, You will not let me go? Then ye maun bid me stay, dear, This much to me ye owe.

Twa foolish things were we, dear, To dream that we could part, The blind might almost see, dear, Your image in my heart.

So haud me close and fast, dear, With arms so soft an’ white, A fig for quarrels past, dear, You are my ain to-night.

Dreamland

With an angel-flower laden, Every day a little maiden, Sails away from off my bosom On a radiant sea of bliss. I can see her drifting, drifting-- Hear the snowy wings uplifting, As he woos her into dreamland, With a kiss.

Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, Whispering with thy angel keeper, List’ning to the words he brings thee From a fairer world than this; Ah! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling, As he woos thee into dreamland With a kiss.

Could there come to weary mortals Such a glimpse through golden portals, Would we not drift on forever, Toward that far-off land of peace; Would we not leave joys and sorrows, Glad to-days, and sad to-morrows, For the sound of white wings lifting, For an angel’s tender kiss.

Only a Picture

Something to show me--well, my lass, Make haste, I have no time to idle, These bright spring hours they seem to pass Like colts that fly from bit and bridle.

A picture--well, if that is all, I can’t--my child don’t look so sorry, I’ll come and see, although I call The whole thing only waste and worry.

But have your nonsense while you may, Your brushes, paints, and long-haired master, They’re pretty whims for you who see Such beauty in a canvas plaster.

What’s in a picture? there’s but one Could win for me an hour’s gazing; It comes sometimes when day is done, And dusk falls on the cattle grazing.

A big, old house that fronts the sea, The sunlight falling on the gables, The wood--what’s this? Why, can it be! Lass, you have neatly turned the tables.

Know it? Ay, know each blade and stalk, Each sunny knoll, each shady cover, Why, every flower beside yon walk Has had in me a faithful lover!

Know it? See yonder worn old step, The open door, the bench beside it, The rose-tree trained where it should creep-- I almost see the hand that tied it.

The sunny windows seem to throw On me a tender look of greeting, And in my heart awakes the glow Of other days so glad and fleeting.

The dear old faces, one by one, Come out from shadows swiftly thronging, Dear picture of my boyhood’s home, My eyes are dim with love and longing!

Her Boy

There’s a looking-glass, a hammer, Some toys all broken up, There’s pebbles, and glass, and sawdust, And papa’s shaving cup; A little cart with the wheels off, A horse that’s lost an eye, A kitten tied to a chair-leg That’s looking scared and shy.

“Ah me!” the busy mother sighs, I’m tired off my feet, I really wish he were grown up So I could keep things neat! He catches her reproving eye And is inclined for play, So dons his bonnet wrong, and cries “Bye, baby’s goin’ away!”

The mother holds her darling close-- A culprit, cute and small-- For wild disorder reigning there She does not care at all. But, spendthrift with a mother’s love, Puts kisses on his lips, And on the cheeks so warm and red, On neck, and finger-tips.

Perhaps she thinks of coming years, When in no childish play Her boy shall bid her a good-bye, Her baby go away, To walk without her tender care To shelter every move, To stand without his hand in hers-- Away from home and love.

“I loves you bestest in the world!” He lisps with pretty wiles, “Thank God he’s but a baby yet!” The mother says, and smiles.

The Indian Girl

Now to the missionary’s home there came one autumn day, A girl, borne in the arms of one so haggard, worn, and gray. “White man,” he said, “the fever burns my little sunbeam up, Naught ask I for myself, not bread nor water from a cup, But give to her some healing thing, I leave her in your care, Deal kindly with her, one harsh touch will bring revenge--beware!”

Ere they could answer yea or nay, the old chief he had gone, Had vanished in the gloom of night which came so swiftly on. They could not stay the hand of death, its touch was on her brow, O, bearer of the message true, here’s one to listen now! The Indian maiden heard it all, and looked with wondering eyes, How sweet to her the story of the life beyond the skies!

Her eager throbbing heart drank in each precious promise given, An Indian girl, a child of God, heir to a throne in heaven? The joyful tears crept to her eyes, and down her dusky cheeks, And all aglow with love and joy, in her soft tongue she speaks, “Now I will tell my father, now I will tell him all That I have heard of Jesus, who hears us when we call, He does not know of Heaven, how happy we will be, When, by and by, the Brother kind will bring him home to me.

“When he sits down beside me he looks so stern and lone, For I, his child, am dying, his last and only one.” At twilight of another day he came--erect and tall, As though he would not bow his head though heavy blows might fall, But soft the glance and tender, he threw upon his child, “My little Sunbeam in the dark!” he said, in accents mild.

“Come closer, Oh my father,” the Indian maiden cried, “Come closer while I tell you of One who loved and died That we might live together, and never grieve in vain, Of One who suffered cruel blows to rescue us from pain.” Her fevered hands crept into his; his heart grew sick with fear, The hour of parting and of grief was surely drawing near, This child who shared his cup and couch--his “Sunbeam in the night” Would go, and never come again to gladden his dim sight.

“No gold have I,” the old chief said, “but name the Friend so good, That I may prove an Indian brave forgets not gratitude.” There, in the silence of the night he heard the story old, Of Christ’s dear love for sinful man, the sweetest ever told; And when the sun came creeping up all glorious to the eye, His haughty soul had learned to say, “It is not much to die.”

It is but evening to a land whose shores are always green, Where never night comes darkly down, where tears are never seen, Where heartbreak may not even touch, where sorrow may not come, But where the weary rest and say, “’Tis good to be at home!”

Some Joys We May Not Keep

“Something is lost to me,” she said, “that nevermore Will be my very own, Something has swiftly slipped through my heart’s door, And to the winds has flown.

“Loss was the kindest thing that fate could send-- Some joys we may not keep-- And yet, because this is the very end, I needs,” she said, “must weep.

“Feeling my heart so empty and so chill-- There is no glow to-night, No wakening of the old-time tender thrill, No pulsing of delight.

“When death hides from our eyes a much loved face, We let our tears fall fast, And then we take each sign, each ling’ring trace, And seal it up--so--‘Past.’

“And I must put the memories away, The toys love left behind, The sweets we shared upon a summer day; The kiss, the faith so blind.

“I was so rich, so proud, awhile ago, And now, I am so poor, O, empty heart, there’s nothing now to do But just to close the door!”

In Sunflower Time

In the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John, With only the sunflowers looking on.

Now, a farm-house kitchen is scarce the place For a knight or lady of courtly grace.

But this was a common, everyday pair That held the old kitchen, this morning fair.

A persistent and saucy thorn-tree limb Had sacrified a part of the brim

Of the youth’s straw hat, so his face was brown, Save his well-shaped forehead, which wore a frown,

And his boots were splashed with the mud and clay Of the marsh land pastures, over the way,

Where the alders tall, and the spicewood grew, And the frogs croaked noisily all night through.

’Neath the muslin curtains, snowy and thin, The big homely sunflowers nodded in.

Nan was worth the watching, her gingham gown Had, it may be, old-fashioned grown,

But it fitted the slender shape so well, Was low at the neck where the soft lace fell;

Of sleeves, it had none, from the elbow down, While in length--well, you see, the maid had grown.

A labor of love was her homely task To share it, no mortal need hope or ask,

For Nan she was washing each trace of dirt From fluted bodice, and ruffled skirt.

There are few that will, and fewer that can, Bend over a tub like our pretty Nan,

As she took each piece from its frothy lair, The soap bubbles flying high in the air,

And rubbed in a cruel, yet tender way, Till her curls were wet with the steam and spray,

Then wrung with her two hands, slender and strong, Examined with care, and shook slowly and long,

Then flung in clear water to lie in state-- Each dainty piece met with the same hard fate.

“There!” and she gave a look of conscious pride At the rinsing-bucket, so deep and wide,

Then wiping the suds from each rounded arm, She turned to the youth with a smile so warm;

“I have kept you waiting, excuse me please-- The soap suds just ruin such goods as these.”

“And you are so fond of finery, Nan, Nice dresses, and furbelows,” he began.

“Ah, maybe I am, of a truth,” she said, And each sunflower nodded its golden head.

“Well, Ned Brown’s getting rich,” John’s words came slow, “And, he’s loved you a long while as you know;

My house and my acres, I held them fast, Was so stubborn over them to the last,

For when my father was carried forth, And the men were asking, ‘what was he worth?’

I knew that they said, with a nod and a smile, As they whispered together all the while,

‘’Tis a fine old homestead, but mortgaged so, What a foolish thing for a man to do!’

And I said, my father is dead and gone, But he’s left behind him a strong-armed son,

And my heart was hot with a purpose set, To pay off that mortgage, to clear off that debt.

I’ve worked, heaven knows it, like any slave, I’ve learned well the lesson of pinch and save,

I’ve kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown-- I haven’t a dollar to call my own.

O, I’m beaten--well beaten! yesterday Everything went to Ned Brown from me;

My meadows, my acres of tassled corn, The big orchard planted when I was born.

What I would have saved had I had the choice, Was my chestnut mare, for she knows your voice.

So I’m only a beggar, Nan, you see-- Don’t fancy I’m begging for sympathy,