Part 2
Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass Heaven like dew on the waking earth lies: Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets; Best of it all I find in your eyes.
AUGUST.
August, the month of virgins, is at hand. Shrill-voiced, the locust pipes a-field; With flash of burnished shield Hovers the dragon-fly athwart the stream; Like sea-bird slumbering in mid-day dream Floats one white cloud above the drowsy land. August, the month of virgins, is at hand.
Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy,-- Scarce heeds the softly murmurous tide, Fair sky, nor aught beside; Gazing afar, half troubled, half content, Awaits with folded hands a message sent Across the gleaming, restless, longing sea,-- Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy.
CARLO’S CHRISTMAS.
May I come to your side, dear Mistress? I am only a dog, you see, And the Christmas joy and gladness Perhaps are not meant for me.
Yet I think the Master would let me, If I only begged to eat The crumbs that fell from His table, And to lie at His blessèd feet.
I have heard the wonderful story Of the sleeping flocks by night, Of Bethlehem and the angels And the one Star, shining bright;
And I’ve longed, when I heard the story, A shepherd-dog to be, For then it might seem that Christmas Was partly meant for me.
But I only look up at the Master With a life that is veiled and dumb, Content to share with the sparrow His love, and the falling crumb.
May I lie at your feet, dear Mistress? I am only a dog, you see, But if I may serve you and love you, Why, that is Christmas for me!
THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW.
In her palace porch a Princess-- The sun was red and low-- At her feet a subject kneeling-- Sweet, far-off bells were pealing-- He rose and turned to go. “I give you my love!” quoth the Princess To the subject, bending low.
Ah, Goldenhair, what hast thou given!-- The sun is round and red-- As thou standest there in the portal, A Princess’ love, to a mortal!-- The bells toll for the dead-- A kiss from the lips of the Princess, But never a word she said.
Still radiant stood the Princess-- The bells no longer tolled-- At her feet the subject kneeling-- The far-off chimes were pealing Their sweet notes as of old-- “I give you my love!” quoth the Princess; And the sun was a crown of gold.
TWO VISIONS.
A vision of Morn,--the dew’s on the grass, The ocean’s aflame, and a sweet fisher-lass On its bosom’s unrest is afloat; The sunlight is fair on her shy, upturned face, As she dips the bright oars with the daintiest grace, And the prow of her snowy-white boat Its way urges softly through each foaming crest, Like sea-bird, wings fluttering, closing to rest; In her eyes shines the light of the glad day, new-born,-- The pure, gentle Spirit of Morn.
A Vision of Night,--the silvery stars Alight in the East, ere its golden bars Have imprisoned the slumberous sun; The sea hoarsely breathing, the wind all astir, The sparrow crouched low in the boughs of the fir, But she, the Beautiful One, Is awake, oh, awake, with her glorious eyes Star-lighted and deep as the shadowy skies, O’er the mist of her draperies, fleecy and white, The radiant Spirit of Night.
MY CREED.
What is my creed, you ask, dear? I look in your grave brown eyes And believe--in your womanly sweetness, Your purity, clear as the skies.
I’ve faith--in your true, brave heart, dear, Your life, with its joys and tears; And far beyond storm-mist and sunshine, Beyond weary days and long years,
I hope--in a Love that is waiting With infinite tenderness there To comfort us both, you and me, dear, For the burden He gives us to bear.
AGAIN?
Side by side, from their misty home, Fell two bright drops of rain; The storm-wind hurled them far apart, Never to meet again.
Hand in hand stood two dear friends, Hearts wrung with sudden pain; The storm-wind hurled them far apart,-- Never to meet again?
PANSY.
Little flower with golden heart, Strange, sweet mystery thou art. Who can tell the thoughts that lie In the depths of thy dark eye! Dost thou dream of other lands, Waving palm-groves, burning sands, Days of languor, twilights tender, Glorious nights of Orient splendor? Shy, sweet type of lovers’ bliss, Art thou an immortal kiss By some fair sultana breathed, To all faithful love bequeathed By the tiny-sandalled bride, Velvet-lipped, and starry-eyed?
GOLDEN-ROD.
O’er the dusty roadside bending With its wondrous weight of gold, Can it be the rod enchanted Midas used in days of old?
Hush! perchance it is a princess In the sunlight nodding there, Spell-bound by the wicked fairy,-- Sleepy little Golden-Hair!
Nay, it is Belshazzar’s banquet, Where the drowsy monarch sups With his swarm of courtiers, drinking From the sacred, golden cups.
See, I pluck his tiny kingdom-- Long ago it was decreed-- And divide it, dear, between us, You the Persian, I the Mede.
TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.
WITH A ROSE.
Margaret, pearl of dainty pearls, Fairest of dimpled daisies, My rose its velvet sail unfurls To bear thee love and praises. It drifts from port, no longer mine-- Bring back, wee boat, my Valentine!
TO A VERY SMALL PINE.
What song is in thy heart, Thou puny tree? Weak pinelet that thou art,-- Trembling at every shock, Thy feebleness doth mock Thy high degree.
When rage o’er sea and land The tempests wild, How canst thou e’er withstand Their might, or baffle them With that frail, quivering stem, Poor forest child?
Nay, wherefore scoff at thy Dimensions small? For, folded close, I spy A tiny bud, scarce seen Within its cradle green; And after all,
In ages yet to come Thy stately form, No longer dwarfed and dumb, But chanting to the breeze Sublime, sweet melodies, Shall breast the storm!
Beneath thine outstretched arms Shall children rest; While, safe from all alarms, Within thy shadows deep Wild birds their tryst shall keep And weave their nest.
May such a lot be his Who tends thee now! With heavenly harmonies Serene amid his foes, Outstretching as he grows In root and bough.
MOSSES.
Children of lowly birth, Pitifully weak; Humblest creatures of the wood, To your peaceful brotherhood Sweet the promise that was given Like the dew from heaven: “Blessed are the meek, They shall inherit the earth.”
Thus are the words fulfilled: Over all the earth Mosses find a home secure. On the desolate mountain crest, Avalanche-ploughed and tempest-tilled, The quiet mosses rest; On shadowy banks of streamlets pure, Kissed by the cataract’s shifting spray, For the bird’s small foot a soft highway; For the weary and sore distressed In hopeless quest Of a fabulous golden fleece, Little sermons of peace. Blessed children of lowly birth-- Thus they inherit the earth.
THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.
Down the rocky slopes and passes Of the everlasting hills Murmur low the crystal waters Of a thousand tiny rills;
Bearing from a lofty glacier To the valley, far below, Health and strength for every creature,-- ’Tis for them “He giveth snow.”
On thy streamlet’s brink the wild deer Prints with timid foot the moss; To thy side the sparrow nestles,-- Mountain of the Holy Cross!
Pure and white amid the heavens God hath set His glorious sign: Symbol of a world’s deliverance, Promise of a life divine.
CHRISTMAS SNOW.
What so merry as snow? Gleefully robing the grave old town In garb fantastic of ermine and down; Whispering at the window pane, Then spreading its wee, white wings again Till, alighting at last with noiseless feet, On tiptoe in the muffled street It dances to and fro.
What so pure as snow? Flakes like the thoughts of a little child, Undefiling and undefiled; Wonderful, starry mysteries Falling softly out of the skies, Decking with white the bare, brown earth In memory of the holy birth At Bethlehem, long ago.
THE “CREATION.”
Winter is past. The changing, softened sky, The robin’s cheery note, the sea-bird’s cry, The willow pussies peeping from their nest; The modest sparrow, with his dappled breast, Flitting beneath the lilacs by the wall; The budding tree, the tender grass, with all Its tiny hands uplifted to the sun, Who reaches down and clasps them, one by one; The mayflower sleeping on her snowy bed, And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!” Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!” The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath, And leaping swiftly down its rocky path, Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool, Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool; The floating clouds, the fragrant earth, the sea, With its low whispers of eternity,-- All join in one grand harmony of praise To Him, Creator, Lord, Ancient of Days.
THE HAPPY VALLEY.
Far away there sleeps a valley, Cradled by the mighty hills, Lulled to rest by sweetest music,-- Whispering winds and laughing rills.
Naught it knows of stormy passion, Pestilence, or war’s alarms; O’er it graze the peaceful cloud-flocks, And the everlasting arms
Of the mountains, underneath it, Fold it closely to their breast, While at nightfall, on its bosom, Golden moonbeams softly rest.
* * * * *
Seasons come and seasons go,-- Summer heats and winter’s snow, Spring’s surprises, autumn’s peace, Indian-summer’s golden fleece, Purple-bordered, crimson-clasped, By a hand already grasped That hath costlier treasures brought Than the wandering Argonaut.
* * * * *
A solemn hush is in the air. Happy voices die away; Dark-robed fir-trees murmur, Pray!-- Pray for Summer, young and fair. Crosses wave, Souls to save, Chant a requiem o’er her grave.
Dead! the weeping autumn wind Shrouded her in fallen leaves; Dead! amid her golden sheaves,-- Pray--ye that are left behind! Crosses wave, Souls to save, Chant a requiem o’er her grave.
Pray ye, pray! for Summer lies Dead, upon the icy ground; Heap for her a snow-white mound, While the winter wind replies: Crosses wave, Souls to save, Chant a requiem o’er her grave.
* * * * *
Sweetly, through the low, sad murmur Of the fir-trees’ requiem, Flows a song of hope and gladness, Strong, triumphant over them.
Summer is not dead, but sleepeth! Soon the maiden shall arise, And the world again be gladdened With the sunshine of her eyes.
Then the valley, too, shall waken From the pale trance of her night; Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead, Radiant in the morning light.
Years may come and go, but ever Shall the valley rest among Mountain mists and golden moonbeams; While the hills, with myriad tongue,
Lullabys shall croon above it, Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime, Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander, Storms chant harmonies sublime.
And for those who love the valley Peace and rest are waiting there, With the seasons onward moving, Each more gladsome, each more fair.
DOLLIE’S SPRING.
Deep within a mountain forest Breezes soft are whispering Through the dark-robed firs and hemlocks, Over Dollie’s Spring.
Swiftly glides the tiny streamlet, While its laughing waters sing Sweetest song in all the woodland, “I--am--Dollie’s--Spring!”
In the dim wood’s noontide shadow Nod the ferns, and glistening With a thousand diamond dew-drops, Bend o’er Dollie’s Spring.
Shyly on its mossy border Blue-eyed Dollie, lingering, Views the sweet face in the crystal Depths of Dollie’s Spring.
Years shall come and go, and surely To the little maiden bring Trials sore and joys uncounted, While, by Dollie’s Spring,
Still the firs shall lift their crosses Heavenward, softly murmuring Prayers for her, where’er she wander,-- Far from Dollie’s Spring.
THE THIRD DAY.
LINES SENT WITH A FOSSIL FROND.
Many thousand years ago God looked down and bade me grow; Why it was, I never knew-- Now I see it was for you!
THE SEVENTH DAY.
SENT WITH A CLUSTER OF MAIDEN-HAIR FERNS.
Doubtless you are much surprised That we are not fossilized, Geologic, or antique,-- Only little ferns and meek. Yet we grew at His command, Touched by that same loving Hand Which the day from night divided, Planets on their courses guided, Set on high the firmament, Alps from Alps asunder rent, All the earth with life invested; And He made us while He--“_rested_.”
FERN LIFE.
I. ITS HOME.
Within a shadowy ravine Far hidden from the sun, A fern its wee, soft fronds of green Unfolded, one by one.
From morn till eve no twittering flock Nor insect hovered nigh: Its cradle was the lichened rock, The storm its lullaby.
By night above the dark abyss The stars their vigils kept, And white-winged mists stooped low to kiss The baby, while it slept.
II. AT SCHOOL.
Weeks passed away; the tiny fern Frond after frond unfurled, And waited patiently to learn Its mission in the world.
By fir-trees draped in mosses gray The willing fern was taught, And once each day a single ray Its sunny greeting brought.
III. ASLEEP.
Her cradle songs the North Wind sung And whispered far and wide, Until a thousand harebells swung Along the mountain side.
She sung of far-off twilight land, Moss-muffled forests dim, And, to her mountain organ grand, The aged pine-trees’ hymn.
IV. A CRADLE-SONG OF THE NIGHT WIND.
The pines have gathered upon the hill To watch for the old-new moon; I hear their murmuring--“Hush, be still! ’Tis coming--coming soon!”
The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife Who broods below on her nest: “Of all the world and of all my life ’Tis you I love the best!”
But the baby moon is wide awake, And its eyes are shining bright; The pines in their arms this moon must take And rock him to sleep to-night.
V. THE CHIME.
Softly swinging to and fro, Harebells tinkle, sweet and low! All the world is fast asleep, Birds and folks and woolly sheep; Far above us towers the mountain; Far below, an unseen fountain From its rocky cradle deep, Like a child, laughs in its sleep. All our faces shyly hidden, As the fir-trees oft have bidden, Softly bending, sweet notes blending, Moonbeams climbing, Wee bells chiming, Harebells tinkle, star-gleams twinkle, To and fro, To and fro, Sweet--sweet and low.
VI. THE HYMN OF THE NORTHERN PINES.
Sure--sure--sure-- Are the promises He hath spoken, His word hath never been broken. Pure--pure--pure-- Are the thoughts and the hearts of His chosen, As crystals the North Wind hath frozen. Strong--strong--strong-- Underneath are the arms everlasting; On them our cares we are casting. Long--long--long-- Have we sung of the life He doth give us-- His mercy and love shall outlive us.
VII. AT LAST.
Far from its mountain home the fern Has found a resting-place; A maiden has begun to learn To love its winsome face.
But when at night the north winds smite Against the frosty pane, The fern is listening with delight To hear their voice again.
For in their solemn murmuring The pine-trees chant once more, The harebells chime, the thrushes sing, The mountain torrents roar;
Again the dark-robed fir-trees stand About its mossy bed, And hold aloft with trembling hand Their crosses o’er its head.
PAUSES AND CLAUSES.
TO MY LITTLE NIECE, KITTIE.
[With a Maltese Kitten.]
Kittie Mabel, will you take This gift, for the giver’s sake? Verse and song and roundelay Will be yours this merry day; Mine are all unfit to send, Tattered rhymes, too poor to mend.
But, although I haven’t any Songs, my thoughts are swift and many. All are flying straight to you, And your heart, so sweet and true, I am sure, dear, won’t decline This small, furry Valentine.
TO M----, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS.”
A Boston girl prefers a set of volumes that are uniform, In Syriac, Chaldaic, Sanskrit, Arabic, or Cuneiform, For these will test her paleontological ability, And not insult her culture by superfluous facility. She loves a scientific pedant, or, to use a synonyme, A specimen, with printed name and label fair to pin on him. Alas! I fear she will despise a book without a mystery, That never once alludes to Art, or Mediæval History; But as she is compelled each day to recognize and meet her kin, I trust she will accept at least this tale of Mrs. Peterkin.
MEMORIAL POEM.
READ AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE BOSTON LATIN SCHOOL ASSOCIATION, APRIL 29, 1886.
A Latin-School poem? ’Twere easy to write On a theme so suggestive an epic at sight, An ode, full of fire, or, if that wouldn’t do, An Eclogue, or even a Georgic or two, With allusions to classical roots, and Greek ponies Hard ridden and worn--I confess that my own is. A poet could scarce fail of making a hit, Inspired by the presence of beauty and wit!
Alas, for the days of our ancestors bold, When the wassail was drunk, brave stories were told, While the mirth of the feasters grew louder and higher, And the bard struck the quivering chords of the lyre, Without an apology, blush, or evasion, Or stammering reference to--“this occasion,” As raising his voice o’er the tumult and din, He recounted in song all the fights they’d been in.
Let bygones be bygones, the past be the past; We live in the world of to-day, and at last Society calls for less noise, more decorum, Remarks less akin to the street than the forum; Nay, mounting in civilization still higher, The bard soon must go--perhaps even the lyre! And if things should be ever at sixes and sevens, There lies an appeal to his Honor Judge Devens.[1]
And what, do you ask, is this tirade about? Why not, as in Hunting the Snark, “leave that out”? Ah, can I forget why we schoolmates are here? How often we laugh when we’d fain hide a tear! The ripples are bright on the waves of mid-ocean; Eyes dance and smiles play over depths of emotion; Oh, dear Alma Mater, be patient to-night, Our hearts, misconstrued, thou canst translate aright!
How memory pictures bright scenes to us all!-- The old, shaky building, the school-room, the hall, The way the grim doctor read Greek verbs and Latin, The desk where he wrote and the chair that he sat in, His upraised forefingers and forehead portentous, The terror we felt when we found that he meant us; Eyes gleaming below that great frontlet of hair,-- Ah, could we have known of what really was there, And fathomed that grand heart, so gentle and true, Beneath the stern front that bent o’er me and you!
Those lessons--how useless and tiresome they seemed, While we “mulled” over Cæsar, drew pictures, and dreamed; How Xenophon’s mighty Anabasis came To cloud our young lives, till we hated his name, The characters playing strange pranks on the pages, While still we droned on, “He--advanced--thirteen--stages.” We wished the Ten Thousand had all broken loose Before they began on their endless σταθμοῦς; We preferred that they wouldn’t get on quite so fast; We wished that their leader had not ἀναβάσ-ed; But Xenophon brought them all safe to the sea, He got out of the woods, and, at last, so did we.
Did you march on the Common? How proud were we then To be reckoned in newspapers “two hundred men”! How the uniforms shone as we wheeled o’er the grass-- No koh-i-noor gleams like those buttons of brass! Our scabbards and sashes were artfully dangled, And if they at times in our ankles got tangled, The terror to others was full compensation For dangers attending our perambulation.
Was it fun? There are those within reach of my words Who remember when ploughshares were cleft into swords; When hushed was the voice of youth’s laughter and mirth, As the flag, broken-winged, fluttered, bleeding, to earth. Are there men who will cherish their country’s last breath? Are there three hundred thousand who love--to the death? Hark!--the answering cry to that agonized call-- And the Latin-School boys are the foremost of all!
We have proved we’ve a banner, a country, a God, By thousands of arguments--under the sod! Who knows if the dear boys who fell in the fight May not hold their reunion, as we do, to-night? From the morning-land fair, and a rest never ending, Their voices, well-loved, with our own still are blending; Hark!--can we not hear the sweet echoes to-day, As from camp grounds afar comes the soft reveillé?
Oh, soldiers, still serving in ranks like their own, But a little more quiet, more dignified, grown, Still fighting from morning till set of the sun, Each day new defeats or fresh victories won, Pressing onward, undaunted still, shoulder to shoulder, With our hearts growing young as our muskets grow older, Let us take for our motto, emblazoned in light, That stern old command of _Forward--Guide Right!_
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Presiding at the Dinner.
DANDELION.
A dandelion in a meadow grew Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow; Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew, He was a right contented little fellow.