Part 3
Each morn his golden head he lifted straight, To catch the first sweet breath of coming day; Each evening closed his sleepy eyes, to wait Until the long, cool night had passed away.
One afternoon, in sad, unquiet mood, I paused beside this tiny, bright-faced flower, And begged that he would tell me, if he could, The secret of his joy through sun and shower.
He looked at me with open eyes, and said: “I know the sun is somewhere shining clear, And when I cannot see him overhead, I try to be a little sun, right here!”
MARJORIE.
“Oh, dear,” said Farmer Brown, one day, “I never saw such weather! The rain will spoil my meadow hay And all my crops together.” His little daughter climbed his knee; “I guess the sun will shine,” said she.
“But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown, “Should bring a dry September, With vines and stalks all wilted down, And fields scorched to an ember--” “Why, then, ’twill rain,” said Marjorie, The little girl upon his knee.
“Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall, “Now, what’s the use of living? No plan of mine succeeds at all--” “Why, next month comes Thanksgiving! And then, of course,” said Marjorie, “We’re all as happy as can be.”
“Well, what should I be thankful for?” Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble This summer has grown more and more, My losses have been double, I’ve nothing left--” “Why, you’ve got me!” Said Marjorie, upon his knee.
PRIMROSE.
In the meadow, cool and sweet, Where the cowslips bathe their feet, On the banks of Scottish burns, Down among the nodding ferns, Where the shadows come and go, Cheerful Primrose loves to grow.
Little flower she is, and meek; And if she could only speak, I am sure her words would be Whispered very timidly. Skylark, hush your joyous singing, Bonnie harebells, cease your ringing, Listen, listen, drowsy bee,-- Is the Primrose calling thee?
Tiny rootlets white and brown, Leaves as soft as cygnet’s down, Fringèd petals, dainty pink, Peeping o’er the burnie’s brink,-- That is Primrose, sweet and true, And I love her--do not you?
CONTENT.
“Little Herb Robert, what makes you so pink? The daisy is taller and whiter.” “The sun came along, and, what do you think? It kissed me, and so I grew brighter.”
“Grasshopper, why are you merry to-day?” “I always am glad, if you please, sir, Because I can hop on the clover and hay, Nor have to fly up in the trees, sir.”
“Sea-weed, poor creature! you’re left high and dry, The tide has gone out; you are dying!” “Ah, no, I am sure ’twill come back by and by. I shall live, never fear; I’ll keep trying.”
“Song-sparrow, how can you sing all the day?” “Sweet food to my young I am bringing, And when I am working for them, in this way, Of course I can never help singing.”
“Child, leave the hot, dusty roadside, and come.” “I’d go, for I know that you love me; But, please, I’d rather stay here, near my home, For Papa’s in there, just above me.”
WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER.
TO W. B. W.
Once more ’tis the night before Christmas; once more The Christ-child is entering each open door; The holly-bough glistens, the earth is all white, In the jubilant heavens the Star is a-light. May I sit by your hearthstone once more, as of old? My story--a brief one--shall quickly be told.
* * * * *
We bring you no Sèvres nor Japanese Kaga, But only an innocent kind of a dagger. (Allow me a few editorial “we’s,” The plural is handy in rhymes such as these.) The blade is no marvel, ’tis not Muramasa-- (“What’s that?” No one knows. Ask your daughter, from Vassar.) Nay, we must admit, if perchance you should ask us, ’Twas forged in the States, and not at Damascus. Too slim for a trinket, too large for a charm, Too small for a weapon, too dull to do harm; Too blunt for a bodkin, of life to deplete us, ’Twould not even serve for Hamlet’s _quietus._ Cur igitur tibi gladiolum dabo-- Quemadmodum hoc explicare parabo? Sie können nicht ganz die Verwerrung verstehen, Ich will zum Puncte deswegen nun gehen. Ce poignard petit est une clef de mon cœur, Que je donne quelquefois à mon ami, ma sœur, A celui, enfin, qui reçoit, dans mes lettres, Les mots le plus tendres que je puis y mettre. κἀγὼ πρὸς ὑμᾶς τὴν κλεῖδα λαβεῖν ἐθέλειν ἐλπίζω καί με νῦν φιλεῖν. (If once on a jingle like this voi entrate, You must finish, or--ogni speranza lasciate!) I wish I knew Indian, but somehow nobody Seems ever to learn more than “Passamaquoddy,” Or “Mooselucmaguntic,” “Welokennebacook,” “Oquossuc,” “Musketequid,” and “Quantibacook.” To compose in that language you will not deny Is difficult. If you don’t think so--just try.
* * * * *
’Tis nonsense, dear friend, but I feel sure that you Good-naturedly smile, and yet see ’tis true. Unconscious as Lady Macbeth in her walking, We give in our letters more _self_ than in talking. Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down On our wandering footsteps in country and town, Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see, And read in His wisdom more surely than we. Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt, Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script. Thank God that the Reader and Father are one, That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun, Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand, And the torn covers folded at last by His hand. Hark! Christmas bells ring for the birth of the Son-- Good-night! May He help us and bless us each one.
SEA-GIRLS.
A flutter of white On Appledore’s shoulder,-- The prettiest sight! A flutter of white, One by one they a-light On the dark, jutting bowlder; A flutter of white On Appledore’s shoulder.
Six girls in a flock Where the white sea is breaking Against the gray rock. Six girls in a flock-- Their gay voices mock The din it is making; Six girls in a flock Where the white sea is breaking.
Each flutters and clings To the torn granite edges,-- The merriest things! Each flutters and clings. Have they feathers and wings, As they perch on the ledges? Each flutters and clings To the torn granite edges.
HOMEWARD.
A TWILIGHT SONG OF THE WHEEL.
Away from the office and desk at last, The business-haunted room, The roar of a city, hurrying past, The heat, the worry, the gloom, To the glorious red of the sunset sky, The sweet, cold wine of the air, On the frozen road, my wheel and I, A dusty, rusty pair!
Push--Push-- Two birds in a bush Are laughing to see me hop; On, with a bound From the frozen ground, With never a sway nor stop. Over and over the pedals fly-- “Come on!” to the twittering bird I cry, As over and over the wheels fly past her; Over and over, still faster and faster, On through the ice-cold stream of air, On where the road is frozen and bare.
Roll--Roll--Roll--Roll-- Silent and swift as a death-freed soul. Glide--Glide-- On the smooth, black tide Of the ocean of night flowing in from the West, Over and over, and on without rest, Swifter and swifter, till over the crest Of the hill, and down to the valley below, Through the murk of the mist and the white of the snow-- Now my steed falters, as, breathless and slow, Up the steep hillside he labors and grinds, Grinds--Grinds--Grinds--Grinds-- Across and across he turns and winds, Sand-clogged and rock-hindered, without hope or faith, No longer a soul, but a sin-burdened wraith-- Till, reaching the summit, he spurns the dark hill, And onward he plunges, for good or for ill, Over and onward, and onward and over, He reels and he spins like a jolly old rover.
Roll--Roll--Roll--Roll-- Backward he flies to our one dear goal, Where the whirling shall cease, and the rider shall rest, And soft, trembling lips to my own shall be pressed. Slow--Slow--Slow, Slowly--more slowly--we go-- What, darling, so far on the road to-night, To welcome us both with your eyes’ sweet light! The wheel no longer has need to roam-- Be quiet, old fellow! we’re safe, safe at home.
A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M----.
FROM THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND.[2]
I.
Breathing, blowing, The cool breeze is blowing, High in the tree-tops, Low in the grasses, Softly it passes; The daisies it kisses And never one misses, And laughs at the buttercups, Breathing and blowing, Its blessing bestowing On all that it passes Among the low grasses And daisies and buttercups, Never one misses, But each one it kisses. Softer and fainter it grows, Faintly and softly it blows, Breathing, sighing, Dying, Sweetly and softly it goes, Goes--goes!
II.
Hark to the wind from the mountain-tops blowing! Raining, snowing, Scattering ice-drops and crimson leaves blowing! Teasing the burnies With all their soft fernies, Bending and waving Among the green mosses; Roaring and raving, The long hair it tosses Of each little maiden Beside the brown burnies With crimson leaves laden All bound for the sea, With wee boaties laden, All crimson to see, And high in the tree-tops It rushes and roars; It leaps from the hill-tops And hurls with its might on the long, rocky shores The floods of the sea, All the time roaring and shouting and blowing, Icy drops throwing, Blowing, snowing, It roars!
III.
What shall the Soft Breeze do for thee? What shall I do with my faint, sweet blowing, Breathing, blowing, My blessing bestowing? I pray thee, Soft Breeze, Do thou blow, for me! Stir in the trees And breathe in the grasses, The soft, low grasses, And when the tall buttercup, Tall in the grasses, Thy light foot passes, Gather for me A wee grain of gold from its treasures rare, A ray of the sunlight it treasures there; Then beg of the daisies a bit of their white, Pure, pure white, And two tiny petals, crimson tipped, Because in God’s love they have just been dipped, And bearing the sunlight, the whiteness and love, Breathing, blowing, Fair blessings bestowing, Among the soft grasses And tree-tops above, High in the cloud-land’s silvery sheen, Low in the winding valleys between, Seek my wee girlie Who’s just thirteen, With hair so curly,-- The curliest hair you ever have seen, The brownest hair you ever have seen,-- With eyes so blue, Like skies so blue, And hide thy gifts in her heart so true, For to-day she’s just thirteen, Thirteen.
IV.
What shall the Fierce Wind do for thee? What shall I do, with my terrible roaring, Raving, roaring, Icy drops pouring?
I pray thee, Fierce Wind, Do thou roar, for me! Shatter the crags of the desolate mountain, Scatter the drops of the trembling fountain, Ride on the waves of the tossing sea, Tossing and spouting, Roaring and shouting; Snatch a bright leaf from the burnie’s brink, And a drop from the pool where the white lambs drink, A wisp of hair from the maiden fern, Bending over the laughing burn; The health of the seas, The life of the trees, The beauty of fernies, The faith of bright burnies, Life and beauty and health and faith, Whiteness and sunshine, love stronger than death, These to the maidie that’s just thirteen Shall all be given to-day, I ween,-- Shall all be given, In blessing from Heaven,-- For now she’s just thirteen, And her eyes are so blue, Sweet skies so blue, And her heart so true, And to-day she’s just thirteen, Thirteen.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Suggested by George MacDonald’s little book of that name.
TRANSLATIONS.
SONGS FROM HEINE.
In the north-land standeth a pine-tree Alone, on a hill-top bare. It sleepeth beneath a mantle Of snow and frost-work rare.
It dreameth long of a palm-tree Which, silent as a star, On the burning desert mourneth In Orient lands afar.
* * * * *
A LOVELY flower thou seemest, So tender, sweet, and true; And, as I gaze, steals o’er me A sadness strange and new.
Upon thy peaceful forehead I’d lay my hands, in prayer That God may ever keep thee As tender, true, and fair.
* * * * *
Eagerly I cry, awaking, “Cometh she to-day?” Eventide--my sad heart, breaking, Speaks the answer, Nay!
In the night I know but sorrow Till the dawn’s faint beam; Mist-enwrapped, in each to-morrow, Agony of dream.
* * * * *
He who for the first time loveth, Godlike, worlds of bliss doth rule; He who twice that joy essayeth, Luckless wight--he is a fool.
Loving where no love returneth, Such a fool, alas!--am I; Sun and moon and stars are laughing, I laugh, too,--_and die_.
Little maid, with lips so rosy, With thy blue eyes, sweet and clear, All my thoughts to thee are flying, All my life is with thee, dear!
Slowly pace the leaden-footed Hours that mark the winter’s night; Ah, that I were now beside thee, Gazing, murmuring my delight!
Kisses would I press, my darling, On thy little hand to-night; Nay--a tear should fall, unbidden, On thy little hand so white.
* * * * *
(EICHENDORFF.)
It was as if the heavens Had kissed the earth to rest, And she lay dreaming of them With flowers upon her breast.
The fields and murmuring woodland Were bathed in fairest light, So soft the breeze’s whisper, So starry-clear the night!
On outspread wings uplifted My spirit fain would roam Through cloudland realms unbounded, To rest at last--at home.
IN MORNING-LAND.
In morning-land the radiant, rosy skies Each moment gleam with some new-born surprise, Or flush with dawning hope; the balmy air Is laden with a thousand perfumes rare And thrilled with chords of strange, sweet melodies.
On that blest shore, which all around us lies, Peace reigns supreme, and joyous carols rise From every shaded copse and pleasaunce fair In Morning-land.
Knowst thou the land? Wherever friendly eyes Beam faith and constancy; where true love flies, Glad tidings of good-will and peace to bear; Where service is divine, God everywhere,-- There dawns the perfect day that never dies In Morning-land.
SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.
I stood in a valley; above me Uprose a mighty hill; The air was vibrant with music Of insect, bird, and rill.
The flowers among the grasses About my weary feet Swung all their tiny censers, Till perfume, heavy-sweet,
Was shed abroad in the sunlight And wafted to and fro, While droning bees at the altar Their _Aves_ chanted low.
A soft breeze touched my forehead, And whispered, “Peace, be still!” But ever above me towered That silent, awful hill,
Whose peaks in mists were hidden, Whose slopes were brown and bare; And yet, as I gazed, I murmured, “O God! If I were there!”
For I knew that the peace of the valley Was never meant for me; And I longed for the mountain summit,-- Its pure winds blowing free,
Its life of strength and vigor, Its thoughts of the good and true, Its steadfast crags of granite In the far-off, heavenly blue.
I stand in the valley, and ever I gaze at the mountain bare, And I long for a hand to help me-- O God! That I were there!
THE COMET; NOVEMBER, 1882.
Wondrous portent, set on high, Moving through the silent sky, Clothed in formless majesty,--
Who can read those words of light On the star-lit wall of night? “_Mene, Tekel_,” dost thou write?
Nay, thou bright Star in the East, O’er no haughty monarch’s feast, Prophet nor Chaldæan priest,
Doth thy gentle radiance shine; Nobler resting-place is thine, ’Tis a Baby’s brow divine.
With the waning of the year From afar thou dost appear, Telling us that Christ is near.
“HIS STAR.”
Christmas Eve--and the mellow light Of the Star in the East was aglow O’er the Magi, hastening through the night, In the desert, long ago.
Christmas Eve--and the gentle light Of the Star in the East was aglow O’er the lambs, asleep with their shepherds by night, On the hillside, long ago.
Christmas Eve--and the golden light Of the Star in the East was aglow O’er a Baby’s brow, in the holy night, In a manger, long ago.
Christmas Eve--and the blessèd light Of the Star in the East is aglow, As it shone of old, through the sweet, still night, O’er Bethlehem, long ago.
“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!”
Sob, cold wind of the sky, For the rest that never shall come! The stars have gathered on high, The moon’s white lips are dumb, And over her face like a shroud Lies the wrack of the drifting cloud.
Moan, dark sea of the night! Fling up thine arms and implore The heavens for light, sweet light,-- One sparkle along the shore From the sun that left thee to moan In the horror of darkness--alone.
Shudder, thou one human soul, Forever alone in the night; Whose billows unceasingly roll In desolate seeking for light! The moon’s white face is thine own, Thine, thine the wind’s monotone. Thyself art the night-- O God, light, light!
PSALM LXXX.
“Turn us again, O God of Hosts, and cause Thy face to shine.” When fades the light of day, And night in silence steals across the sky, We know it is not that the glorious sun Has left his steadfast throne amid the heavens, But that our little earth has turned away And hid its face till morning shall appear. So may we, in our blackest night of doubt And troubled thought, return once more to Thee, Till Thou hast risen, O Sun of Righteousness, And all the evil things of darkness born Have fled before the shining of Thy face.
UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.
A morning-glory bud, entangled fast Amid the meshes of its winding stem, Strove vainly with the coils about it cast, Until the gardener came and loosened them.
A suffering human life entangled lay Among the tightening coils of its own past; The Gardener came, the fetters fell away, The life unfolded to the sun at last.
HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE.
A mighty world is hushed to-night In sweet expectancy; O’er snowy field and wood the stainless light Of the clear moon Shines broad and free; While peacefully the earth-- A great white throne Prepared for One who soon Shall rise and claim it for His own-- Awaits His birth.
The hearts of all mankind are turned Toward lowly Bethlehem; For in the east the wondrous Star, that burned In days of old, Still beckons them. Back o’er the centuries, Storm-swept and bare, It moves, until, behold! It stands above the manger where The Young Child lies.
O Christmas chimes, right joyfully Ring out the tidings glad To stars and frosty air and listening sky,-- “Good-will to men!” Till all the sad, The weary and oppressed, Their gifts shall bring To Him whose birth again Sheds peace on earth, and, worshipping, Shall be at rest.
BLIND.
Throughout the weary day an Eastern sun Had poured his beams upon the whitened walls Of Jericho, till e’en the drooping palms Refused to comfort with their wonted shade The passer-by. As in a furnace blast-- The glaring pavement spread beneath, o’erhead A brazen, cloudless sky--all living things Had gasped, with parching lips, and feebly prayed For night. ’Twas eventide; the northern hills Breathed forth a blessing on the multitude That thronged incessant through the city gates. Softly the mist crept forth, and o’er their heads Her dewy wings unfolded. In the west The molten brass of noontide turned to gold, And shone like some fair missal’s page, with hymns And promises illumined. One there was Among the restless souls beneath its glow, For whom the heavenly message was not writ; For whom no sunset gleamed, nor morning dawned. Oft had he listened to the merry shout And laughter of the children at their sports, But ne’er had looked upon their sparkling eyes. Alone, he walked in darkness through a life Of nights, with never hope of day. But hark! Upon his ear there falls a gentle voice, Whose tones of strange and heavenly sweetness thrill His very heart. “’Tis Jesus, ’tis the Christ Of Nazareth!” The woes of heavy years, The quick-born hope, the old-time, dull despair, The agony of help so near at hand, Yet passing, blend in one wild, bitter cry: “Jesus, thou Son of David, I am blind! Have mercy on me!”--and the Saviour hears. Blind Bartimeus by the road-side waits In anguish mute and trembling, when, O joy! The bringer of glad tidings is at hand: “Be of good comfort, rise, he calleth thee!”