Part 2

Up, up on the wings of a swallow Piercing the heaven’s deep blue, O’er meadow and mount I am rising, And floating, sweet spirit, to you; Onward, in trance I am wafted, Now into the cloudlet above; And a face smiles out from its drapery, And ah! ’tis a face that I love.

The Decision.

A dispute once arose in a bee-hive As to which of the little brown bees Could gather the sweetest nectar From blossoms or budding trees.

The queen tried in vain to discover Some method the riot to quell; But a challenge for war had been sounded, And threatened was each honey cell.

So she spoke in a voice most persuasive-- “He shall sit on my throne for an hour, Who brings from the store-house of nature, The juice of the sweetest-lipped flower.”

Away flew the brown little workers, Away out of sight o’er the hill; Then backward and forward they flitted, The honey-cups eager to fill.

One famished the heart of a lily, And drank from its milky bud; One opened the vein of a rose leaf, And licked up the crimson blood.

To a poppy-bed still one hurried, On a downy cot he crept, But all-day in the silken blankets, Unconscious there he slept.

Another flew off to the meadow, And punctured the daisy’s cap; A swarm had encompassed a fountain, Where gurgled the sugar-tree sap.

A fourth and a fifth to a mansion Had followed a bridal pair; One strangled the bud on her bosom, One mangled the wreath on her hair.

But the sixth one paused at a cottage, Where a sick girl sleeping lay; And there by the open window, Blossomed a hyacinth spray.

A youth stood near in the shadows, And watching the dreamer’s face, A tear rolled down from his eyelid And fell on the hyacinth vase.

It was only the work of a moment For a busy bee to do, To flavor affections tear-drop With the extract, “flower-dew.”

So he gathered this precious honey, And, polishing up his sting, He flitted out of the window, With gold dust under his wing.

Such a night in the little bee-hive Before was never known; For the hyacinth’s rich moist pollen Had paved the way to the throne.

Autumn.

Who is it that paints the woodlands Like a gorgeous gown of gold; Dropping, here and there, a ripple Of vermilion in each fold? Who is it that calls the robins And the blackbirds into bands; Pointing them with flaming fingers, To the sunny, Southern lands?

What has scorched the tender blossoms? In our yards they’re dying now. Do you know who kissed the apple Till it reddened on the bough? Why so mute the little streamlet? Down the hill it used to leap; Now I faintly hear it sobbing-- Sobbing out like one in sleep.

Leaden clouds lay on the heavens, Like a burden on the heart; And the winds together whisper, Sad as loved ones ere they part. Then anon a dreamy dullness Hovers over sky and earth; Ah! my soul reflects the sadness, And I seek my friendly hearth.

You who love the Indian summer, So renowned by pen and art, Go, and revel in the gloaming, While so sadly pants my heart. But I can not watch the leaflets, On the whirlwind as they ride, For just so a hectic river Bore my darling from my side.

A Sister’s Love.

TO IDA.

She knelt beside her brother’s grave, The day was near its close; And where the cool, tall grasses wave, She lay a fresh-cut rose. Then, from a silver waiter near, She drew a wreath of white, Besprinkled with the twilight’s tear, O’ershaded with the night, And placed them on the green-kept mound. I watched her kneeling there, Her face bent on the sacred ground, In attitude of prayer; And while a bird sang soft his hymn, Down-looking from above, We saw unveiled a picture dim-- A statue true of love.

In Memory of Fannie Johnson White.

If I could blend into my verse That soft and slumb’rous haze, So faintly resting on the rose Before the autumn days Have chilled its heart, and numbed the leaves, And drunk the precious dew, Then could I melodize in song, Her life so pure and true.

Or could I weave into this song Her smile, so rich and rare, That found its way to every heart, And left its halo there-- Then earth would not seem desolate, Or days be lone or long, Since she would sweetly live again In verse, and smile in song.

All this is vain! both pen and voice, Too weak to speak her worth; Though memory writes in words of gold, Her beauteous deeds on earth. Heaven claimed our flower--there we may bloom, If we the watchword keep: “Whatsoever thou shall sow, That also thou shall reap.”

The Heliotrope’s Soliloquy.

TO MRS. T. R. WALTON.

Let others bring from foreign shore The glittering gem, the shining ore, Rare trophies from the coral caves, And hidden wealth of ocean waves, To grace the bridal hall.

You floral queens! You roses white! Bathed in the moonbeam’s yellow light, You’ll smile in many a quaint design, And help the banquet room to line-- But not the diadem.

My starry flowers--this purple heath-- She’ll gather for that trailing wreath; For my faint breath of rare perfume Is only for the bridal room-- The bride--the bridal crown.

To watch with me her trembling sigh, The golden pansy’s modest eye Shall only glance from out my bower, With me proclaim the nuptial hour, And seal the holy bond.

A Problem.

My heart is perplexed, though I’ve tried to discover An answer to solve what it is that I miss, Though I’ve questioned myself more that twenty times over, There seems no reply to a question like this. My friends meet me gladly with words kindly spoken, Salutations of praises and sometimes a kiss, And looks sent along with a sweet flower token. I find in my room--there is something I miss.

The blaze up the chimney this evening is talking, The wind and the shutter hum sad an old tune, A cloud o’er the heavens is leisurely walking, A few early snowflakes are vexing the moon. Pale Luna! your countenance seemeth too sober, But why should I murmur or wonder at this? The flame of the woodland died out with October, The birds, too, are gone--there is something I miss.

I stir down the embers, and here in the firelight I read the home paper a late train has brought, And into the lives of the absent an insight I take; do they ever of me have a thought? How strange the words sound when no answer is given, Ah! the tone of a friend would to-night insure bliss, And the faces of loved ones would seem like a heaven Of angels, alas! there is something I miss.

Will it always be thus? Is this one missing measure To cripple my verse and sadden my song? What a joy it is to regain a lost treasure And in the heart’s casket the setting make strong. But I have grown weary these figures of trying; I wonder if others make failures like this? A smile? Ah, you solved then the truth underlying This problem, and _know_ what it is that I miss.

MADISONVILLE, KY.

My Palace.

I built me a little palace, Somewhere in the ether land, Wherein my soul might revel And rest at my command. The spot, a royal summit, I let my will select, And Fancy came inspecting With Thought, the architect.

We went down to the quarry For the foundation rock, And purchased hewn and polished Love’s marble corner block. For years we toiled together, And one day warm and sweet I woke and found my palace Before me and complete.

It was a gorgeous building-- The window lights of red Came from the sunset’s furnace, Or Northern light instead. Each peak, each tower and turret The sunlight’s love had won, And straight there came a voice From heaven and said “well done.”

I planted a grove beyond it, And hedged up the terraced yard, And I dug a groove so a brooklet Could play on the level sward. I wanted a flower to cheer me, And off on a breezy slope I scattered the seed of roses And the purple heliotrope.

I peopled the rooms with volumes Of men with talents rare, Who climbed upon Fame’s spire And waved their banners there. I purchased the costliest paintings, And swung them from the walls; And music, like harps of heaven, Resounded throughout the halls.

I gave a royal banquet, The nuptial feast was spread, And then, when all was ready, There Love and I were wed. But when the guests departed, A rap came on the door, And a gaunt figure faced me I ne’er had seen before.

“My name,” she said, “is Envy; I wish to stop with you; Your dwelling just completed, The inmates must be few.” Her breath, like fumes of sulphur, Into my face was blown, And like a demon’s curses Was her departing tone.

The night came on, and fingers Tapped on the beveled glass, A face looked in the window With eyes that shone like brass; But Love beheld the visage, And o’er the window drew A shade that shut Suspicion Forever from my view.

And then a pond’rous knocking Bombarded at the door, And like an earthquake’s tremor Upheaved the palace floor. I glanced into the key-hole, And, like the brand of Cain, I saw on Slander’s forehead A dark and bloody stain.

I barred the palace entrance, And turning in the hall We faced another figure More dreadful than them all; He said: “My name is Ruin-- Unbidden here I stand, To curse your happy homestead And desolate your land.

“The lichen I have sprinkled Upon your crumbling tower, The ivy and the myrtle Shall choke each blooming flower.” And then he smote the castle, It trembled to its base, And fell? No, no--I shouted And laughed out in his face:

“You can not wreck our palace, Love is the corner stone, And we are master workmen,” I said, in jocund tone. He seized his trailing garments, Departed with a groan, And love and I together Were once more left alone.

Next day as they debated What course to next pursue, I heard a sweet voice calling-- Love said the tone he knew. The step, low as a mother’s Upon the nursery floor, Was like advancing music That halted at our door.

As when a fairy’s castle Yields to a magic key, Our door swung on the hinges The guest was--_Sympathy_. “Come in, our worthy sister,” I heard Love then repeat; “For happiness without you Could never be complete.”

And while we sat together, Weaving our garland sweet, For many a bridal altar, For many a burial sheet, We heard another footstep; And, like an angel sent, There came and smiled upon us The face we loved--_Content_.

The circle was completed-- My palace stands sublime Still on that cloudland summit, And laughs at threats of Time. No curses thunder o’er us, No heavy rains can fall; For heaven’s open window Slants sunshine over all.

Death of Summer.

Summer’s dying, close the shutters, Make the light subdued and sweet, The last accent that she utters I’ll record here at her feet. See, the pulses quiver faintly, But her heart, alas! ’tis still; See how pale she lies and saintly, Feel her hands, they’re white and chill.

Close the eyes made sad from weeping, Smooth the tangles from her head, Leave her like an angel sleeping, Friends are here to view the dead. See, the rose a tear is dropping As she leans above her face, At the door the lily stopping, Finds her handkerchief of lace.

There the two like sisters sorrow, As above the corse they bend, Planning for the sad to-morrow-- For the burial of a friend. Then the daisy from the mountain, That in mourning shawl was dressed, Brought a snowdrow from the fountain, Lay it on the summer’s breast.

To the pillow crept the lilacs, But the flowers at her throat Were the heliotrope and smilax-- This was gained by casting vote-- And the jasmine sought her fingers, While the fuschias kissed her hair; At her lip a violet lingers To deny them, who would dare?

Then the autumn’s sunny treasure Came the sturdy golden rod, For the coffin took the measure, For the grave removed the sod. Long and mournful the procession That I watched across the hill, For to you I’ll make confession, Autumn doth my spirit kill.

Drives me from the scene of sadness While on poison nature feeds; Decks her out in robes of gladness To conceal the heart that bleeds; At the summer’s grave there lingers None more sad to drop a tear Than the friend whose trembling fingers Write this in memoriam here.

Spring and Summer.

I heard a footstep on the hill, The little brook began to trill, I looked--a sweet and childlike face, Reflected like a blooming vase, Was smiling from the water clear, With buttercups behind her ear.

A flock of swallows hove in sight, On came the summer clad in white, With sunshine falling from her hair Upon her shoulders white and bare, And pressing through the tangled grass, A daisy rose to watch her pass.

Under the Snow.

What have you hidden down under the snow, So dear that you weep when the northern blasts blow? Why your face pressed to the cold window pane, Longing to mingle your tears with the rain-- Is there something down under the snow?

Is it only a blossom, a summer’s delight, That is freezing and dying this cold, bitter night? That is only a fancy, the floweret is warm, And the drift has enfolded it safe from the storm-- Is there something yet under the snow?

Something near to the heart down under the snow, That has robbed the wan cheek of its once carmine glow, That has stolen the beam of the eye--tears instead Bespeak how in anguish the sore heart hath bled For a little child under the snow.

For a dear little prattler that littered the floor, And laughed as he tumbled your work o’er and o’er For a little gold head that made sunny the room, Now bright’ning the darkness and chill of the tomb, That is dreaming out under the snow.

Only resting awhile in garments all white, Away from the blackness and sin of to-night; Away from the vice and the wrong of the street, Not heeding the song of the rain or the sleet, Still sleeping down under the snow.

How many a mother her darling would lay In the last, narrow home--hide her treasure away-- If only to know its soul was at rest With an innocent heart in an innocent breast, Far, far down under the snow!

The Prettiest Girl in Town.

Have you e’er seen her, this beautiful girl With that classical head and complexion of pearl? So pale and enchanting that sometimes I deem Her a sweet revelation as when in a dream, Through wild variations of trouble and fear, You suddenly feel that an angel is near. Now guess, if you can, without half of that frown, For to me she’s the prettiest girl in the town.

The poets all sing of these quaint Highland girls With enchanting dimples and loose tangled curls; Or they weave a love-tale from her budding lip’s glow While chasing the reindeer o’er mountains of snow; This is only the skill of a well tinctured pen, Dipped in Romance’s cup for the praises of men, Who value this maid in the coarse homespun gown Something less than the prettiest girl in the town.

You must all have watched the calm light of her eyes, And ethereal figure with heavy drawn sighs; Pondered often in secret of some magic gift To win you this face--so like a snowdrift-- I would whisper a secret: On Valentine’s day, With Cupid commune in a sly, cunning way, Else only in dreams she is thine; for a crown Could not purchase the prettiest girl in the town.

I am Musing To-Night.

I am musing to-night in the fire-light’s glow, And watching the pictures that come and go; Like dissolving views on a magic screen Is the witchery of this changing scene; Though half I’m dreaming, though half awake, I fear to move lest the spell I break, Lest my fairy castles will break and fall, And down will tumble each beautiful wall.

Thus still in a stupor I sit and gaze At the glowing embers and wanton blaze; I am smiling at Fancy; she tries in vain To lure me along with the mad’ning train That follow her footsteps--that to her cling, As flowers that garland the steps of spring; In moody silence I sit apart, Till memory conquers my sullen heart.

Sweet Memory! sprite of my golden past! Your tinseled veil o’er me is cast; Subdued I yield like one enchained, And yet my freedom is only feigned; Back through the aisles of years that are gone, A willing captive you lead me on, Where I gleaned unbidden the joys of youth While the world was blossoming with love and truth.

Before my heart could interpret a sigh, Or a tear-drop’s shadow creep into my eye, Ere I’d missed from the circle of friendship’s chain The link once lost that we ne’er regain, The future to me was a vast expanse, Its depth I could solve at a single glance, Knew not of the troubles that torture the soul Hidden away in its sober fold.

Yet, to-night, as I dream in the gathering gloom, Only friends that are dear softly enter my room, Those who gladdened my life in its season of pain, Like a gleam of the sunshine along with the rain; These, _these_ are the guests that encircle my hearth, Who come gliding like spirits back to the earth. What communion we hold only those ever know Who sit musing alone in the fire-light’s glow.

A Curl.

To-night, as I turned back the pages Of a book Time had fingered before, And whose leaves held the odor of ages, And the imprints of much usage wore, A little brown curl I discovered, That fell from the book to the floor.

Had I sinned? Heaven grant me its pardon. Did a lover’s sad tear the page spot? Who pressed there that gem of the garden-- The sweet flower, “forget-me-not?” It lay as if carved on a grave-stone, And all of its sweetness forgot.

I held the curl up to the lamplight, And watching the gleam of its gold, There I heard with the rush of the midnight, A sad little story it told; But I promised the sacred old volume Its secret I would not unfold.

But I would that the world knew its sorrow, The story I must not reveal; But go to your book case to-morrow. And each to your own heart appeal; And you’ll know why the tattered old volume The little curl tries to conceal.

Somebody’s Face.

TO M. A. B.

The blossoms are gone from the garden, But ’tis not of them I would speak; I want a sweet rose for my verses Like one that’s in somebody’s cheek. A red rose to kiss and to fondle, Whose leaves will not wither or die-- To gladden each moment and banish The winter thoughts out of the sky.

I want a low ripple of music To flow through these lines of my choice, Like a zephyr that moved through the summer, Now dwelling in somebody’s voice; A song that will be full of fragrance So sweet that its magic of words Will bring back the balm of the June time, Its memories glad, and the birds.

The skies are so sunless and dreary, Unless I can find a deep blue To mix with the clouds of November They’ll still wear the dark, sober hue; But memory shows a bright heaven Reflected in somebody’s eye, And, thinking to-day of its beauty, The grey becomes blue in the sky.

My dear little friend of the summer, Did you think in the meshes of song Your sweet, rosy face would be tangled By a memory cunning and strong? That the eyes looking now on this pattern Would find it so easy to trace? And delight as I do in its beauty-- The beauty of somebody’s face?

Good-bye, Maggie.

Good-bye, Maggie, I must leave you, Far away from you I roam, Far away from friends and loved ones, And your pretty cottage home. O’er my soul a twilight gathers, That is deep’ning into night, But from out the shadowy distance Shines a soft, familiar light.

It is memory’s beacon lantern, O’er it arching is your name; Round it recollections cluster, As the moth about the flame. Though the future tries to cheat us, Throwing many miles between, Brighter burns the little taper As the distance intervenes.

Good-bye, Maggie, will you miss me? Absence conquers many a heart, Plucks the roses from the garland, Tears the evergreen apart; Enters at the open lattice, As a guest unbidden not, Draws the curtain o’er the window, Writes upon the door--“Forgot.”

Oh! what mean these idle sayings, And whence come these idle fears? As I fold you to my bosom On my face I feel your tears; Tears--they are a silent language That interpret best the heart, And I love you for them, darling-- Good-bye, Maggie, we must part.

The Hermit’s Farewell.

Farewell, that sad and bitter word It stirs my soul to-night, As I sit crouching in my cave Above the faggot’s light; Strange, ghostly figures dance and flit Along the cold, damp walls; The black snake glares his drowsy eyes, And from his dungeon crawls.

The toad croaks near my humble fire, Is loth to hop away, And knows that ne’er again for him Will I in ambush lay; The bats flit idly to and fro, The mice romp through my cell, And e’en the wind that moans without Repeats that word--farewell.

I move, and think ’tis some weird dream Then mutter “’tis my brain;” For here around my throbbing brow Seems clamped a heavy chain, And like a prisoner doomed to die To-morrow at the stake, I count the hours as they fly, And dread the morning’s break.

For friends will come to lead me forth, Through frescoed hall and room, To homes where kindred ties await; I fear the hermit’s doom. They’ve tempted me--I fain would rest Here on the dungeon mould, Than dream on beds where curtains swing With sunbeams in each fold.

For beasts and birds and creeping things Have owned me as their guest, When man would turn me from his door With cruel word or jest; And as I served my scanty meal, In supplicating lays, The cricket and the katydid Would join my evening praise.

God pitied me, my loneliness He made a sweet content; I found companions in the stars That from the heavens bent; His flowers were friends, the golden rod Smiled in its yellow hood, A sentinel about my door The purple thistle stood.