Part 4

The train glides on. Each mountain scene Is like a panoramic view, Though oft I toward the window lean, To scan some object that I knew. I see a log hut in the vale, And rustic children glad and warm; A mother’s face, forlorn and pale, Looks out upon the winter storm.

The little cascade down the glen Is falling like a mourner’s tears; The wind shrieks by, and from his den Jack Frost hangs out his icy spears, Defying e’en the piling drift; And while the Winter King he warns, Lo! through a cloud above the cliff, The young moon shakes her silver horns.

Orion next his rage revealed, As if he, too, the insult felt; He raises high his club and shield, And swings his bright sword from his belt; And like a demon downward driven, The howling wind his dungeon seeks; For nature sees the hosts of heaven Resent her cold and heartless freaks.

The storm grew still, and I could see The clouds above the cliff disband, E’en as the wave on Galilee Grew docile at the Lord’s command; And as I shake from off my pen The ink that stamped these pictures chill, I seem to hear those words again Breathed softly o’er me, “Peace, be still.”

JANUARY, 1886.

To Mother.

I heard a song last night, mother, A song you used to sing, When like a little bird, mother, With weak and unfledged wing, I played about your flowing gown Contented with your smile, Though all the world should cast a frown Upon your happy child.

The song I heard last night, mother, Came floating through the door As if some angel voice, mother, Had sung it oft before; But, O! I missed the patient pause, The low accustomed tone, I turned away heart-sick--because The voice was not your own.

Those dear old songs you used to sing, That made my heart-beats rhyme, Have bubbled up from memory’s spring, Ah! many and many a time. When thirsty or with thought oppressed, When tired of the sunshine, When longing for the shade and rest, I hear those songs of thine.

They’re just as low and sweet to-day As when I heard them first; And though I am so far away, The field glass though reversed, Holds still a picture that I love, Three faces--four with mine-- Another looks from heaven above, A little face--like thine.

The Broken Heart.

TO MISS F. B.

He brought me a heart one morning, Brought me a heart to mend; And he said (I shall never forget it) “’Twas broken by your friend.”

“The wound will grow deeper and wider,” He said in a sadder tone, “Unless you devise some method To place it against her own.”

Then I crept away to my chamber, But a thought, like a silver stream, Kept trickling along the wayside That bordered my restless dream.

So I hid this heart in a lily, When the dawn began to break-- In a beautiful water lily, That grew on the rim of a lake.

Yes, down on a snowy pillow, In a cradle warm and deep, I laid the little foundling, And a ripple rocked it to sleep.

The dawn came up with blushes, And shook from her gown the dew; And I heard the song of the skylark, As into the clouds he flew.

But the heart dreamed on in the lily And I went at the close of day, And found that my little treasure Was chilled by the foam and spray.

So I warmed it upon my bosom, Then cradled it back on the wave; But I feared that the lily’s offspring Was doomed to a watery grave.

So I watched till the daylight vanished Through the sunset’s purple bars, Till the night climbed over the willows, And lit up the moon and stars.

I thought I heard your footstep, And low in the reeds and grass I crouched, that there, unnoticed, I might behold you pass.

You came in your regal beauty, And, bright as the weird fire flies That illumined the waving rushes, I saw your glorious eyes.

You kneeled on the mossy margin-- I counted the lilies there; Two buds and a creamy blossom Were fastened in your hair.

Another was drawn from the water, And, pushing the reeds apart, I saw ’twas the very lily Wherein I had hidden the heart.

You pinned it low down on your bodice, Half hidden it lay in the lace, And you passed by--“a two-fold existence,” A new light enriching your face.

And though I am absent and distant, Methinks I can still hear the tone Of a heart that, with happy emotion, Is beating, aye! close to your own.

A Year Ago.

IN MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND, SCOTTA P. PROCTOR.

A year ago I held in mine her hand, And felt the pulses quicken and dissolve, While o’er her face a light from heaven’s own land Seemed all the mystery of death to solve.

She raised her weary eyes to mine and sighed-- Sighed as a flow’r o’er which the storm clouds bend When long the promised sunlight is denied, And cold and heavy rains from heaven descend.

She tried to speak; I knelt beside her bed, That one last wish she might to me impart; A whisper came, and then the spirit fled Like some sweet thought long prisoned in the heart.

A year ago I twined the lilies white About her shroud, and with the coffin’s lace, For she had loved them; all the long, long night They press their waxen lips upon her face.

I heard the funeral bell toll sad and long-- My heart reverberates to-day the sound-- And then there came a prayer--a pause--a song, And blossoms next were heaped upon a mound.

I turned aside and homeward bent my way; Alas! the face I loved so long--not there-- Sweet memories arose to gild my day, But sadder ones to mock my heart’s despair.

Where is she now? you think the grave can hide A friend so true within its dungeon deep? Ah! no; she walketh ever by my side, And watches o’er me when I chance to sleep.

We stroll abroad oft at the twilight’s hour To memory’s garden. Under memory’s tree She pulls the silver mask from many a flower, And reads its tender secrets all to me.

She guides my pen along uncertain heights, Where unattended I could never go; The candle of success she often lights When the flame flickers and the wick burns low.

She leads me to the grave and says, “Not here, But there,” and points me to the heavenly gate; And when upon my cheek there falls a tear (For sometimes yet my heart grows desolate),

I feel upon my face her own soft hand, And glimpses of her robe sometimes have seen. O, happy thought! how strong is friendship’s band, When out of heaven an angel friend can lean.

A year ago! sad, sad that parting day, And sadder still, the last, the long adieu. Death called the angel of my heart away-- And now she opens heaven to my view.

MAY 16, 1886.

A Christmas Peep.

I passed a toy window, And many pretty things Old Santa Claus had labeled, And tied with silken strings.

A kite was bought for Jimmie, A little stove for Kate, A doll for Capitola, For Charlie a new slate.

A silver knife for father, For mother, dear, a fan, And the prettiest little fiddle Was bought for baby Dan.

Hang up your little stockings, And keep the fireside bright, Old Santa Claus is coming, His sleigh is out to-night.

Ten dollars worth of candy Was emptied in his sleigh, And peanuts by the barrel, To be eaten Christmas day.

His lap was full of toys, Little drums and little ships, Little buggies, little ponies, And little riding whips.

The baby dolls were sleeping In their cradles snug, But the others all were peeping From underneath his rug.

Old Santa was so happy, That as he drove along He jingled ever sleigh bell, And sang a Christmas song.

So don’t forget him, children, He’s on the way to night, Hang up your little stockings, And keep the fireside bright.

Winnie’s Christmas Eve.

Poor little Winnie had plodded the street, Up and down through the rain and sleet, Singing her innocent songs all day, In a sweet and merry childish way; Asking sometimes for the night a bed, A bowl of milk, or a crust of bread.

She had sung on the corners and city square, But no one had time to remember her there; Numbers had passed her who never before Failed to toss in her basket a penny or more. It is Christmas; their hearts are so happy and light-- But poor little Winnie’s forgotten to-night.

Chilly and rayless the sky seems to frown, The clouds, too, are shaking the soft snow-flakes down; Over her pretty face, waltzing they fall Into her bonnet and folds of the shawl; Think of it, fathers, with firesides warm, Poor little Winnie is out in the storm.

Backward and forward the tired feet go, From her lips little ripples of music still flow. Homeless and hungry, still begging for bread, Receiving a curse and reproaches instead; Shiv’ring with fear in the pitiless light, Poor little Winnie is starving to-night.

Alone in the street, yet the little lips move, Trying to echo those accents of love. Ah! think of that, mothers! those syllables sweet Of your darlings, how fondly the same you repeat! You are trying so faithful to lead them aright When poor little Winnie is freezing to-night.

See her! How slowly she’s moving along-- Her lips are too icy to echo the song. How changed are her features! How feeble! how weak! A pallor creeps over her forehead and cheek-- Perhaps it is only the flickering light, Ah! no; little Winnie is dying to-night.

The revel is over in parlor and park, The bonfire vanished, the street is so dark; The snow-flakes are falling in many a heap, The city is quiet, at rest, and asleep; But there in the shadows, scarce out of sight, Little Winnie lies dead in a snow-drift to-night.

My Heart’s Little Room.

TO LIZZIE, DORA, AND GRACE.

There’s a dear little chamber somewhere in my heart That opens to only you three; Though many have tried to unfasten the door, They picked at the lock till their fingers were sore, For to file it apart Vainly proved every art, And in vain have they sought for the key.

Many times I go into this quaint little room, The pictures to change or adjust; I see your sweet faces grouped there with my own, And I wonder that I feel so strangely alone; But about through the room I move briskly the broom, And sweep from the corners the dust.

The windows I throw open wide to the air To let in the breeze and the light; I watch the sunbeams in their mischievous way Creep into the curtains, like children at play, And while I am there I have no thought of care, For the room is so warm and so bright.

And oft I look up from the balcony’s brink To a sky that shows many a hue; A vine clambers thickly the window above, Where my birds sing together their rhythm of love; My thoughts with them link For I sit here and think And all of my song is for you.

Ah! some day I know you will come back to me To rest in this queer little room; And that’s why so tidy and clean it is kept, The air always fragrant, the floor always swept, For I long here to see My sweet roses three, As from buds into blossoms they bloom.

Then come when you may, be the sky black or blue, The lock will unclasp as of yore; For (unless Death should come introspecting my heart, And break down its barriers and wrench them apart), A friend that is true Will be watching for you, Ever waiting to unbar the door.

The Three Muses.

Methought three muses in disguise As angels tapped upon my door, And a dim light from paradise Fell on the instruments they bore. One held a zithern in her hand And lightly swept the throbbing strings; And, O! it seemed a fairy land Was stirred by unexpected wings.

I held my breath and prayed that night Would be extended into day, But with the thought came morning’s light, And low the echo died away. An artist’s canvas, pink with dawn, The second angel turned to me, Her brush strayed o’er a grassy lawn And dotted here and there a tree.

All blooming in immortal dyes, With streamlets winding clear and blue, Where, looking from the far off skies, The clouds were mirrored to my view. But when the sun blazed from the sky, And on the painted landscape shone, I heard the artist angel sigh, And when I looked she, too, had flown.

The scratching of a pen I heard And saw a face demure and sweet With inspiration. Every word I begged the angel to repeat. A thousand zephyrs fanned the air, Tuned low with hum of birds and bees, No need of zithern music where Æolian harps were in the trees.

No need of artists to rehearse Upon the canvas nature, when I saw the world revolve in verse Upon the axis of the pen. “Be thou eternally my guide, Teach me your mystic pen to use! O! linger ever near,” I cried, “Musician, artist, poet--muse!”

A Recollection.

In my heart there is a fragrance not of bursting buds or bloom, But a faint delicious essence floats as out of memory’s room.

Like a zephyr blown from heaven some sweet message to impart, Comes a fragile recollection down the by-path to my heart.

Fragile did I say? So fragile that the lace-wrought butterfly Would not tilt its wings to bear it back from earth into the sky.

Yet perplexed as to its mission down the pathway I retreat, Hark! an echo in the distance, as of silver-slippered feet.

Why should I evade its coming, when ’tis such a little thing? Just a tiny recollection that my thoughts have given wing.

Soon, too soon, ’twill overtake me, see! ’tis gaining on me fast-- In my soul the rose leaves quiver--withered rose leaves of the past.

It is useless to dissemble, further fleeing is in vain, ’Round my heart I feel the tight’ning of a slender silken chain.

All the past spreads out around me, as if by the Hand above, So I turn, and find I’m standing face to face with my first love.

Don’t Question Him Why.

Don’t question him why if at times you can trace A sorrowful something that looks from his face; Though it shadows his brow as a raincloud the sky, Look on it and wonder--don’t question him why.

If he steal from your side when the twilight descends, And wander away from old comrades and friends, To rest unobserved in some shady retreat, Where the past and the present seem always to meet,

Don’t follow him there; let the stars overhead Their better and holier sympathy shed-- And should an old love-light illumine his eye, Though you bask in its splendor--don’t question him why.

For, out of the past that is shrouded away, Looks a face omnipresent, unseen by the day. A face like no other--a face in the sky To be looked at and worshipped, but not questioned why.

Should his lips meet your own with an indifferent grace That hurries the bloom to your averted face, Though Doubt is a sentinel stationed near by, Beware of his bayonet--don’t question why.

You may ask if you choose as he moves through the dance, If ’tis Beauty or Passion that cowers his glance, But question him not, O! ask him not why There awoke in his bosom that deep-seated sigh.

Should he turn from the ball-room sometime with disgust And shake from his sandals its memory and dust, To bare a sick heart with its fevers of sin, Beg heaven to filter a dewdrop within,

But question him not, for a word like a spark Would quicken the pulses reduced by the dark; Leave, leave him alone with his sorrow and God, And let Silence spread o’er his heart’s grave the sod.

Why?

Why is it that I keep her glove-- Poor little phantom of lost love-- Why was it that I wore her ring, And love the songs she used to sing, And treasure under lock and key, The letters she has written me? Why?

Why is it that where’er I go, As footsteps follow in the snow, As low and light, she seems to glide Along the highway at my side? Yet, when my arms seek to embrace Her form, then vanishes her face. Why?

Why is it that no other tone Falls on my ear as did her own? No other hand so soft and white, No other eye so warm and bright-- Though other lips I since have pressed, I something missed--the truth you’ve guessed. Why?

A Sunset Longing.

TO F. S. H.

What meaneth this unrest within my heart, And why do I sit here alone and sigh? The sunset throws its garnished doors apart, And palace halls are opened in the sky-- I gaze upon the gold strewn in the west, A miser, of his jewels dispossessed.

I have played in the sunset’s crimson rain, And felt its saffron torch wave o’er my brow, That heated to excess my maddened brain, And threw a halo ’round my heart--but now, Like some poor bird far from its kindred sky, I look into the sunset--look and sigh.

I have no friend to lean upon my heart, Ah! how I miss the pressure of thy hand, And thy dear voice seems of the past a part; Thy figure like a shade from shadow-land. I think I would be happy if you came And touched my hand, or softly called my name.

If I could look into your face to-night, And search the deep mines of your pensive eyes, Sure, I would find there a responsive light, To dissipate from out my heart the sighs; And then I know my lips would lose their scorn, And in my soul a new impulse be born.

If we could wander off far from the crowd Among the hills--our voices there unheard-- Where once our hearts in unison beat loud, To the sweet song of some wild mountain bird, I think the twilight vail would lose its gloom, That shrouds to-night the windows of my room.

Perhaps ’tis wrong that I should sadden you With these rain-droppings that my heart-clouds shed; Gladly would I distill a drop of dew Down deep into your flower-like heart instead. Some other night, if separation’s sky Should clearer grow, dear absent one, I’ll try.

Journeys.

Oh! the many, many journeys I have taken in a day! Journeys short and journeys long, Journeys right and journeys wrong; Often pausing on the way, Themes so grand my thoughts delay-- Themes suggesting instant song-- Lofty, good, Scarce understood, Dying ere I knew their worth, As an infant dies at birth.

Oh! the melancholy journeys That on earth my eyes have seen! Over cemeteries vast, Like a spirit I have passed, Where the helmet and canteen Cankered near a grave-stone lean, Where the warrior’s sword was cast; And the mould, So shallow rolled, That the eagle from on high Dropped his penetrating eye.

Oh! the mad, exciting journey! Floating down the sunset’s tide, Where there is no sign of sail, Neither any promised gale. Flames about on every side, Every hope from me denied. Even the clouds I can not hail; As they drift, Their cinders sift On the water where they float, Like a freighted, burning boat.

Oh! the sweet, yet lonesome journey That I always take alone! Back into the vanished past, Where the sunshine runneth fast. There the rose is open blown, There I hear a loving tone, There no twilight shades are cast; But complete And very sweet Is the dawn, when, like a child, Love looked in my heart and smiled.

Oh! the happy, happy journey, With my loved one near my side! Open stands the prison room; We forget its chilly tomb. Over fields of grain we glide, Over rivers broad we ride, Drinking up the earth’s perfume; Like a thought The muses taught-- Onward o’er the world we fly, Like twin clouds born of the sky.

Oh! the swift, inspiring journey, Far away in unknown space! Where my castles stand complete, And the gardens full and sweet; Where the moonlight weaves its lace, And a friend’s is every face, And this land, need I repeat, Is of dreams? Here crystal streams Lose their way, as from the throne, In this country all my own.

Oh! the elevating journey! Toward the zenith now I bend, Far above the mundane sphere, Stars like mighty worlds appear. Losing sight of home and friends, Higher still the path ascends. Heaven is dawning very near; But I pause, Alas! because To a mortal such as I, Heaven an entrance must deny.

The Lost Poem.

Long ago beside my window, with an open manuscript, I sat looking on a forest that with gold and brown was tipped, Heeding nothing save the sighing of my own heart and the trees, When into the open lattice like a whisper came the breeze.

Lingered at my lips a moment, past my temple then it crept, And from out of my listless fingers an unfinished poem swept: “Stop!” I cried unto a footman that was passing on the street, “I will give you thirty shillings if you’ll bring me back that sheet.”

But he gazed into the heavens as he would upon a kite, And I watched it sally upward, fading faster from my sight; Then I said unto a swallow that flew by on rapid wing, “Open wide I’ll throw the granary if my poem back you’ll bring.”

But he only flew the faster, and was soon beyond my sight; And the daylight vanished from me, and to mock me sent the night. O! there’s naught can daunt a spirit when the inner heart’s afire, And the darkness sent upon me only did my aim inspire.

So I sought an humble dwelling, to a fortune-teller went, And I tarried with the gipsy till the night was almost spent, But I left her door disheartened; for she only said to me: “Take this, search, and when you’ve found it, send or fetch again the key.”

“But,” said I, “’tis lost in nature, in the sky or hills among,” And the key back in her shanty with an angry word I flung; For prophetic seemed her language, and my purposes were mocked, If henceforth the heart of nature, Fate against my own had locked.

“Take it, search,” again she muttered, as I started to depart; “And be careful how you use it; for it fits the human heart.” In her hand I dropped a coin, and before the eye of day Peeped from out the morning’s cradle I was far upon my way.

Like the breath of early roses, like the whisper of a bird, From a little maiden passing, a sweet laugh methought I heard. “She has found it,” I repeated, “there’s no use for any key.” Said the pretty little damsel, “My heart’s open, don’t you see?”

Yes, I saw, and there were treasures such as kings would love to own, Who would sacrifice to gain them e’en a jeweled crown and throne-- Buds and blossoms, song and laughter, humming-birds and butterflies, Singing brooks and sparkling fountains there, and peaceful were the skies.

But the poem it was missing; so I journeyed slow along, Till I heard a mother singing to her babe a cradle song; And I tried to get permission in her heart to fit the key, But the lullaby continued: “Do not interrupt,” said she.