Part 5

Next I hailed a youth that passed me, and his face was wond’rous fair, And I searched long through his heart’s book, but the poem was not there; “It is lost!” I cried with sorrow, as Despair held out her cup, And I quaffed the bitter liquid, and the idle search gave up.

* * * * *

Years have passed, and just this morning I was called beside a bed, Where the sheet lay still and sober over an old lover spread; Sad and pallid were his features, clever, too, Death’s new disguise, But I read the old, old secret, even in his half-closed eyes.

Then a thought--“The key,” I whispered, lest I should be overheard, And I sought the heart, unlocked it; found my poem--every word. Oft revised it was, and polished, wore the features, too, of Fame; And I read with strange emotion, just below inscribed my name.

O, it was a trying moment! If the poem I should claim, I could mount upon the ladder to the topmost round of fame; But my evil spirit yielded; for I could not rob the dead, So I locked the sacred prison, and above it bowed my head.

* * * * *

Rather would I find engraven in a steadfast heart my name, Than in shining words enroll it high upon the tower of fame.

A Maple Leaf.

TO M. B. S.

Glancing o’er a childish volume where sweet thoughts like blossoms lay, There between two oft read pages, a pressed wreath I found to-day. Golden-rod and aster flowers lay with bloom all crushed and dead, But a maple leaf among them still retained its gold and red.

In my hand I took the treasure, held it up before my face, And the sunlight, then declining, solved its geometric grace. Many a road and by-path meeting proved the interwoven veins; And a forest rose before me, flaming like my window panes.

As a vision that is pictured by an angel in the night, Soon a figure, sometime vanished, rose to my exultant sight. Like a goddess of enchantment, there she stood beneath the trees, And her face was like a lily, and her eyes like summer seas.

Then I thought, “For me she’s waiting”--so I glanced off to the right, For I feared it all a fancy, but I found my home in sight; Heard the town-clock slowly striking, and the same familiar bells, Saw the court-house and the churches, and “The Summit,” where she dwells.

So I then no longer doubted, down a meadow path I strolled, Leading off into the woodland that had stole the sunset’s gold. Overhead the birds were flying, but a black winged happy throng Paused; for we had been old comrades and they sang a farewell song.

But the thoughts that followed after, though the birds away had flown, Were so happy, for she met me, linked her arm within my own. Up and down the path we wandered, gathering leaves and grasses gray, Until darkness drove the twilight o’er the hill where fled the day.

Darkness! and her face had vanished, all alone I seemed to stand, But I heard her step departing, and I grasped again her hand. Held it tight, and tighter pressing, in a happy strange belief, Till I ’woke, and found that dreaming I had crushed my treasured leaf.

A Gallop With Santa Claus.

I was thinking last night of the children Far away in a home that I know, Of the dear little girls at the window, And the boys out at play in the snow; Of the stockings hung up at the chimney, Of the little hearts hopeful and glad; And thus I kept thinking and thinking, Until I grew homesick and sad.

So I turned my eyes out on the landscape, As my thoughts were unwilling to go, And I saw ’round the curve of a hillock Three ponies come, white as the snow; A sleigh next appeared and a driver, Oh! my heart beat so fast then--because, As he drew up the reins at the door-step, I found it was old Santa Claus.

Such shaking of hands and such greetings I fear I shall nevermore see; For every big doll in his wagon Was looking and laughing at me. “No minutes to lose,” said old Santa, “I’ve hundreds of miles yet to go. Will you please to partake of my journey, And gallop with me o’er the snow?”

No sooner than said I was seated, All ’round me he folded the fur. He made a loose rein for the ponies, And urged them with whip and with spur. Away and away o’er the country We flew like the glances of light, Down streets that were blazing with bonfires, On, on through the snow and the night.

Then all of a sudden he halted In front of a house old and dark. There was no friendly ray at the window, And on the hearth-stone not a spark. But he entered, and, by a dim lantern That swung from his new scarlet cap, I saw the sad face of a woman Asleep, and a babe on her lap.

And two pretty faces beside her, A pillow of straw almost hid, But the little hands looked as if frozen That lay on the patched cover-lid. A snow-cloud had sifted its samples, Of eider-down over their feet, And a star, looking in through the shingles, Was spreading o’er them a bright sheet.

Old Santa had lost not a moment. A cedar tree suddenly sprung Into life just in front of the children, With pop-corn and bright ribbons strung. Some tiny wax candles were lighted, To chase off the thoughts of the night; And the dollies had met in the tree-top To dance in their dresses of white.

A kite that could climb into cloud-land Hung low, and a new picture-book; A street-car “wound up” for its journey, And a little boat built for the brook. Oh! all kinds of candy he left them That ever I tasted, or you; And under the tree there were apples And peanuts--a bucket or two.

He built them a fire, and dresses Were left, made of flannel so warm; And, with many nice greetings and wishes, We galloped away through the storm. Away, and away sped the ponies, So fast that none could o’ertake-- So fast (it was told me this morning), We looked like a winged snow-flake.

But soon at a homestead we halted, Old Santa said I must alight, To see if the children were sleeping, And leave them whatever was right. So I crept to the casement--it opened, And I saw what I ne’er shall forget-- Those darlings there slumbering sweetly, The thoughts of the night-fall had met.

We gave them all kinds of nice presents, What they were, it is useless to say; For they’ve found them and now are rejoicing, And happy this glad holiday. So children, be kind to each other, Be gentle and loving--because I may be invited next Christmas To gallop with old Santa Claus.

Home Memories.

I am thinking of a cottage Where the roses used to bloom, How they talked beside the pavement In low whispers of perfume, Or climbed up beside the window To look in my little room.

I am thinking of the door-way Where the vine I used to train, That snowed down its flaky petals With a pleasant summer rain; Where I used to sit and listen To the old mill’s low refrain.

I’m thinking of the sunflower, too, That towered above the gate; Of the friends who called me hither When the day was cool and late. Ah! those hours seem so distant And the year, an ancient date.

I am thinking of the grape-vine Where the crippled robin fed, How he lingered there each morning ’Till fresh crumbs for him were spread. Is he feeding there this summer From a stranger’s hand, instead?

I am thinking of the children Who crept to the little yard, Begging me to grant permission That they play upon the sward. Could I bar them from the entry? Thus might Heaven me discard.

I am thinking of a morning That wrung from my heart a sigh, When I kissed warm lips that trembled, With a tear-drop in my eye; While I closed our cottage windows And pronounced the word--good-bye.

Sunshine and Shadow.

I passed a pretty cottage place, A rose looked from the door And smiled so sweetly in my face I paused the house before. The honeysuckle from the wall Threw down a welcome tear, The breeze came rushing through the hall And whispered, “Tarry here,

“For all within is peace and love;” So through the curtain’s lace I glanced the reckless words to prove, And saw a lover’s face Bent close above two eyes of blue. Why should I dim their day? Across the pane the blind I drew, And softly crept away.

I went again, one summer eve; The rose blushed at the door But smiled as sweetly to receive Me as it did before; The breeze came out as joyously, And lingered at my side, And murmured: “Tarry now and see Our happy groom and bride.”

“O, no!” I said, “some other day I’ll call the pair to see.” But as I turned to go away They both looked out at me. O! what a light of hope and love Their features then o’erspread; And a shekinah from above Seemed on the cottage shed.

Years crept away. When next I came Before that open door, A little child pronounced my name That golden tresses wore. “Will you come in?” she gladly cried, And opened wide the gate. “My little one,” I slow replied, “The day is low and late.

“To-morrow when the sun is bright, I’ll come and play with you; Too chilly now, the falling night, Too damp the evening dew.” And so I did. I often trod Along the side yard there; And found that fresher grew the sod, The sky more bright and fair.

I once had said that every rose Held just a briar or two, And every river as it flows A dark wave with the blue; But ’twas not thus I found it here, The world that night I’d tell That I had found a sky so clear That rain drops never fell.

Thus musing on that sweet child’s face That night I could not sleep, A shadow seemed the light to chase As storms the ocean sweep; And when the stars forsook the sky And birds their matins sang I strolled again the cottage by And loud the door-bell rang.

The rose had dropped its leaves and died, I heard within a sob. What did it mean? The winds replied “Crape hangs upon the knob.” Softly I raised the window’s lace-- The little child was dead-- I threw a flower across her face, And from the cottage fled.

I never will go back again Or push the blinds apart-- I sought a sunshine for my pen, Found shadows for my heart.

Only a Fern Leaf.

TO H. M.

Only a fern leaf, darling, Yellow and dry with age, Only a date recorded Down at the ending page.

Only a breath from the mountain, A song with the summer wed; Only the voice of a fountain, Only a dream that is dead.

Only a faded morning, With a shadow falling through, Only a hint of warning-- A cloud in the far off blue.

Only a word of parting Under a starlit sky; Only a tear that is starting, A long and a last good bye.

Only a face of sorrow Turned to a vanished year-- Only a fern leaf, darling, Glued to the pages here.

A Dream.

TO MY FATHER.

Listen, father, while I tell you of a dream I had last night; For it was so sweet my childhood home was painted in my sight. ’Twas the same old frame house, father, hidden by the same old trees, Apple, cherry, quince and locust, talking in the same old breeze.

On the walk I found the cowslip, stolen from “The Old Ravine,” And the blue-bell, and the columbine--how near my heart they lean. Roses, red as any furnace flame, about me seemed to grow. Roses pink as maiden blushes, roses pure and white as snow.

All around the yard I wandered, oh! so long I can not tell, Then I paused beneath the apple tree and drank from the old well. Through my veins I felt the water coursing like a happy thought, And a thousand recollections to my memory then it brought.

Recollections rushing to me swifter than an angel’s wing, Recollections slipping from me as a pearl slips from a string. Recollections that transfigured me into a little child, And the halo shed around me was my father’s happy smile.

It was such a pretty picture Fancy held before my view, I will turn the magic lantern so that you may see it, too. It is springtime and the sugar trees have pitched their shady tent, Tiny leaves like tiny parasols reach toward the firmament.

Restless swings a childish figure to and fro upon the gate, Some one’s coming down the highway--’tis for him she there doth wait. Ah! you recognize the picture, I can tell it by your smile; You have recognized the sugar trees, and recognized your child.

Through the pasture now we’re strolling, looking down the avenue, See you not another picture? Yes; the figures there are two. Mother sits upon the portico her knitting in her hand, And my brother talks beside her of that wild and Western land

Where he raced his Indian ponies and lassoed the buffaloes Oh, it is a perfect wonderland!--this country that he knows. But we will not interrupt them; for they do so happy seem-- So we turn aside and leave them wandering on as in a dream.

Then I led you up the hillside and we sat upon the “mound.” Oh! there never was before or since so pretty a view spread ’round. Just below, the tranquil water of the clear pond seemed to win Every cloud that floated over, and the heavens lay within.

Then the meadow, where the clover bloomed, and where you stacked the hay, Like a field within a picture book, before us there it lay; Then beyond, the barn and orchard, and the valley that I love-- Oh! it all seemed like a painting let down by the Hand above.

But a thought came rushing to me of a fairy that you know; For she lived there in the valley and her name it was Echo. So I laughed and called unto her just as loud as I could call, But the voice that she threw back to me was not a child’s at all.

No; it was a woman’s voice; I awoke then with a start, And I found the king beside me that dethroned you in my heart. Then a tear fell on the pillow, not a briny, bitter tear, Why? you ask--because the dream was gone that I have copied here.

Those Soft Airs She Played.

TO M. B. S.

Those soft airs she played--through my mem’ry they glide Like a cloud-shadow crossing the plain; The sun follows often, the wind at his side, Then a whisper that never the roses denied, And a sound like a light fall of rain.

Grander music she plays--music weird and sublime, Thunder toned, like the sound of the sea, That rolleth away like the surges of time; But, to quicken my thoughts and to sweeten my rhyme, She always played soft airs for me.

Faint whispers that blend with the deep forest’s sound, From which a wild fawn would not flee, And sweet as the brook that the summer has found, When singing its song soft and glad underground, And carrying its heart to the sea....

A movement then mingles like those that are heard When the trees toss their shade to the eaves; A pause and a tremble, as of a sweet word, Or the dream-haunted wing of a night-hidden bird That is shaking the dew from the leaves.

Then silence, that even a word would profane-- Silence, holding some thoughts heaven-born, That only her fingers a moment can chain; Up, up to the skies they have wandered again, Like a prayer holy spoken at morn.

Those soft airs she played in the dim lighted room, With her heart in the past far away-- Ah, what would I give if to-night, through the gloom, Along with the budding and bursting of bloom, They now past my window would stray.

Alas! vain the thought, and as vain sounds the sigh, Long distance my wish has delayed; But we sit in the twilight--my mem’ry and I-- And listen and linger, we scarcely know why, Unless for those soft airs she played.

To Albert.

Thou art going from us, Albert, Going far away from me, Where I can not hear thy prattle, And thy face I can not see.

Back into the Southern country, Thou art going--there to roam, Where my heart began its singing-- In the old Kentucky home.

Lonely all the days will linger, When I miss your little face; Shadows gray, from out the hours, All the sunbeams soon will chase.

Dim will seem the sunny window, Where the pansy blossom grows, And no restless little fingers Will disturb the opening rose.

Soon the playthings will be missing, Soon they gathered up must be-- Thou art going from us, Albert, Going far away from me.

Soon the little boy that vexed me, When I tried to read and write, Will be gone. No one will listen When I sing my songs at night.

Soon the halls will lose their echo, And the yard grow silent, too, And the pretty face will vanish, With those wondrous eyes of blue.

So good-bye, my little darling; All these tears have been for thee-- Thou art going from us, Albert, Going far away from me.

The Reunion of the Flowers.

A few of the springtime flowers, And the summer blossoms sweet, Agreed, at the early autumn, In a locust grove to meet,

And there to hold communion, By the light of the setting sun, And each relate or mention Some kind act they had done.

And he whose deed was noblest Should, at the close of day, Be colonel of the regiment, And lead the ranks away.

So, one by one I watched them Assemble where the trees Had lowered their limbs to listen And halted every breeze.

A Rose in the richest satin, With a bud to her bonnet tied, Was first to break the silence That reigned on every side.

“I lived with a lovely lady, In a handsome house of brick, And went with her each morning, To wait upon the sick.

“I’ve leaned beside the pillows, Where wounded soldiers lay, And I wept at the funeral service, Of an orphan child to-day.”

“I bloomed in an humble garden, Where an old man used to look,” Said the Johnquil, “ere the snow-drift His window-sill forsook.”

“A poor bee shivered homeward One night,” the Tulip said, “Fell through my scarlet curtains, And died upon my bed.”

“I looked in at a window, And made two lovers kiss,” The Pansy owned, and laughing Said it was not amiss.

“I went into a palace,” The Lily then replied, “And held the veil that evening Of a happy-hearted bride.”

“I sweetened the room of a poet, And o’er his coffin wept,” The Heliotrope low whispered, And back in the shadows crept.

“O, that was very noble,” Exclaimed the Golden-rod, “I tried to gather the sunshine And hold it up to God.

“To make the world less sober, To make the heart less sad, Was all the mission, brethren, Your humble servant had.”

* * * * *

In the ranks of that floral army That marched at the close of day, That sunny-featured blossom Was the one that led the way.

Children of the Brain.

Our thoughts--the children of the brain-- Are born for us some good to gain, And if we rear them just and right, They’ll seek the day instead of night. Long in the harvest field they’ll work-- Brave laborers that do not shirk, And they will reap just what we sow, As written you will find below.

* * * * *

I sent them forth into the world, Some thoughts that long my heart impearled. Their countenance was of a light That beamed upon me through the night. The features were like mine, perchance, With part of heaven hid in the glance; And the apparel that they wore My fingers long had labored o’er.

A vine ran through the tunic’s hem That wilted not though broke the stem, And all the undergarments showed The time and care on them bestowed. Some of the moonbeams took a place Within the frill about the face; And, stars that bright as Lyra glowed, The overdress and mantle showed.

The sandals that encased the feet Were fashioned for a journey fleet, And pinions, like a sail unfurled, I saw outspread before the world, With promises to come again And glorify the parent pen. I tore apart the silken skein And let them drift from out my brain.

Where are they tarrying to-night? I see, around a fireside bright, One looking in a friendly face. How tender seems the warm embrace! Now close, close to this loved one’s lip ’Tis held, and for companionship Is nestling down into the heart, And of the same becomes a part.

Some beckon me across the seas, Are favored by a foreign breeze, Are traveling where I can not go, Are learning what I ne’er shall know, Are praised, perhaps, with offered funds, While with them glad the newsboy runs; Are welcomed in some palace home, And ne’er allowed henceforth to roam.

The one that I had loved the best A journey took into the West, And by a friend it chanced to meet Sent home a prairie flower sweet. Two stronger ones, the North that sought, Some words of love back home have brought; They brighten up the lonesome hearth, And praise the pen that gave them birth.

And one crept down in Cupid’s coat To read a dainty perfumed note, And afterward came back to tell How sweetly rang the wedding bell. Another, with as brave a face, Had with a rival run a race; It did its best, to gain had tried, But came back home, alas! and died.

The tenderest one, perhaps, of all, Upon a critic chanced to call; He hooted at the homespun gown, And bent his bitter, blackest frown Upon the waif, and read its fate Where winter winds could congregate. I thought I heard its funeral bell, But where the grave is I’ll not tell.

I do not know the others’ fate, A pauper’s grave may them await. The fabric that my hands embossed, While Fancy figured high the cost, May trail, to-night, some filthy street Where sin and shame together meet, And the loved strains from my heart’s lyre Be sung around an outcast’s fire.

They may attain a higher sphere, Where flows the penitential tear, And point the wanderers they find Upon the paths that heavenward wind. God grant their mission may be such! That all sad hearts they’ll lightly touch, And spread upon the ugly wound A balm to make them whole and sound.

A Lily of the Valley.

Just a breath of fragrance On the breeze--alas! A lily of the valley Dying in the grass.

Just a recollection Followed with a sigh; Just a teardrop dripping Down the cheek, and why?

MAY 16, 1887.

Lines to the Old Year.

Farewell, Old Year, the shades are growing deep, Thou art dethroned and vanishes your power; I sit alone with folded hands and weep, While close the minutes chase our parting hour.

Your lips are dumb, and with a feeble hand You turn the pages of the year’s great book, While my wet cheeks are with an odor fanned, Like that the summer breeze from violets shook.