Part 6

I gaze into the volume. Undiscerned Some scenes advance, like phantoms hurry by, And thoughts look from the leaves now swifter turned As meaningless as would a stranger’s eye.

I meet familiar names in Death’s long list, I pass new graves where tears have thawed the snows, I search my heart lest something I have missed, But in its garden find no dying rose.

Thou hast been kind to me; no marble urn Chills the warm pulses of my heart to night, And from the thought my pen doth gladly turn To offer homage ere you take your flight.

Bright recollections thou hast left instead, That twinkle in the firmament of thought, And lover-like I sit and gaze o’erhead Upon the starry gems thy hand has wrought.

Far down the by-path of a summer dream, Glad voices call and fingers beckon me-- An oar dips music from a moonlit stream, Where in thy prime I sailed, Old Year, with thee

And now, e’en in the shadow of thy hearse, Ungarland save with fated mistletoe, While midnight fiends the hours call like a curse, You clasp my hand and smiling on me--go.

Farewell! A friend thou’st been to me, and I Shall wander through the burial ground of years, And often with an introspective eye Search out thy grave and water it with tears.

Why I Smile.

I smile because the world is fair; Because the sky is blue. Because I find, no matter where I go, a friend that’s true.

I smile because the earth is green, The sun so near and bright, Because the days that o’er us lean Are full of warmth and light.

I smile as past the yards I go, Though strange and new the place, The violets seem my step to know, And look up in my face.

I smile to hear the robin’s note. He comes so newly dressed, A love song throbbing in his throat, A rose pinned on his breast.

And so the truth I’ll not disown, Because the spring is nigh; My heart has somewhat better grown, And I forget to sigh.

MT. VERNON, ILL.

My Phantom Ships.

I heard the plunging of the sea Like a wild steed pursuing me, And dark and frothy was the main; But suddenly a checking rein Seemed drawn, and panting on the shore, I heard the billows’ frightful roar.

My dream betook a different hue, Caught from the ocean’s changeful blue. A door was opened in my heart, From which I saw each fear depart, And there from some far, happy isle, The sea breeze came as would a smile

Oh! it was sweet to wander there, The sky o’erhanging still and bare. A cloud, in some soft raiment dressed, Leaned like a bride upon the west; The sea-gulls floated on the breeze Like blossoms blown from April trees.

The wind just kissed by summer’s mouth Walked like a lover from the South; And jewels from a sunbeam’s hand Were sprinkled on the snowy sand; The breakers ran along the beach, And scattered shells within my reach.

I stooped and held one to my ear, And listened as to voices dear; And then methought far, far away, Where purple mists made dim the day, I saw the motion of a ship That from the heavens seemed to slip.

On, on it came with fluttering sail, Strong blew the steady ocean gale. The waves were running thick and high, And kept the ship close to the sky; It seemed a picture on the sea, “A picture,” thought I, “can it be?”

But from the waves the wind withdrew And brought the sailors close to view. The pilot pointed to the shore, And then to gems and shining ore Piled up against the good ship’s side That leaned so brave upon the tide.

Oh! there were silks of colors soft, And plumes that proudly waved aloft; And there were jewels, bags of gold, From caves o’er which the water rolled, And coral crowns--gifts of the sea-- And all of this for whom? _For me._

With open arms to meet the ship I ran, and proudly curled my lip. No one should know from whence it came, And none should share my wealth and fame. My gowns of silk with me should roam, My gold I’d closet at my home.

Ah, me! I knew not what I thought. The ship was by a whirlwind caught. It staggered out upon the sea-- I heard the sailors cursing me; A flash fell from the lowering night, And down the brave ship sank from sight.

* * * * *

I walk again upon the sands With aching heart and empty hands. Sometimes a piece of broken mast Upon the tide goes sailing past; And, where the sun so friendly shone, A shadow on the sand has grown.

A strange and half-distracted dream Comes just behind the sea-gull’s scream. The sinking ship again I see, The sailors hurl their oaths at me, And like an echo from the grave Is the sad song of wind and wave.

But somewhere, under bluer skies, Another ship in harbor lies. Its flags are flying free and fast, The sails are white, and strong the mast. ’Tis loaded, too, with precious freight, And for the same I stand and wait.

When it comes home I’ll happy be, And all share my joy with me. My wines at other feasts I’ll pour, The sorrowful shall smile--yea, more, The poor shall not be turned away, And one and all shall bless the day.

PABLO BEACH, FLA., January, 1887.

The Weight of a Word.

Have you ever thought of the weight of a word That falls in the heart like the song of a bird, That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth And garlands with cedar the banner of Truth, That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain Like dew-drops that fall on the meadow of grain Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit And lies like a worm at the lifeless root?

I saw a farmer at break of day Hoeing his corn in a careful way; An enemy came with a drouth in his eye, Discouraged the worker and hurried by. The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe Dulled on the earth in the long corn row; The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed Over the field and the crop was--_lost_.

A sailor launched on an angry bay When the heavens entombed the face of day The wind arose like a beast in pain, And shook on the billows his yellow name, The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud, And the waves held up a dripping shroud-- But, hark! o’er the waters that wildly raved Came a word of cheer and he was--_saved_.

A poet passed with a song of God Hid in his heart like a gem in a clod. His lips were framed to pronounce the thought, And the music of rhythm its magic wrought; Feeble at first was the happy trill, Low was the echo that answered the hill, But a jealous friend spoke near his side, And on his lips the sweet song--_died_.

A woman paused where a chandelier Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear; Weary and footsore from journeying long, She had strayed unawares from the right to the wrong. Angels were beck’ning her back from the den, Hell and its demons were beck’ning her in; The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives, Drew her back and in heaven _that_ sweet word--_lives_.

Words! Words! They are little, yet mighty and brave; They rescue a nation, an empire save; They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart That sickness and sorrow have severed apart, They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun, Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon; They lighten the earth over our blessed dead, A word that will comfort, oh! leave not unsaid.

An Apology.

TO J. D. N.

My pen is mournful--you ask why When all the time my face is glad, And though contentment lights my eye, You say my verse is strangely sad; So serious that e’en the strain You can detect, as on the pane You know the patter in the night, Although the cloud is hid from sight.

You asked me once to change my tone, “To trim my pen for gayer verse,” And, laughing, said ’twas like a moan That followed close behind a hearse. My muse was saddened at the stroke, And in my heart new chords awoke, Chords that vibrate like the bell That tolled one day a funeral knell.

I would not have them otherwise; I claim my caged bird’s song more sweet Because ’tis sad, than one which tries The echo merrier to repeat. How quickly I would turn aside, And soon forget a boist’rous tide, To hear the brooklet, sad and low, Sing in a minor key I know.

I’ll not attempt Hood’s humorous style, I do not crave John Gilpin’s ride. It was my custom, when a child, To linger at my mother’s side When she would sing “The Old Church Yard,” That told how soft and green its sward. “The angels that watched ’round the tomb” Crept, as she sang, into our room.

’Tis said the clown will never jest When folded is the showman’s tent; That she who pathos renders best Has loudest laugh in merriment. Thus, _vice versa_ is the theme, Or, “all things are not what they seem.” Sadness to Joy is as a twin, One rules without, one rules within.

My life is full of love and joy, My heart-strings, though, with sadness tuned. Then do not ask me to destroy The mournful measures; it would wound My Muse--the playmate of my youth-- Who taught me early many a truth From others’ woes, and bid me think While she supplied the pen and ink.

Speak Kindly.

Speak kindly in the morning, When you are leaving home, And give the day a lighter heart Into the week to roam. Leave kind words as mementoes To be handled and caressed, And watch the noon-time hour arrive In gold and tinsel dressed.

Speak kindly in the evening! When on the walk is heard A tired footstep that you know, Speak one refreshing word, And see the glad light springing From the heart into the eye, As sometimes from behind a cloud A star leaps to the sky.

Speak kindly to the children That crowd around your chair, The tender lips that lean on yours Kiss, smooth the flaxen hair; Some day a room that’s lonesome The little ones may own, And home be empty as the nest From which the birds have flown.

Speak kindly to the stranger Who passes through the town, A loving word is light of weight-- Not so would prove a frown. One is a precious jewel The heart would grasp in sleep, The other like a demon’s gift The memory loathes to keep.

Speak kindly to the sorrowful Who stand beside the dead, The heart can lean against a word Though thorny seems the bed. And oh, to those discouraged Who faint upon the way, Stop, stop--if just a moment-- And something kindly say.

Speak kindly to the fallen ones, Your voice may help them rise; A word right-spoken oft unclasps The gate beyond the skies. Speak kindly, and the future You’ll find God looking through! Speak of another as you’d have Him always speak of you.

Those Willing Hands

IN MEMORY OF MISS FANNIE STEVENS.

Those willing hands--they’re still to-night-- The life has from them fled; They’re folded from the longing sight, So cold and pale and dead. The busy veins have idle grown, Like a long famished rill, That once in such an eager tone Called soft from hill to hill.

Dear hands, I’ve felt their pressure oft, In a sad time gone by; They moved about the years as soft As clouds move through the sky. They screened the rainstorm from my heart, And let the moonlight in, And showed, while shadows fell athwart, Tracks where the sun had been.

They were such willing, willing hands, They stilled the mournful tear, Unwound the pattern of God’s plans, And made his problems clear. They did not reach to high-grown bowers, Where rarest blossoms bloom; But culled the blessed, purer flowers, And bore them to the tomb.

Poor hands--they are so still and white, The rose that shared their rest Is shrinking from the long, dark night, And falling on her breast. The wreath is wilted on the mound Where long the sunshine stands, But angels have the sleeper found, And clasped those willing hands.

Look Into the Past.

Look into the past--there are pictures Detaining the sunshine of May, All aquiver with light they turn to the sight, Like a flower that faces the day. How restful the hillsides and shady! The brook like a song passeth by, And the trespassing moon floats about through noon, Like a bubble blown up in the sky.

Look into the past! It is happy; Its voices are voices of youth; There is no idle jest to disturb the heart’s rest, And its banners wear mottoes of truth; Look back at the glad, happy faces That walk with our childhood abreast, And show me to-day, though it be miles away, A spot that can offer such rest.

Say not that the years long escaping, Show graves of a cankering joy. Because we have found that new pleasures abound, Must we cast off our first childish toy? Because some old love has disturbed us, And filled a lost hour full of gloom, Are we never to go, when the sun lieth low, And stand by the neglected tomb?

A Little Face.

TO “C.”

A little face to look at, A little face to kiss; Is there anything, I wonder, That’s half so sweet as this?

A little cheek to dimple When smiles begin to grow A little mouth betraying Which way the kisses go.

A slender little ringlet, A rosy little ear; A little chin to quiver When falls the little tear.

A little face to look at, A little face to kiss; Is there anything, I wonder, That’s half so sweet as this?

A little hand so fragile All through the night to hold Two little feet so tender To tuck in from the cold.

Two eyes to watch the sunbeam That with the shadow plays-- A darling little baby To kiss and love always.

The Canary and Rose.

A lovely tea rose, in a new autumn gown, Looked in at the window one day, And said with a scorn: “’Tis a beautiful morn; But ugly enough is your lay. Do you never grow weary of singing your songs Shut up in that prison of brass? _I_ do not admire Your out of tune lyre, And none seem to listen who pass.

“Last night as I beaded my bodice with dew, And shook the perfume from the lace, There came to the fence Such a beautiful prince, And said, looking into my face: “Too lovely thou art to live here so obscure To-morrow with me thou shalt roam.’ So he’s coming to-day, And will bear me away The queen of his heart and his home.”

Now, the dear little songster was pruning her wing That had borrowed the sun’s yellow ray, And shaking a note In her quivering throat, Replied in an indifferent way: “My songs will not trouble you long. I discern This breeze is forerunning a storm, And should he delay (This prince) on the way, You must seek other quarters more warm.”

“Do you think,” said the rose, with a tremulous tone, “The rain would disfigure my face?” But e’en as she spoke In the sky there awoke A wind that demolished the vase.

With features all pale and distorted she cried, Still clinging up close to the glass. “Cry for help.” Said the bird, “They will hear not a word, For none seem to listen who pass.”

There’s a moral concealed in the little bird’s throat That never her song will disclose; But oft when the cloud For the sun makes a shroud She thinks of the beautiful rose, Who died with a coronet touching her brow, Crushed from sight by the hurrying throng, And she smiles at a prince, Who yet leans on the fence And hears nothing else but her song.

A Sigh or a Tear.

A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear, As you watch the sweet-faced summer go, And the throng of memories that you know. A sigh for the star that stood in the West, Now sinking down with the sun to rest, For the smiles that live in an absent face Like the blossoms of love in the heart’s clear vase. A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear.

A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear When you sit in the dusk with a new cigar, And touch some chord on the old guitar. A tear for the girl that was good and true, For the songs of love--the letters, too,

And the ribbon around the roses tied That long ago in the drawer died. A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear.

A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear When you raise the lid to the little chest And find what a mother’s heart loves best, A broken toy, a half-worn shoe, Some little dresses of pink and blue, The blocks that builded such marvelous towers, A golden curl, and some withered flowers. A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear.

A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear When you gaze in the tomb of the dear dead past, Where the shadows of sunshine yet are cast. A sigh for the rose, though bleached and dried, That close to the loved one lived and died, For the voice that is still--once dear to thee-- For the face that is gone--ah me! ah me! A sigh or a tear Is all you may fear.

Snow-Flakes.

See the early snow-flakes! Softly they descend, Like an orchard blossom Scattered by the wind.

Here and there they’re flying Over all the trees, High above them swarming Like white-winged bees.

Faster still they’re whirling, Dancing into sight, Like a troop of fairies When the moon is light.

Tripping down the highway In a reckless gait, Falling like a feather Without sound or weight.

On the distant churchyard Over graves unkept, Where the leaves have drifted And the clouds have wept.

Little band of angels Doing only good, Making white the meadow And the lonely wood.

Greeting with light kisses All they chance to meet, Leaving shining footprints All about the street.

Little winter children Full of life and fun-- Oh! I love the snow-flakes, Love them every one.

A Footprint.

A sweet song spoke to me one day, Behind a prayer that passed my way, Yet neither would for me delay The upward flight. I searched and found a footprint where The song had tarried; but the prayer Had left no trace on earth or air.

Straight from the heart it went to God The song remained to smooth the clod, And lay a flower upon the sod. O, envied right! If but one song of mine could chase Some sorrow from the heart and face I know in Heaven ’twould find a place.