Part 15
Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise! The sun is up, it gilds the skies. She does not stir. The young sleep sound As dead men in their graves profound. Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste! To-day there is no time to waste. Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair. Hand me the glass. Once I was fair As thou art. Now I look so old It seems my death-knell should be tolled.
Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale? Like a white ghost, so wan and frail? Well, that’s not strange. All night I lay Waiting and watching for the day. But—there! I’ll drink it; it may make My cheeks burn brighter for his sake Who comes to-day. My boy! my boy! How can I bear the unwonted joy? I, who for eight long years have wept While happier mothers smiling slept; While others decked their sons first-born For dance, or fête, or bridal morn, Or proudly smiled to see them stand The stateliest pillars of the land! For he, so gallant and so gay, As young and debonair as they, My beautiful, brave boy, my life, Went down in the unequal strife! The right or wrong? Oh, what care I? The good God judgeth up on high.
And now He gives him back to me! I tremble so—I scarce can see. How full the streets are! I will wait His coming here beside this gate, From which I watched him as he went, Eight years ago, to banishment. Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when You see a band of stalwart men, With one fair boy among them—one With bright hair shining in the sun, Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes, Blue as the blue of summer skies. My boy! my boy!—Why come they not? O Son of God! hast Thou forgot Thy Mother’s agony? Yet she, Was she not stronger far than we, We common mothers? Could she know From her far heights such pain and woe?— Run farther down the street, and see If they’re not coming, Rosalie!
Mother of Christ! how lag the hours! What? just beyond the convent towers, And coming straight this way? O heart, Be still and strong, and bear thy part, Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hear Above the city’s hum the near Slow tread of marching feet; I see— Nay, I can _not_ see, Rosalie; Your eyes are younger. Is he there, My Antoine, with his sunny hair? It is like gold; it shines in the sun: Surely you see it? What? Not one— Not one bright head? All old, old men, Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—then He has not come—he is ill, or dead! O God, that I were in thy stead, My son! my son! Who touches me? Your pardon, sir. I am not she For whom you look. Go farther on Ere yet the daylight shall be gone.
‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’ _You?_ You are not he—my Antoine! You— A bowed, gray-bearded man, while he Was a mere boy who went from me, Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir. God bless you! Soon you will find her For whom you seek. But I—ah, I— Still must I call and none reply! You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son! Thou art mine own, my banished one!
A MOTHER-SONG
Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining, Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky; Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining: Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh!
Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping; Watches and waits she the angels’ song to hear; Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping, Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear.
Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing; Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells; With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging, While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells!
Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices, All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain, “Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices, And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain!
Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of glory The Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn! Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the story How Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born!
EASTER MORNING
Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair, To Annie Blair spake she, As from beneath her wrinkled hand She peered far out to sea.
“Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair, For my old eyes are dim; See you a single boat afloat Within the horizon’s rim?”
Sweet Annie looked to east, to west, To north and south looked she: There was no single boat afloat Upon the angry sea.
The sky was dark, the winds were high, The breakers lashed the shore, And louder and still louder swelled The tempest’s sullen roar.
“Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried; “Doth any boat come in?” And scarce she heard the answering word Above the furious din.
“Pray God no boat may put to sea In such a gale!” she said; “Pray God no soul may dare to-night The rocks of Danger Head!”
“This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,” Dame Margaret cried again, “When Mary’s Son, the Merciful, On Calvary was slain.
The earth did quake, the rocks were rent, The graves were opened wide, And darkness like to this fell down When He—the Holy—died.
Give me your hand, O Annie Blair; Your two knees fall upon; Christ send to you your lover back— To me, my only son!”
All night they watched, all night they prayed, All night they heard the roar Of the fierce breakers dashing high Upon the lonely shore.
Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand, A voice above the din: “Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret! Is Annie Blair within?
High on the rocks of Danger Head Her lover’s boat is cast, All rudderless, all anchorless— Mere hull and splintered mast.”
Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand, And women wailing sore: “Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret! Your son you’ll see no more!
God pity you! Christ comfort you!” The weeping women cried; But “May God pity Annie Blair!” Dame Margaret replied.
“For life is long and youth is strong, And it must still bear on. Leave us alone to make our moan— My son! alas, my son!”
* * * * *
The Easter morning, flushed with joy, Saw all the winds at rest, And far and near the blue sea smiled With sunshine on its breast.
The neighbors came, the neighbors went; They sought the house of prayer; But on the rocks of Danger Head The dame and Annie Blair,
With still, white faces, watched the deep Without a tear or moan. “I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair— “My heart is turned to stone.”
Forth from the church the pastor came, And up the rocks strode he, Baring his thin white locks to meet The salt breath of the sea.
“The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake, The sea give up its dead, For Christ our Lord is risen indeed— ’Tis Easter morn,” he said.
Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry, A rush of hurrying feet, The swarming of a hundred men Adown the village street.
“Now unto God and Christ the Lord Be praise and thanks alway! The sea hath given up its dead This blessed Easter-day.”
SEALED ORDERS
“Oh, whither bound, my captain? The wind is blowing free, And overhead the white sails spread As we go out to sea.”
He looked to north, he looked to south, Or ever a word he spake; “With orders sealed my sails I set— Due east my course I take.”
“But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried, “This only do I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever wind may blow.”
For many a day we sailéd east. “O captain, tell me true, When will our good ship come to port?” “I cannot answer you!”
“Then, prithee, gallant captain, Let us but drift awhile! The current setteth southward Past many a sunny isle,
Where cocoas grow, and mangoes, And groves of feathery palm, And nightingales sing all night long To roses breathing balm.”
“Nay, tempt me not,” he answered, “This only do I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever winds may blow!”
Then sailed we on, and sailed we east Into the whirlwind’s track. Wild was the tempest overhead, The sea was strewn with wrack.
“Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain, Thou’rt rushing on to death!” But back he answer shouted, With unabated breath:
“Turn back who will, I turn not! For this one thing I know, That I must sail due eastward However winds may blow!”
“Oh, art thou fool or madman? Thy port is but a dream, And never on the horizon’s rim Will its fair turrets gleam.”
Then smiled the captain wisely, And slowly answered he, The while his keen glance widened Over the lonely sea:
“I carry sealéd orders. This only thing I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever winds may blow!”
AN ANNIVERSARY
_So long, so short, So swift, so slow, Are the years of man As they come and go!_
O love, it was so long ago! So long, so long that we were young, And in the cloisters of our hearts Hope all her joy-bells rung! So long, so long that since that hour Full half a lifetime hath gone by— How ran the days ere first we met, Belovéd, thou and I?
We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawn Must still presage the rising sun, And rose and crimson flush the east Ere day is well begun. We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraiths That fled when Day’s full splendor kissed Our souls’ high places, and its winds Swept the vales clear of mist!
_So long, so short, So swift, so slow, Are the years of man As they come and go!_
O love, it was but yesterday! Who said it was so long ago? How many times the rose hath bloomed, Why should we care to know? For it was just as sweet last June, As dewy fresh, as fair, as red, As when our first glad Eden knew The rare perfumes it shed!
O love, it was but yesterday! If yesterday is far away, As brightly on the hill-tops lies The sunshine of to-day. Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad! O circling years, fly swift or slow! Your ripening harvests shall not fail, Nor autumn’s utmost glow.
MARTHA
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve. Not all with tranquil heart, Even at thy dear feet, Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart!
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bear The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at thy feet May muse and pray!
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must do Life’s daily task-work; some Who fain would sing, must toil Amid earth’s dust and moil, While lips are dumb!
Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn, And woman bake the bread! And some must watch and wake Early, for others’ sake, Who pray instead!
Yea, Lord!—Yet even thou Hast need of earthly care. I bring the bread and wine To thee, O Guest Divine! Be this my prayer!
THE HOUR
What is the hour of the day? O watchman, can you tell? Hark! from the tower of Time Strikes the alarum-bell!
The strokes I cannot count. O watchman, can you see On the misty dial-plate What hours remain for me?
I know the rosy dawn Faded—how long ago!— Lost in the radiant depths Of morning’s golden glow.
Then all the mountain tops Stood breathless at high noon, While earth for brief repose Put off her sandal shoon.
Now faster fly the hours— The afternoon is here; O watchman in the tower, Tell me, is sunset near?
Yet—why care I to know?— Beyond the sunset bars Upon the dead day wait The brightest of the stars!
THE CLOSED GATE
I walked along a narrow way; The sun was shining everywhere; The jocund earth was glad and gay, With morning freshness in the air.
The grass was green beneath my feet; The skies were blue and soft o’erhead; The robin carolled clear and sweet, And flowers their fragrance round me shed.
How shone the great hills far away; How clear they rose against the blue; How fair the tranquil meadows lay, Where the bright river glances through!
But suddenly, as on I pressed, Before me frowned a closéd gate; Filled with dismay, and sore distressed, I strove in vain to conquer fate!
Beyond, the hills for which I sighed— Beyond, the valleys still and fair— Beyond, the meadows stretching wide, And all the shining fields of air!
* * * * *
What does it mean, O Father! when Thy children reach some closéd gate, Which, though they knock and knock again, Will not its watch and ward abate?
Still shall they batter at the walls? Or still, like children, cry and fret, While the loud clamor of their calls Swells high in turbulent regret?
When thou hast barred the door, shall they Challenge thy wisdom, God of love? Or humbly wait beside the way Till thou the barrier shalt remove?
Too oft we cannot hear thee speak, So loud our voices and our prayers, While to the patient and the meek The gate thou openest unawares!
CONTENT
Not asking how or why, Before thy will, O Father, let my heart Lie hushed and still!
Why should I seek to know? Thou art all-wise; If thou dost bid me go, Let that suffice.
If thou dost bid me stay, Make me content In narrow bounds to dwell Till life be spent.
If thou dost seal the lips That fain would speak, Let me be still till thou The seal shalt break.
If thou dost make pale Pain Thy minister, Then let my patient heart Clasp hands with her.
Or, if thou sendest Joy To walk with me, My Father, let her lead Me nearer thee!
Teach me that Joy and Pain Alike are thine; Teach me my life to leave In hands divine!
MY WONDERLAND
They tell me you have been in Wonderland. Why, so have I! No boat’s keel touched the strand, No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding car Bore me to mystic realms, unknown and far.
And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes, Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies; I, too, have been in Wonderland, and know How through its secret vales the weird winds blow.
One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn— I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn, Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the south A young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth.
She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and near Her minstrels’ voices, jubilant and clear; While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet, All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet,
Ran over hill and dale, to bring to her Green robes with wild flowers ’broidered. All astir Were the gay, courtier butterflies; the trees Flung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze;
The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed, Her happy servitors around her pressed, Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filled With life’s new wine, that all her pulses thrilled.
In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day, In a gray casket, deftly hidden away, I found two pearls; but as I looked they grew To living jewels, that took wing and flew.
And once a creeping worm, within my sight Wove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and white Then, bursting from its cerements, soared in air, A radiant vision, most supremely fair.
Out of the darksome mould, before my eyes I saw a shaft of emerald arise, Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold, And set with gems of splendors manifold.
Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood, When o’er the vaulted dome there swept a flood Of lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyre Took to its heart a globe of crimson fire.
The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl became A liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame; And as I gazed, a silver crescent hung In violet depths, a thousand stars among.
I saw a woman, marvellously fair, Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air; Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold, A marble goddess of transcendent mould.
I saw a folded bud, in one short hour, Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower. O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far; Near as this rose, remote as yonder star!
THE GUEST
O thou Guest so long delayed, Surely, when the house was made, In its chambers wide and free, There was set a place for thee. Surely, in some room was spread For thy sake a snowy bed, Decked with linen white and fine, Meet, O Guest, for use of thine.
Yet thou hast not kept the tryst. Other guests our lips have kissed: Other guests have tarried long, Wooed by sunshine and by song; For the year was bright with May, All the birds kept holiday, All the skies were clear and blue, When this house of ours was new.
Youth came in with us to dwell, Crowned with rose and asphodel, Lingered long, and even yet Cannot quite his haunts forget. Love hath sat beside our board, Brought us treasures from his hoard, Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine, Vintage of the hills divine.
Down our garden path has strayed Young Romance, in light arrayed; Joy hath flung her garlands wide; Faith sung low at eventide; Care hath flitted in and out; Sorrow strewn her weeds about; Hope held up her torch on high When clouds darkened all the sky.
Pain, with pallid lips and thin, Oft hath slept our house within; Life hath called us, loud and long, With a voice as trumpet strong. Sometimes we have thought, O Guest, Thou wert coming with the rest, Watched to see thy shadow fall On the inner chamber wall.
For we know that, soon or late, Thou wilt enter at the gate, Cross the threshold, pass the door, Glide at will from floor to floor. When thou comest, by this sign We shall know thee, Guest divine: Though alone thy coming be, Someone must go forth with thee!
AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN
An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear, No doubt it is. I was thinking here Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, How fair was the scene I looked upon; Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise, How it might look to other eyes.
’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed Cut here and there in the turf; instead, The broad straight paths run east and west, Down which two horsemen could ride abreast, And north and south with an equal state, From the gray stone wall to the low white gate.
And, where they cross on the middle line, Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbine Clamber and climb at their own sweet will Over the latticed arbor still; Though since they were planted years have flown, And many a time have the roses blown.
To the right the hill runs down to the river, Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver, And under the shade of the hemlock-trees The low ferns nod to the passing breeze; There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep With a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep.
So quiet it is, so cool and still, In the green retreat of the shady hill! And you scarce can tell, as you look within, Where the garden ends and the woods begin. But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light, What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight!
Red roses burn in the morning glow; White roses proffer their cups of snow; In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-gold The zinnias flaunt, and the marigold; And stately and tall the lilies stand, Like vestal virgins, on either hand.
Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies, Flutter and dance under summer skies; Blue violets here in the shade are set, With a border of fragrant mignonette; And here are pansies and columbine, And the burning stars of the cypress-vine.
Stately hollyhocks, row on row, Golden sunflowers, all aglow, Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue, Asters of every shade and hue; And over the wall, like a trail of fire, The red nasturtium climbs high and higher.
My lady’s-slippers are fair to see, And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be, With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides, And many another flower besides. Do you see that rose without a thorn? It was planted the year my Hal was born.
And he is a man now. Yes, my dear, An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here, I think how often lover and maid Down these long flowery paths have strayed, And how little feet have over them run That will stir no more in shade or sun.
As one who reads from an open book, On these fair luminous scrolls I look; And all the story of life is there— Its loves and losses, hope and despair. An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyes Fair as the hills of Paradise.
DISCONTENT
I.
(_The Brier Rose speaks._)
I cling to the garden wall Outside, where the grasses grow; Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun, And the yellow mulleins blow. The dock and the thistle crowd Close to my shrinking feet, And the gypsy yarrow shares My cup and the food I eat.
The rude winds toss my hair, The wild rains beat me down, The way-side dust lies white And thick on my leafy crown. I cannot keep my robes From wanton fingers free, And the veriest beggar dares To stop and gaze at me.
Sometimes I climb and climb To the top of the garden wall, And I see her where she stands, Stately and fair and tall— My sister, the red, red Rose, My sister, the royal one, The fairest flower that blows Under the summer sun!
What wonder that she is fair? What wonder that she is sweet? The treasures of earth and air Lie at her dainty feet; The choicest fare is hers, Her cup is brimmed with wine; Rich are her emerald robes, And her bed is soft and fine.
She need not lift her head Even to sip the dew; No rude touch makes her shrink The whole long summer through. Her servants do her will; They come at her beck and call. Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowers Inside of the garden wall!
II.
(_The Garden Rose speaks._)
The garden path runs east, And the garden path runs west; There’s a tree by the garden gate, And a little bird in a nest. It sings and sings and sings! Does the bird, I wonder, know How, over the garden wall, The bright days come and go?
The garden path runs north, And the garden path runs south; The brown bee hums in the sun, And kisses the lily’s mouth; But it flies away, away, To the birch-tree, dark and tall. What do you find, O brown bee, Over the garden wall?
With ruff and farthingale, Under the gardener’s eye, In trimmest guise I stand— Oh, who so fine as I? But even the light wind knows That it may not play with me, Nor touch my beautiful lips With a wild caress and free.
Oh, straight is the garden path, And smooth is the garden bed, Where never an idle weed Dares lift its careless head. But I know outside the wall They gather, a merry throng; They dance and flutter and sing, And I listen all day long.