Part 16

The Brier Rose swings outside; Sometimes she climbs so high I can see her sweet pink face Against the blue of the sky. What wonder that she is fair, Whom no strait bonds enthrall? Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose, Outside of the garden wall!

THE DOVES AT MENDON

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!

Under the vine-clad porch she stands, A gentle maiden with willing hands, Dropping the grains of yellow corn. Low and soft, like a mellow horn, While the sunshine over her falls, Over and over she calls and calls “Coo! coo! coo!” to the doves— The happy doves at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!

Down they flutter with timid grace, Lured by the voice and the tender face, Till the evening air is all astir With the happy strife and the eager whir. One by one, and two by two, And then a rush through the ether blue; While Arné scatters the yellow corn For the gentle doves at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!

They hop on the porch where the baby sits, They come and go as a shadow flits, Now here, now there, while in and out They crowd and jostle each other about; Till one, grown bolder than all the rest— A snow-white dove with an arching breast— Softly lights on her outstretched hand Under the vines at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!

With a rush and a whir of shining wings, They hear and obey—the dainty things! Dun and purple and snowy white, Clouded gray, like the soft twilight, Straight as an arrow shot from a bow, Wheeling and circling high and low, Down they fly from the slanting roof Of the old red barn at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!

Baby Alice with wide blue eyes Watches them ever with new surprise, While she and Wag on the mat together Joy in the soft midsummer weather. Hither and thither she sees them fly, Gray and white on the azure sky, Light and shadow against the green Of the maple grove at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!

A sound, a motion, a flash of wings— They are gone—like a dream of heavenly things. The doves have flown and the porch is still, And the shadows gather on vale and hill. Then sinks the sun, and the mountain breeze Stirs in the tremulous maple-trees; While Love and Peace, as the night comes down, Brood over quiet Mendon!

A LATE ROSE

I sent a little maiden To pluck for me a rose, The sweetest and the fairest That in the garden grows— A blush-rose, proud and tender, Upon its stem so slender, Swaying in dreamy splendor Where yellow sunshine glows.

Back came the little maiden With drooping, downcast head, And slow, reluctant footsteps, And this to me she said: “I find no sweet blush-roses In all the garden closes: There are no summer roses; It must be they are dead!”

Then bent I to the maiden And touched her shining hair— Dear heart! in all the garden Was nothing half so fair! “Nay!” said I, “let the roses Die in the garden closes Whenever fate disposes, If I _this_ rose may wear!”

PERIWINKLE

Tinkle, tinkle, Periwinkle! Soft and clear, Far or near, Still the mellow notes I hear! Up and down the sunny hills, Here you go, there you go, Where the happy mountain rills Tinkle soft, tinkle low; Where the willows, all a-quiver, Dip their long wands in the river, And the hemlock shadows fall By the gray rocks, cool and tall— In and out, And round about, Here you go, There you go!

Tinkle, tinkle, Periwinkle! Here and there, Everywhere, Floats the music on the air! Through the pastures wide and free, Here you go, there you go, Making friends with bird and bee, Flying high, flying low; In and out, where lilies blowing Nod above wild grasses growing, Where the sweet-fern and the brake All around rich odors make, Where the mosses cling and creep To the rocks, and up the steep— In and out You wind about, Here and there, Everywhere!

Tinkle, tinkle, Periwinkle! Day is done, And the sun Now its royal couch hath won! Homeward through the winding lane, Here you go, there you go, While the bell in sweet refrain Tinkles clear, tinkles low— Tinkles softly through the gloaming, “Drop the bars—I’m tired of roaming Here and there, everywhere Through the pastures wide and fair. Home is best, Home and rest!” Through the bars goes Periwinkle, While the bell goes tinkle, tinkle, Low and clear, Saying, softly, “Night is here!”

AFTERNOON

O perfect day, I bid thee stay! Too fast thy glad hours slip away; The morn, the noon, Have fled too soon— Delay, O golden afternoon!

O peerless Sun, Thou radiant one Whose dazzling course is half-way run, Stay, stay thy flight Down yon blue height, Nor haste thee to the arms of night!

The west wind blows O’er beds of rose, But does not stir my deep repose. In dreamful guise I close mine eyes, Borne on its wings to Paradise.

Beneath this tree Half consciously. I share the life of all things free, Hearing the beat Of rhythmic feet, As the grasses run my hand to meet.

The wild bee’s hum, The lone bird’s drum, O’er the wide pastures faintly come; And soft and clear Falls on my ear The cow-bell’s tinkle, far and near!

Before my eyes Three blue peaks rise, Piercing the bright autumnal skies; Silent and grand, On either hand, Far mountain heights majestic stand.

By wreaths of mist The vales are kissed— Fair, floating clouds of amethyst, That follow on, Through shade and sun, Where’er the river’s course may run.

Here, looking down On roof-trees brown, I catch fair glimpses of the town. There, far away, The shadows play On crags and bowlders, huge and gray.

All whispering low, The breezes go— The wandering birds flit to and fro; Winged motes float by Me as I lie, And yellow leaves drop silently.

The morn, the noon, Have fled too soon— Delay, O golden afternoon, While with rapt eyes My spirit flies From yon blue peaks to Paradise!

THE LADY OF THE PROW BERMUDA, MAY, 1883

The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow, From the near isles the soft airs blow; From leagues remote, with roar and din, Over the reefs the waves rush in; The wild white breakers foam and fret, Day follows day, stars rise and set; Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fair As some proud spirit of the air, Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow— She, the White Lady of the Prow!

The winds blow east, the winds blow west, From woodlands low to the eagle’s nest; The winds blow north, the winds blow south. To steal the sweets from the lily’s mouth! We come and go; we spread our sails Like sea-gulls to the favoring gales; Or, soft and slow, our oars we dip Under the lee of the stranded ship. Yet little recks she when or how, The grand White Lady of the Prow.

We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh, But never she heeds as we glide by— Never she cares for our idle ways Nor turns from the brink of the world her gaze! What does she see when her steadfast eyes Peer into the sunset mysteries, And all the secrets of time and space Seem unfolded before her face? What does she hear when, pale and calm, She lists for the great sea’s evening psalm?

Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealèd lip, Thou fair white spirit of the ship, Could tell such tales of high emprise, Of valorous deeds and counsels wise! What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance, And meet thy first revealing glance, Or what Pygmalion from her sleep Bid Galatea wake and weep? The wave’s wild passion stirs thee not— Oh, is thy life’s long love forgot?

How canst thou bear this trancèd calm By sunlit isles of bloom and balm— Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas, Empress alike of wave and breeze; Thou who hast swept from pole to pole, Where the great surges swell and roll; Breasted the billows white with wrath, Rode in the tempest’s fiery path, And proudly borne to waiting hands The glorious spoil of farthest lands?

How canst thou bear this silence, deep And tranquil as an infant’s sleep— Thou who hast heard above thy head The white sails sing with wings outspread; Thou whose strong soul has thrilled to feel The swift rush of the ploughing keel, The dash of waves, and the wild uproar Of ocean lashed from shore to shore? How canst thou bear this changeless rest, Thou who hast made the world thy quest?

O Lady of the stranded ship, Once more our lingering oars we dip In the clear blue that round thee lies, Fanned by the airs of Paradise! Farewell! farewell! But oft when day On our far hill-tops dies away, And night’s cool winds the pine-trees bow, Our eyes will see thee, even as now, Waiting—a spirit pale and calm— To hear the great sea’s evening psalm!

THOU AND I

April days are over! O my gay young lover, Forth we fare together In the soft May weather; Forth we wander, hand in hand, Seeking an enchanted land Underneath a smiling sky, So blithely—thou and I!

Soft spring days are over! O my ardent lover, Many a hill together, In the July weather, Climb we when the days are long And the summer heats are strong, And the harvest wains go by, So bravely—thou and I!

July days are over! O my faithful lover, Side by side together In the August weather, When the swift, wild storms befall us, And the fiery darts appall us, Wait we till the clouds sweep by, And stars shine—thou and I!

Summer days are over! O my one true lover, Sit we now alone together In the early autumn weather! From our nest the birds have flown To fair dreamlands of their own, And we see the days go by, In silence—thou and I!

Storm and stress are over! O my friend and lover, Closer now we lean together In the Indian-summer weather; See the bright leaves falling, falling, Hear the low winds calling, calling, Glad to let the world go by Unheeding—thou and I!

Winter days are over! O my life-long lover, Rest we now in peace together Out of reach of changeful weather! Not a sound can mar our sleeping— Breath of laughter, or of weeping, May not reach us where we lie Uncaring—thou and I!

LATER POEMS

THE LEGEND OF THE BABOUSHKA A CHRISTMAS BALLAD

“There’s a star in the East!” he cried, Jasper, the gray, the wise, To Melchior and to Balthazar Up-gazing to the skies.

“Last night from my high tower I watched it as it burned, While all my trembling soul In awe and wonder yearned.

For I know the midnight heavens; I can call the stars by name— Orion and royal Ashtaroth And Cimah’s misty flame.

I know where Hesper glows, And where, with fiery eye, Proud Mars in burning splendor leads The armies of the sky.

But never have I seen A star that shone like this— The star so long foretold By sage and seer it is!

When first I, sleepless, saw it Slow breaking through the dark— Nay, hear me, Balthazar, And thou, O Melchior, hark!—

When first I saw the star It bore the form of a child, It held in its hand a sceptre, Or the cross of the undefiled.

Lo! somewhere on the earth It shines above His rest— The Royal One, the Babe, On mortal mother’s breast.

Now haste we forth to find Him— To worship at His feet, To Him of whom the prophets sang Bearing oblations meet!”

Then the Three Holy Kings Went forth in eager haste, With servants and with camels, Toward the desert waste.

Ah! knew they what they bore? Gold for the earthly king— Frankincense for the God— Myrrh for man’s suffering.

With breath of costly spices And precious gums of Isis, The desert air was sweet, As on they fared by day and night Judea’s King to greet.

The strange star went before them, They followed where it led; “’Twill guide us to His presence,” Jasper, the holy, said.

They crossed deep-flowing rivers, They climbed the mountains high, They slept in dreary places Under the lonely sky.

One day, where stretched the desert Before them far and wide, They saw a smoke-wreath curling A spreading palm beside;

And from a lowly dwelling, On household cares intent, A woman gazed upon them, In mute bewilderment.

“O come with us!” cried Melchior, And ardent Balthazar, “We go to find the Christ-child, Led by yon blazing star!

Thou knowest how the prophets His coming long foretold; We go to kneel before Him With gifts of myrrh and gold.”

But she, delaying, answered, “My lords, your words are good, And I your pious mission Have gladly understood,

Yet I, ere I can join you, Have many things to do: I must set my house in order, Must spin and bake and brew.

Go ye to find Messiah! And when my work is done I will your footsteps follow, Mayhap ere set of sun.”

Across the shining desert The slow train passed from sight; She set her house in order, She bleached her linen white.

With busy hands she labored Till all at last was done— But thrice the moon had risen, And thrice the lordly sun!

Then bound she on her sandals, Her pilgrim staff she took; With bread of wheat and barley, And water from the brook;

And forth she went to find Him— The babe Emmanuel, Who should be born in Bethlehem By David’s sacred well.

All that long day she journeyed; She scanned the desert wide, In all its lonely reaches There was no soul beside—

No track to guide her onward, No footprints in the sand, Only the vast, still spaces Wide-stretched on either hand!

Night came—but where the Wise Men Had seen His burning star, No glorious sign beheld she Clear beaming from afar,

Though Orion and Arcturus Shone bright above her head, And up the heavenly arches Proud Mars his legions led!

* * * * *

She did not find the Christ-child. ’Tis said she seeks Him still, Over the wide earth roaming With swift, remorseful will.

Her thin white locks the dew-fall Of every clime has wet— In palace and in hovel She seeks Messiah yet!

In every child she fancies The Hidden One may be, On each bright head she gazes The mystic crown to see.

She twines the Christmas garlands, She lights the Christmas fires, She leads the joyful carols Of all the Christmas choirs;

She feeds the poor and hungry, And on her tender breast She soothes all suffering children To softest, sweetest rest.

Attend her, holy Angels! Guard her, ye Cherubim! For whatsoe’er she does for these She does it as to Him!

DAYBREAK AN EASTER POEM

Mary Magdalenè, At the break of day, Wan with tears and watching Hasted on her way;

Bearing costly spices, Myrrh, and sweet perfume, Through the shadowy garden To the Master’s tomb.

Slowly broke the gray dawn: On her head the breeze Shook a rain of dew-drops From the cypress-trees.

Rose and lily parted As to let her pass, And the violets blessed her From the tender grass.

Little heed she paid them; Christ, the Lord, was dead; All at last was over, All at last was said.

What of hope remainèd? Black against the sky, Calvary’s awful crosses Stretched their arms on high!

Mary Magdalenè Made her bitter moan: “From the sealèd sepulchre Who shall roll the stone?”

Swift she ran, her spirit Filled with awe and fear; Wide the door stood open As her feet drew near!

All the place was flooded With a radiance bright; Forth into the darkness Streamed a holy light.

Down she stooped, and peering The dread tomb within, Saw a great white angel Where the Lord had been!

Sore she cried in anguish: “Who hath him betrayed? They have taken away my Lord! Where is he laid?”

“Nay,” the shining angel, Calmly smiling, said— “Why seek ye the living Down among the dead?

He is not here, but risen!” All her soul stood still; Through her trembling pulses Ran a conscious thrill.

“Mary!” said a low voice; “Rabboni!” answered she. Then life was brought to light And immortality!

Mary Magdalenè, First of woman born To see the clear light streaming O’er the hills of morn;

First to hail the Lord Christ, Conqueror of Death, First to bow before Him With abated breath;

First to hear the Master Say—“From Death’s dark prison, From its bonds and fetters, Lo! I have arisen!

Now to God, my Father— Mine and yours—I go; And because I live Ye shall live also!”

Didst thou grasp the meaning? Know that Death was dead? That the seed of woman Had bruised the serpent’s head?

Didst thou know Messiah The gates of hell had broken, And life unto its captives Once for all had spoken?

O! through all the ages, Every son of man, Be he slave or monarch, Born to bliss or ban—

Lord, or prince, or peasant, Jester, sage, or seer, Wife, or child, or mother, Priest, or worshipper—

Through the grave’s lone portals Soon or late had passed, But no sign or token Back to earth had cast!

In Ramah was a voice heard Sounding through the years— Rachel for her children Pouring sighs and tears;

Rizpah for her slain sons Woful vigils keeping; David for young Absalom In the chamber weeping!

All earth’s myriad millions To their dead had cried, Empty arms outreaching In the silence wide,

Yet from out the darkness Came nor word, nor sound, As the long ranks vanished In the black profound—

Came no word till Mary Heard the Angel say— “Christ the Lord is risen; The Lord Christ lives to-day!”

From the empty sepulchre Streamed the Light Divine; Grave where is thy victory? Where, O Death, is thine?

Mary Magdalenè, Hope is born again; Clear the Day-star rises To the eyes of men.

Lo! the mists are fleeing! Shine, O Olivet, For the crown of promise On thy brow is set!

Lift your heads, ye mountains! Clap your hands, ye hills! Into rapturous singing Break, ye murmuring rills!

Shout aloud, O forests! Swell the song, O seas! Wake, resistless ocean, All your symphonies!

Wave your palms, O tropics! Lonely isles, rejoice! O ye silent deserts, Find a choral voice!

Winds, on mighty trumpets, Blow the strains abroad, While each star in heaven Hails its risen Lord!

“Alleluia! Alleluia!”— How the voices ring! “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Earth and heaven sing!

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Chant his praise alway! From the sealèd sepulchre Christ is risen to-day!

THE APPLE-TREE

Graceful and lithe and tall, It stands by the garden wall, In the flush of its pink-white bloom Elate with its own perfume. Tossing its young bright head In the first glad joy of May, While its singing leaves sing back To the bird on the dancing spray. “I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it cries To the winds and the laughing skies. Ho! for the gay young apple-tree That stands by the garden wall!

Sturdy and broad and tall, Over the garden wall It spreads its branches wide— A bower on either side. For the bending boughs hang low; And with shouts and gay turmoil The children gather like bees To garner the golden spoil; While the smiling mother sings, “Rejoice for the gift it brings! Ho! for the laden apple-tree That stands by our garden wall!”

The strong swift years fly past, Each swifter than the last; And the tree by the garden wall Sees joy and grief befall. Still from the spreading boughs Some golden apples swing; But the children come no more For the autumn harvesting. The tangled grass lies deep Where the long path used to creep; Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree That leans o’er the crumbling wall!

Now generations pass, Like shadows on the grass. What is there that remains For all their toil and pains? A little hollow place Where once a hearthstone lay; An empty, silent space Whence life hath gone away; Tall brambles where the lilacs grew, Some fennel, and a clump of rue, And this one gnarled old apple-tree Where once was the garden wall!

THE COMFORTER

How dost thou come, O Comforter? In heavenly glory dressed, Down floating from the far-off skies, With lilies on thy breast? With silver lilies on thy breast, And in thy falling hair, Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven To this dim, earthly air?

How dost thou come, O Comforter? With strange, unearthly light, And mystic splendor aureoled, In trances of the night? In lone, mysterious silences, In visions rapt and high, And holy dreams, like pathways set Betwixt the earth and sky?

Not thus alone, O Comforter! Not thus, thou Guest Divine, Whose presence turns our stones to bread, Our water into wine! Not always thus—for thou dost stoop To our poor, common clay, Too faint for saintly ecstasy, Too impotent to pray.

How does God send the Comforter? Ofttimes through byways dim; Not always by the beaten path Of sacrament and hymn; Not always through the gates of prayer, Or penitential psalm, Or sacred rite, or holy day, Or incense, breathing balm.

How does God send the Comforter? Perchance through faith intense; Perchance through humblest avenues Of sight, or sound, or sense. Haply in childhood’s laughing voice Shall breathe the voice divine, And tender hands of earthly love Pour for thee heavenly wine!

How will God send the Comforter? Thou knowest not, nor I! His ways are countless as the stars His hand hath hung on high. His roses bring their fragrant balm, His twilight hush its peace, Morning its splendor, night its calm, To give thy pain surcease!

SANTA CLAUS