Part 2

Not for its sunsets burning clear and low, Its purple splendors on the eastern hills, Bless I the Year that now makes haste to go While sad Earth listens for its dying thrills.

Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers; Its summer nights all luminous with stars: Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers; Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars;

Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees, Some mists of error it hath blown away; Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these— Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day.

But for one gift that it has brought to me My grateful heart would crown the dying Year: Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee, I drop this garland on the passing bier!

A PICTURE

A lovely bit of dappled green Shut in the circling hills between, While farther off blue mountains stand Like giant guards on either hand.

The quiet road in still repose Follows where’er the river flows; And in and out it glides along, Enchanted by the rippling song.

Afar, I see the steepled town From yonder hillside looking down; And sometimes, when the south wind swells, Hear the faint chiming of its bells.

But under these embowering trees, Lulled by the hum of droning bees, The old brown farmhouse seems to sleep, So calm its rest is and so deep.

Yonder, beside the rustic bridge, From which the path climbs yonder ridge, The lazy cattle seek the shade By the umbrageous willows made.

The sky is like a hollow pearl, Save where warm sunset clouds unfurl Their flaming colors. Lo! a star, Even as I gaze, gleams forth afar!

HYMN TO LIFE

Ah, Life, dear Life, how beautiful art thou! All day sweet, chiming voices in my heart Have hymned thy praises joyfully as now, Telling how fair thou art!

This morn, while yet the dew was on the flowers, They sang like skylarks, soaring while they sing; This noon, like birds within their leafy bowers, Warbled with folded wing.

Slow fades the twilight from the glowing west, And one pale star hangs o’er yon mountain’s brow; With deeper joy, that may not be repressed, O Life, they hail thee now!

And not alone from this poor heart of mine Do these glad notes of grateful love ascend; Voices from mount and vale and woodland shrine In the full chorus blend.

The young leaves feel thy presence and rejoice The while they frolic with the happy breeze; And pæans sweeter than a seraph’s voice Rise from the swaying trees.

Each flower that hides within the forest dim, Where mortal eye may ne’er its beauty see, Waves its light censer, while it breathes a hymn In humble praise of thee.

Through quivering pines the gentle south winds stray, Singing low songs that bid the tear-drops start; And thoughts of thee are in each trembling lay, Thrilling the listener’s heart.

Old Ocean lifts his solemn voice on high, Thy name, O Life, repeating evermore, While sweeping gales and rushing storms reply From many a far-off shore.

The stars are gathering in the darkening skies, But our dull ears their music may not hear, Though, while we list, their swelling anthems rise Exultingly and clear!

O Earth is beautiful! She weareth still The golden radiance of life’s early day; Still Love and Hope for me their chalice fill,— Life, turn not thou away!

THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW

One night as I sat by my table, Tired of books and pen, With wandering thoughts far straying Out into the world of men;— That world where the busy workers Such magical deeds are doing, Each one with a steady purpose His own pet plans pursuing;

When the house was wrapt in silence, And the children were all asleep, And even the mouse in the wainscot Had ceased to run and leap, All at once from the open chimney Came a hum and a rustle and whirring, That startled me out of my dreaming, And set my pulses stirring.

What was it? I paused and listened; The roses were all in bloom, And in from the garden floated The violet’s rich perfume. So it could not be Kriss Kringle, For he only comes, you know, When the Christmas bells are chiming, And the hills are white with snow.

Hark! a sound as of rushing waters, Or the rustle of falling leaves, Or the patter of eager raindrops Yonder among the eaves! Then out from the dark, old chimney, Blackened with soot and smoke, With a whir of fluttering pinions A startled birdling broke.

Dashing against the window; Lighting a moment where My sculptured angel folded Its soft white wings in prayer; Swinging upon the curtains; Perched on the ivy-vine; At last it rested trembling In tender hands of mine.

No stain upon its plumage; No dust upon its wings; No hint of its companionship With darkly soiling things! O, happy bird, thou spirit! Stretch thy glad plumes and soar Where breath of soil or sorrow Shall reach thee nevermore!

HEIRSHIP

Little store of wealth have I; Not a rood of land I own; Nor a mansion fair and high Built with towers of fretted stone. Stocks, nor bonds, nor title-deeds, Flocks nor herds have I to show; When I ride, no Arab steeds Toss for me their manes of snow.

I have neither pearls nor gold, Massive plate, nor jewels rare; Broidered silks of worth untold, Nor rich robes a queen might wear. In my garden’s narrow bound Flaunt no costly tropic blooms, Ladening all the air around With a weight of rare perfumes.

Yet to an immense estate Am I heir, by grace of God,— Richer, grander than doth wait Any earthly monarch’s nod. Heir of all the Ages, I— Heir of all that they have wrought, All their store of emprise high, All their wealth of precious thought.

Every golden deed of theirs Sheds its lustre on my way; All their labors, all their prayers, Sanctify this present day! Heir of all that they have earned By their passion and their tears,— Heir of all that they have learned Through the weary, toiling years!

Heir of all the faith sublime On whose wings they soared to heaven; Heir of every hope that Time To Earth’s fainting sons hath given! Aspirations pure and high— Strength to dare and to endure— Heir of all the Ages, I— Lo! I am no longer poor!

HILDA, SPINNING

Spinning, spinning, by the sea, All the night! On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore, Where the north winds downward pour, And the tempests fiercely sweep From the mountains to the deep, Hilda spins beside the sea, All the night!

Spinning, at her lonely window, By the sea! With her candle burning clear, Every night of all the year, And her sweet voice crooning low, Quaint old songs of love and woe, Spins she at her lonely window, By the sea.

On a bitter night in March, Long ago, Hilda, very young and fair, With a crown of golden hair, Watched the tempest raging wild, Watched the roaring sea—and smiled Through that woeful night in March, Long ago!

What though all the winds were out In their might? Richard’s boat was tried and true; Stanch and brave his hardy crew; Strongest he to do or dare. Said she, breathing forth a prayer, “He is safe, though winds are out In their might!”

But at length the morning dawned, Still and clear! Calm, in azure splendor, lay All the waters of the bay; And the ocean’s angry moans Sank to solemn undertones, As at last the morning dawned, Still and clear!

With her waves of golden hair Floating free, Hilda ran along the shore, Gazing off the waters o’er; And the fishermen replied, “He will come in with the tide,” As they saw her golden hair Floating free!

Ah! he came in with the tide— Came alone! Tossed upon the shining sands— Ghastly face and clutching hands— Seaweed tangled in his hair— Bruised and torn his forehead fair— Thus he came in with the tide, All alone!

Hilda watched beside her dead, Day and night. Of those hours of mortal woe Human ken may never know; She was silent, and his ear Kept the secret, close and dear, Of her watch beside her dead, Day and night!

What she promised in the darkness, Who can tell? But upon that rock-ribbed shore Burns a beacon evermore! And beside it, all the night, Hilda guards the lonely light, Though what vowed she in the darkness, None may tell!

Spinning, spinning by the sea, All the night! While her candle, gleaming wide O’er the restless, rolling tide, Guides with steady, changeless ray The lone fisher up the bay, Hilda spins beside the sea, Through the night!

Fifty years of patient spinning By the sea! Old and worn, she sleeps to-day, While the sunshine gilds the bay; But her candle, shining clear, Every night of all the year, Still is telling of her spinning By the sea!

HEREAFTER

O land beyond the setting sun! O realm more fair than poet’s dream! How clear thy silver rivers run, How bright thy golden glories gleam!

Earth holds no counterpart of thine; The dark-browed Orient, jewel-crowned, Pales as she bows before thy shrine, Shrouded in mystery profound.

The dazzling North, the stately West, Whose waters flow from mount to sea; The South, flower-wreathed in languid rest— What are they all, compared with thee?

All lands, all realms beneath yon dome, Where God’s own hand hath hung the stars, To thee with humblest homage come, O world beyond the crystal bars!

Thou blest Hereafter! Mortal tongue Hath striven in vain thy speech to learn, And Fancy wanders, lost among The flowery paths for which we yearn.

But well we know that fair and bright, Far beyond human ken or dream, Too glorious for our feeble sight, Thy skies of cloudless azure beam.

We know thy happy valleys lie In green repose, supremely blest; We know against thy sapphire sky Thy mountain-peaks sublimely rest.

For sometimes even now we catch Faint gleamings from thy far-off shore, While still with eager eyes we watch For one sweet sign or token more.

The loved, the deeply loved, are there! The brave, the fair, the good, the wise, Who pined for thy serener air, Nor shunned thy solemn mysteries.

There are the hopes that, one by one, Died even as we gave them birth; The dreams that passed ere well begun, Too dear, too beautiful for earth.

The aspirations, strong of wing, Aiming at heights we could not reach; The songs we tried in vain to sing; The thoughts too vast for human speech;

Thou hast them all, Hereafter! Thou Shalt keep them safely till that hour When, with God’s seal on heart and brow, We claim them in immortal power!

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

Softly the gold has faded from the sky, Slowly the stars have gathered one by one, Calmly the crescent moon mounts up on high, And the long day is done.

With quiet heart my garden-walks I tread, Feeling the beauty that I cannot see; Beauty and fragrance all around me shed By flower, and shrub, and tree.

Often I linger where the roses pour Exquisite odors from each glowing cup; Or where the violet, brimmed with sweetness o’er, Lifts its small chalice up.

With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now, And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette, While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow, Say to me, “Go not yet.”

So for awhile I linger, but not long. High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars, Careering proudly ’mid the glorious throng, Brightest of all the stars.

But softly gleaming through the curtain’s fold, The home-star beams with more alluring ray, And, as a star led sage and seer of old, So it directs my way;

And leads me in where my young children lie, Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest; The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye, Heaven’s peace within each breast.

I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh— Gifts the adoring Magi humbly brought The young child, cradled in the arms of her Blest beyond mortal thought;

But love—the love that fills my mother-heart With a sweet rapture oft akin to pain; Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops start And fall like summer rain.

And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climb Boldly, where once it would have feared to go, And calmly standing upon heights sublime, Fears not the storm below.

And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come, Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak. With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb: Grant what my heart would seek!

VASHTI’S SCROLL

Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen! Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore The crown of Persia with such stately grace! But yesterday a royal wife; but now From my estate cast down, and fallen so low That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name Backward and forward on their mocking tongues. In all the king’s broad realm there is not one To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog My hand had fondled, in the palace walls Fawns on my rival. When I left the court, Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me, Licking my fingers, leaping in my face, And frisking round me till I reached the gates. Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed, And frequent lookings backward, and low whines Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears, Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back, Leaving me desolate. So went they all Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow Set his own royal crown and called me queen, Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried, “Long live Queen Vashti, Persia’s fairest Rose, Mother of Princes, and the nation’s Hope!” The rose is withered now; the queen’s no more. To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll I will rehearse the story of my woes, And bid them lay it in the grave with me When I depart to join the unnumbered dead.

* * * * *

Oh, thou unknown, unborn, who through the gloom And mists of ages in my vaulted tomb Shalt find this parchment, and with reverent care Shalt bear it outward to the sun and air: Oh, thou whose patient fingers shall unroll With slow, persuasive touch this little scroll: Oh, loving, tender eyes that, like twin stars, I seem to see through yonder cloudy bars: Read Vashti’s story, and I pray ye tell The whole wide world if she did ill or well!

Ahasuerus reigned. On Persia’s throne, Lord of a mighty realm, he sat alone, And stretched his sceptre from the farthest slope Of India’s hills, to where the Ethiop Dwelt in barbaric splendor. Kinglier king Never did poet praise or minstrel sing! He had no peers. Among his lords he shone As shines a planet, single and alone; And I, alas! I loved him, and we two Such bliss as peasant lovers joy in, knew! No lowly home in all our wide domain Held more of peace than ours, or less of pain. But one dark day—O, woeful day of days, Whose hours I number now in sad amaze, Thou hadst no prophet of the ills to be, Nor sign nor omen came to succor me!— That day Ahasuerus smiled and said, “Since first I wore this crown upon my head Thrice have the emerald clusters of the vine Changed to translucent globes of ruby wine; And thrice the peaches on the loaded walls Have slowly rounded into wondrous balls Of gold and crimson. I will make a feast. Princes and lords, the greatest and the least, All Persia and all Media, shall see The pomp and splendor that encompass me. The riches of my kingdom shall be shown, And all my glorious majesty made known Where’er the shadow of my sceptred hand Sways a great people with its mute command!” Then came from far and near a hurrying throng Of skilled and cunning workmen. All day long And far into the startled night, they wrought Most quaint and beautiful devices—still Responsive to their master’s eager will, And giving form to his creative thought— Till Shushan grew a marvel! Never yet Yon rolling sun on fairer scene has set: The palace windows were ablaze with light; And Persia’s lords were there, most richly dight In broidered silks, or costliest cloth of gold, That kept the sunshine in each lustrous fold, Or softly flowing tissues, pure and white As fleecy clouds at noonday. Clear and bright Shone the pure gold of Ophir, and the gleam Of burning gems, that mocked the pallid beam Of the dim, wondering stars, made radiance there, Splendor undreamed of, and beyond compare! Up from the gardens floated the perfume Of rose and myrtle, in their perfect bloom; The red pomegranate cleft its heart in twain, Pouring its life blood in a crimson rain; The slight acacia waved its yellow plumes, And afar off amid the starlit glooms Were sweet recesses, where the orange bowers Dropt their pure blossoms down in snowy showers, And night reigned undisturbed. From cups of gold Diverse one from another, meet to hold The king’s most costly wines, or to be raised To princely lips, the gay guests drank, and praised Their rich abundance. Rapturous music swept Through the vast arches and the secret kept Of its own joy; while in slow, rhythmic time To clash of cymbal and the lute’s clear chime, The dancing-girls stole through the fragrant night With wreathéd arms, flushed cheeks and eyes alight, And softly rounded forms that rose and fell To the voluptuous music’s dreamy swell, As if the air were pulsing waves that bore Them up and onward to some longed-for shore!

Wild waxed the revel. On an ivory throne Inlaid with ebony and gems that shone With a surpassing lustre, sat my lord, The King Ahasuerus. His great sword, Blazing with diamonds on hilt and blade,— The mighty sword that made his foes afraid,— And the proud sceptre he was wont to grasp, With all the monarch in his kingly clasp, Against the crouching lions (guard that kept On either side the throne and never slept), Leaned carelessly. And flowing downward o’er The ivory steps even to the marble floor, Swept the rich royal robes in many a fold Of Tyrian purple flecked with yellow gold. The jewelled crown his young head scorned to wear, More fitly crowned by its own clustering hair, Lay on a pearl-wrought cushion by his side, Mute symbol of great Persia’s power and pride; While on his brow some courtier’s hand had placed The fairest chaplet monarch ever graced, A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet, Just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat.

Louder and louder grew the sounds of mirth; Faster and faster flowed the red wine forth; In high, exulting strains the minstrels sang The monarch’s glory, till the great roof rang; And flushed at length with pride and song and wine, The king rose up and said, “O nobles mine! Princes of Persia, Media’s hope and pride, Stars of my kingdom, will ye aught beside? Speak! and I swear your sovereign’s will shall be On this fair night to please and honor ye!” Then rose a shout from out the glittering throng Drowning the voice of merriment and song, Humming and murmuring like a hive of bees— What would they more each charmèd sense to please?

Out spoke at last a tongue that should have been Palsied in foul dishonor there and then. “O great Ahasuerus! ne’er before Reigned such a king so blest a people o’er! What shall we ask? What great and wondrous boon To crown the hours that fly away too soon? There is but one. ’Tis said that mortal eyes Never yet gazed, in rapturous surprise, Upon a face like that of her who wears Thy signet-ring, and all thy glory shares,— Thy fair Queen Vashti, she who yet shall be Mother of him who reigneth after thee! Show us that face, O king! For nought beside Can make our cup of joy o’erflow with pride.”

A murmur ran throughout the startled crowd, Swelling at last to plaudits long and loud. Maddened with wine, they knew not what they said. Ahasuerus bent his haughty head, And for an instant o’er his face there swept A look his courtiers in their memory kept For many a day—a look of doubt and pain, They scarcely caught ere it had passed again. “My word is pledged,” he said. Then to the seven Lord chamberlains to whom the keys were given: “Haste ye, and to this noble presence bring Vashti, the Queen, with royal crown and ring; That all my lords may see the matchless charms Kind Heaven has sent to bless my kingly arms.”