PART I.
SONGS YSAME
The Lighting of the Candles.
WHENCE came the ember That touched our young souls' candles first with light; In shadowy years, too distant to remember, Where childhood merges backward into night?
I know not, but the halo of those tapers Has ever since around all nature shone; And we have looked at life through golden vapors Because of that one ember touch alone.
At Early Candle-Lighting.
THOSE, who have heard the whispered breath Of Nature's secret "Shibboleth," And learned the pass-word to unroll The veil that hides her inmost soul, May follow; but this by-path leads Through mullein stalks and jimson-weeds. And he who scorning treads them down Would deem but poor and common-place Those whom he'll meet in homespun gown. But they who lovingly retrace Their steps to scenes I dream about, Will find the latch-string hanging out. With them I claim companionship, And for them burn my tallow-dip, At early candle-lighting.
To these low hills, around which cling My fondest thoughts, I would not bring An alien eye long used to sights Among the snow-crowned Alpine heights. An eagle does not bend its wing To low-built nests where robins sing. Between the fence's zigzag rails, The stranger sees the road that trails Its winding way into the dark, Fern-scented woods. He does not mark The old log cabin at the end As I, or hail it as a friend, Or catch, when daylight's last rays wane, The glimmer through its narrow pane Of early candle-lighting.
As anglers sit and half in dream Dip lazy lines into the stream, And watch the swimming life below, So I watch pictures come and go. And in the flame, Alladin-wise, See genii of the past arise. If it be so that common things Can fledge your fancy with fast wings; If you the language can translate Of lowly life, and make it great, And can the beauty understand That dignifies a toil-worn hand, Look in this halo, and see how The homely seems transfigured now At early candle-lighting.
A fire-place where the great logs roar And shine across the puncheon floor, And through the chinked walls, here and there, The snow steals, and the frosty air. Meager and bare the furnishings, But hospitality that kings Might well dispense, transmutes to gold, The welcome given young and old. Plain and uncouth in speech and dress, But richly clad in kindliness, The neighbors gather, one by one, At rustic rout when day is done. Vanish all else in this soft light,-- The past is ours again tonight; 'Tis early candle-lighting.
Oh, well-remembered scenes like these: The candy-pullings, husking-bees-- The evenings when the quilting frames Were laid aside for romping games; The singing school! The spelling match! My hand still lingers on the latch, I fain would wider swing the door And enter with the guests once more. Though into ashes long ago That fire faded, still the glow That warmed the hearts around it met, Immortal, burns within me yet. Still to that cabin in the wood I turn for highest types of good At early candle-lighting.
How fast the scenes come flocking to My mind, as white sheep jostle through The gap, when pasture bars are down, And pass into the twilight brown. Grandmother's face and snowy cap, The knitting work upon her lap, The creaking, high-backed rocking-chair; The spinning-wheel, the big loom where The shuttle carried song and thread; The valance on the high, white bed Whose folds the lavender still keep. Oh! nowhere else such dreamless sleep On tired eyes its deep spell lays, As that which came in those old days At early candle-lighting.
A kitchen lit by one dim light, And 'round the table in affright, A group of children telling tales. Outside, the wind--a banshee--wails. Even the shadows, that they throw Upon the walls, to giants grow. The hailstones 'gainst the window panes Fall with the noise of clanking chains, Till, glancing back, they almost feel Black shapes from out the corners steal, And, climbing to the loft o'erhead, The witches follow them to bed. The low flame flickers. Snuff the wick! For ghosts and goblins crowd so thick At early candle-lighting.
An orchard path that tramping feet For half a century have beat; Here to the fields at sun-up went The reapers. Here, on errands sent, Small bare-feet loitered, loath to go. Here apple-boughs dropped blooming snow, Through garden borders gaily set With touch-me-nots and bouncing Bet; Here passed at dusk the harvester With quickened step and pulse astir At sight of some one's fluttering gown, Who stood with sunbonnet pulled down And called the cows. Ah, in a glance One reads that simple, old romance At early candle-lighting.
One picture more. A winter day Just done, and supper cleared away. The romping children quiet grow, And in the reverent silence, slow The old man turns the sacred page, Guide of his life and staff of age. And then, the while my eyes grow dim, The mother's voice begins a hymn: "_Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer That calls me from a world of care!_" What wonder from those cabins rude Came lives of stalwart rectitude, When hearth-stones were the altars where Arose the vestal flame of prayer At early candle-lighting.
No crumbling castle walls are ours, No ruined battlements and towers. Our history, on callow wings, Soared not in time of feudal kings; No strolling minstrel's roundelay Tells of past glory in decay, But rugged life of pioneer Has passed away among us here; And as the ivy tendrils grow About the ancient turrets, so The influence of its sturdy truth Shall live in never-ending youth, When simple customs of its day Have, long-forgotten, passed away With early candle-lighting.
Bob White.
JUST now, beyond the turmoil and the din Of crowded streets that city walls shut in, I heard the whistle of a quail begin: "Bob White! Bob White!" So faintly and far away falling It seemed that a dream voice was calling "Bob White! Bob White!" How the old sights and sounds come thronging And thrill me with a sudden longing!
Through quiet country lanes the sunset shines. Fence corners where the wild rose climbs and twines, And blooms in tangled black-berry vines, "Bob White! Bob White!" I envy yon home-going swallow, Oh, but swiftly to rise and follow-- Follow its flight, Follow it back with happy flying, Where green-clad hills are calmly lying.
Wheat fields whose golden silences are stirred By whirring insect wings, and naught is heard But plaintive callings of that one sweet word, "Bob White! Bob White!" And a smell of the clover growing In the meadow lands ripe for mowing, All red and white. Over the shady creek comes sailing, Past willows in the water trailing.
Tired heart, 'tis but in dreams I turn my feet, Again to wander in the ripening wheat And hear the whistle of the quail repeat "Bob White! Bob White!" But oh! there is joy in the knowing That somewhere green pastures are growing, Though out of sight. And the light on those church spires dying, On the old home meadow is lying.
Grandfather.
HOW broad and deep was the fireplace old, And the great hearth-stone how wide! There was always room for the old man's chair By the cosy chimney side, And all the children that cared to crowd At his knee in the evening-tide.
Room for all of the homeless ones Who had nowhere else to go; They might bask at ease in the grateful warmth And sun in the cheerful glow, For Grandfather's heart was as wide and warm As the old fireplace, I know.
And he always found at his well-spread board Just room for another chair; There was always rest for another head On the pillow of his care; There was always place for another name In his trustful morning prayer.
Oh, crowded world with your jostling throngs! How narrow you grow, and small; How cold, like a shadow across the heart, Your selfishness seems to fall, When I think of that fireplace warm and wide, And the welcome awaiting all.
The Old Church.
CLOSE to the road it stood among the trees, The old, bare church, with windows small and high, And open doors that gave, on meeting day, A welcome to the careless passer by.
Its straight, uncushioned seats, how hard they seemed! What penance-doing form they always wore To little heads that could not reach the text, And little feet that could not reach the floor.
What wonder that we hailed with strong delight The buzzing wasp, slow sailing down the aisle, Or, sunk in sin, beguiled the constant fly From weary heads, to make our neighbors smile.
How softly from the churchyard came the breeze That stirred the cedar boughs with scented wings, And gently fanned the sleeper's heated brow Or fluttered Grandma Barlow's bonnet strings.
With half-shut eyes, across the pulpit bent, The preacher droned in soothing tones about Some theme, that like the narrow windows high, Took in the sky, but left terrestrials out.
Good, worthy man, his work on earth is done; His place is lost, the old church passed away; And with them, when they went, there must have gone That sweet, bright calm, my childhood's Sabbath day.
An Old-Time Pedagogue.
SLOWLY adown the village street With groping cane and faltering feet, He goes each day through cold or heat-- Old Daddy Hight. His hair is scant upon his head, His eyes are dim, his nose is red, And yet, his mien is stern and dread-- Old Daddy Hight.
The village lads his form descry While yet afar, and boldly cry-- (For bears are scarce and rods are high) "Old Daddy Hight!" But when their fathers meet his glance, They nod and smile and look askance. He taught them once the Modoc dance-- Old Daddy Hight.
How long we cling to servitude, How long we keep the schoolboy's mood! Still seems with awful power endued-- Old Daddy Hight. They feel a cringing of the knee, Those fathers, yet, whene'er they see Adown the walk pace solemnly-- Old Daddy Hight.
Wide is his fame, of how he taught, And how he flogged, and reckoned naught The toils and pains that knowledge bought-- Old Daddy Hight. He had no lack of "ways and means" To track the loiterers on the greens; He scorned all counterfeits and screens-- Old Daddy Hight.
Oh, dire the day that brewed mishap! That brought to luckless back his strap, To hanging head his Dunce's cap-- Old Daddy Hight. No blotted page dared meet his eye; The owner quaked and wished to die, When rod in hand, with wrath strode by-- Old Daddy Hight.
He helped them up the thorny steep Of wisdom's path with pain to creep, With vigilance that might not sleep-- Old Daddy Hight. Now, down his life's long, slow decline, He walks alone at eighty-nine-- The last of his illustrious line-- Old Daddy Hight.
Her Title-Deeds.
INSIDE the cottage door she sits, Just where the sunlight, softest there, Slants down on snowy kerchief's bands, On folded hands and silvered hair.
The garden pale her world shuts in, A simple world made sweet with thyme, Where life, soft lulled by droning bees, Flows to the mill-stream's lapsing rhyme.
Poor are her cottage walls, and bare; Too mean and small to harbor pride, Yet with a musing gaze she sees Her broad domains extending wide.
Green slopes of hills, and waving fields, With blooming hedges set between, Through shifting veils of tender mist, Smile, half revealed, a mingled scene.
All hers, for lovingly she holds A yellow packet in her hand, Whose ancient, faded script proclaims Her title to this spreading land.
Old letters! On the trembling page Drop unawares, unheeded tears. These are her title-deeds, her lands Spread through the realms of by-gone years.
INTERLUDES.
Voices of the Old, Old Days.
OH, voices of the old, old days, Speak once again to me, I walk alone the old, old ways And miss your melody. To-night I close my tired eyes And hear the rain drip slow, And dream a hand is on my brow That pressed it long ago.
My thoughts stray through the lonely night Until I seem to see Home faces, in the firelight, That always smiled on me. Those shadows dancing on the walls Are not by embers cast, They are the forms my heart recalls From out the happy past.
Forgotten is the gathering gloom, The night's deep loneliness, As round me in the silent room With noiseless tread they press. Though in the dark the rain sobs on, I heed its sound no more; For voices of the old, old days Are calling as of yore.
Silent Keys.
AS we would touch with soft caress the brow Of one who dreams, the spell of sleep to break, Across the yellowed keys I sweep my hand, The old, remembered music to awake; But something drops from out those melodies-- There are some silent keys.
So is it when I call to those I loved, Who blessed my life with tender care and fond: So is it with those early dreams and hopes, Some voices answer and some notes respond, But in the chords that I would strike, like these, There are some silent keys.
Heart, dost thou hear not in those pauses fall A still, small voice that speaks to thee of peace? What though some hopes may fail, some dreams be lost, Though sometimes happy music break and cease. We might miss part of heaven's minstrelsies But for these silent keys.