PART III.

"Oh, Dreary Day!"

OH, dreary day, that had so late a dawn! Oh, dreary day, so long, though early gone! Fold thy gray mantle round thy form and go To find the lost sun, while Night comes on, Across the plain, with silent step and slow.

I weary of thy dark, unsmiling mood, I weary of thy dull disquietude, And thy complaining voice that tells of pain, Not with the tempest's trumpet, but subdued In broken sentences of falling rain.

Now, soft as household spirit, comes the Night And draws the curtains, fanning still more bright The cheerful fire, while for her gentle sake The tapers burst in bloom with yellow light, Like evening primroses just kissed awake.

May-Time.

THE Spring steals through the city streets, Silent and shrinking, half afraid, As if there came, from woods and fields, Some timid, bashful, country maid.

The lofty houses coldly frown, And coldly stares the stony street; But here and there from out a cleft There springs a flower to kiss her feet.

And here and there a crocus smiles A friendly greeting, or a spray Of blooming lilacs, fresh and sweet, Leans down and nods across her way.

Till, reassured, she smiles and sings, And on she passes, glad and fleet, And little children at their play Look up to catch her glances sweet.

Is it her robe's soft fluttering That gently fans the passer by? He only feels the freshened air, Nor knows the gracious presence nigh.

But some sweet influence he feels, That charms care's gloomy shade away, And pours into his wakened heart The golden gladness of the May.

So, like an angel visitant, She glides among the haunts of men, And faint hearts bound, and sad eyes smile, Because the Spring has come again.

Spring's Cophetua.

SHE came with garments scant and poor and thin, And white feet gleaming bare; With pallid smiles where April tears had been, And snowflakes on her hair.

Oh, never--Winter thought--such gentle look In all the land was seen! From his gray locks the diadem he took And crowned her as his queen.

And now, in silken robes and gems arrayed, Fair Spring reigns in his stead. Upon his throne she sits, the beggar maid-- "Cophetua" is dead.

Winter Beauty.

WHEN I go through the meadows brown, Where stand the tall weeds, sere and dead, Think you I find no beauty there, Since Summer through the fields has fled?

The edges of the frozen stream, Whose quiet waters late were crossed By shadows of the bending fern, Are fair with fringes of the frost.

Wherever cowslips crowded thick, Or banks of buttercups would be, A host of airy forms in white, Like ghosts of flowers returned, I see.

It may be clustered flakes of snow, Or frozen dew still glistening there, But still it seems as if there came A rare, strange odor through the air.

October.

ACROSS the stubble fields the lazy breezes pass, From Autumn orchards sloping southward in the sun, Where dropping from the low-hung branches, one by one, The apples hide in tangles of the wind-blown grass. A warm, sweet scent of mellow fruit fills all the air, And faintly over hills and hollows comes the cry Of some shrill bluejay, and his mate's far-off reply. Like Ruth, the winds will go a-gleaning, by and by, And garner in the leaves till all the woods are bare.

But now my boyhood's love has come again to me, October--in her royal red and gold arrayed! She comes with glowing cheeks, my dusky Indian maid, And all the world seems bright because so bright is she. Unto her lips the wild grapes hold their spicy wine. Persimmons, sweet and golden with an early frost, Drop at her feet; and where the narrow creek has crossed The woods, and in the ferns and flag its way has lost, Blood-red the corals of the dog-wood berries shine.

And thus she comes, my Love I loved when I was young! We wander for a little while across the hills, And, as of old, her sunny presence warms and fills My heart. But like a lute with one string left unstrung, When I would sing again the song of other years, Something is lost. The harmony is incomplete. And though the same old melody I still repeat, One alto note of joy is gone that made it sweet, And something trembles in the Autumn haze like tears.

At Twilight.

A TINY bird flits through the twilight brown, When sunset dreams make all the garden fair, Whose soft notes fall into the quiet air Like olive leaves on waters smooth dropped down. Emblems of rest, when floods of care do cease, Into my heart, as well, they fall and float, An olive leaf each faint and dreamy note-- I recognize their sign, and feel at peace.

The Prophet.

DARKNESS and silence, such as only fall At midnight, wrap the sleeping hamlets all; No life in all the dim world seems to be. Then suddenly, Across the hills, far off and faint, I hear Sound through the dark, as through a dream, the call (How strange it seems!) of some bold chanticleer.

(Half in my sleep I hear that clarion ring, With distant calls, like echoes, answering; And, as at war's alarum, soldiers leap From guarded sleep And seize their arms, and hasten from their tents, So, at this sound, my drowsy senses spring, Alert to man the mind's dark battlements.)

To tell night's mid-hour tolls no startled bell; Only thy voice is heard, brave sentinel, Who, like the ancient watchman on the towers, Calls forth the hours, And to the wistful questioners, who see No gleam through pain's long vigil, dost foretell "The morning cometh," oft and cheerily.

How canst thou know when, weary with his race, The Day turns back, his pathway to retrace? Canst thou the maiden Dawn's light footsteps hear, Approaching near? Or dost thou stand in converse with the skies, And know what time she leaves her hiding-place By joyful flashes of their starry eyes?

Thou art a prophet, like to those of old, Who in the darkness sat, but firm and bold Looked with undaunted eyes towards the dim Horizon's rim, And thrilled with faith of waiting ages born, That soon from out the Night's strong prisonhold, Should burst the golden glory of the Morn.

The Potter's Field.

JUST outside of the noisy town, Half through thicket and wood revealed, Hemmed about by a wall of stone, Wide it lieth, the Potter's Field.

Brambles wander across the grass, Vines creep over the broken wall, Bindweeds blossom, and here and there Stands a waif of the forest tall.

There no columns of gleaming white Mark the dust that is sacred still; Swings the gate on its rusty hinge-- All may enter and roam at will.

Who should hinder the ruthless hand, Who protect from a vagrant's tread? Guard the urns of the rich and great-- No one cares for the pauper dead!

Outlawed felon and sinless child All find room in the Potter's Field. There lies a Judas who sold his Lord, Here a Mary, His pity healed.

Who could know of the shame and sin Safely under the sod concealed? Weary burdens of want and grief, Laid away in the Potter's Field.

Who could guess?--for as swift and light O'er it the feet of the seasons go; Summer hides it with grace of flowers, Winter spreads it with folds of snow.

Rains weep over the lonely mound, Sunlight lingers, and swift shades pass; Tender hands of the gentle wind Smooth the knots of the tangled grass.

What though hallowed by Death alone, Rest unbroken the sod doth yield; Peace is here, for His constant watch God doth set o'er the Potter's Field.

Left Out.

WELL he knew that his clothes were poor: He was common, he humbly thought; Child as he was, he could understand Why he was slighted and never sought.

Yet could he help it,--his mother gone,-- Help the weight of his father's shame? Hardest sentence of childish law: Blaming innocence not to blame.

It was hard when the children played All together, to be left out,-- Stand aside, with a stinging sense That 'twas he that they laughed about.

Thoughtless children, they felt no wrong,-- Pushed him out of the ring at play. No one heard how his voice was choked, No one cared when he stole away.

No one saw how he crept at last Through the gate and the grasses deep, Past the wall to a lonely grave Where his mother was laid asleep.

Could she feel in her narrow bed, Wee, cold hands, as they groped about-- Feel the tears that were dropped because Even her grave had left him out?

"Our Father."

I HAVE no part with all the great, proud world: It cares not how I live, nor when I die; But every lily smiling in the field, And every tiny sparrow darting by, Claims kinship with me, mortal though they be,-- The One who cares for them doth care for me.

A Madrigal.

WOODBINE.

THE wild bee clings to it Most fond and long. The wild bird sings to it Its sweetest song. The wild breeze brings to it A life more strong.

So all things lend to thee Some charm, some grace. The world's a friend to thee, In love's embrace. All hearts do bend to thee, In thy queen's place.

The Time o' Day.

IF I should look for the time o' day On the rose's dial red, I would think it was just the sunrise hour, From the flush of its petals spread.

And if I would tell by the lily-bell, I would think it was calm, white noon; And the violet's blue would tell by its hue Of the evening coming soon.

But when I would know by my lady's face, I am all perplexed the while; For it's always starlight by her eyes, And sunlight by her smile.

Trailing Arbutus.

THERE may be hearts that lie so deep 'Neath griefs and cares that weigh like drifted snow, That love seems chilled in endless sleep, And budding hopes may never dare to grow. Yet under all, some memory Trails its arbutus flowers of tender thought,-- All buried in the snow maybe, Still with the sweetest fragrance fraught.

A Mood.

SOMETHING has made the world so changed, Something is lost from field and sky, And the earth and sun are sadly estranged, And the songs of Nature seemed turned to a cry. Yet I heard my blithe little neighbor tell How fair is the spring to see. Ah, well,-- Perhaps the change is in me.

Something has gone from your smile, sweetheart; Something I miss from your look, your tone. Though you stand quite near, we are still apart, You may clasp me close, but I feel alone. Yet over and over your love you tell, And as you say, it must be. Ah, well,-- Perhaps the change is in me.

The Legend of the Pansies.

ONE night in Fairyland, when all the court Held carnival to welcome in the June, And to the wind-harp's music, flying feet Were dancing on the rose leaves night had strewn; The naughty Puck crept up the castle stair, And called the sleeping princes from their bed; And with their royal pages following, Away the tricksy little fairies sped. Mounted on snowy night-moths, off they raced, Startling the gnomes, asleep within the shade Of gloomy forests, with their merry cries, As at forbidden games all night they played. But when at sunrise blew an elfin horn, Mischievous Puck was nowhere to be seen, The disobedient princes stood forlorn; Like dew-drops fell their tears on grasses green. For fairy children, not within the bounds Of Queen Titania's realm at morning's dawn, Change into blooming flowers where they stand, And bloom there till the summer time is gone.

Now, where the little princes played all night In robes of royal purple and of gold, The flowers we call pansies sprang in sight, And round them stood the little pages bold, In liveries of yellow, blue, and white; While upward through the east the great sun rolled. Then some, repentant, sadly drooped their heads; Some turned their saucy faces to the sky; But now they all alike must wait the day When they can bid the summer time good-by. Sometimes, when bees upon their busy rounds Stop to deliver some sweet message sent From Fairyland, the thoughtful faces smile And seem to grow a little more content. When cooling shadows creep along the grass, And mother birds are twittering lullabies To sleepy nestlings, then the south winds pass, And close with fingers soft the pansies' eyes. Upon the wings of dreams they're borne along To loving arms that rock them all the night, And fairy voices soothe their sleep with song, Till they are waked by kisses of the light.

The Tower of Babel.

ONCE, many centuries ago, Men tried to build a tower so high That rising upward, round on round, Its pinnacle should reach the sky.

And as they toiled and built and dreamed and planned, What hopes went upward with the rising stone! That daring feet ere long should mount and stand Upon the golden stairway to the throne.

And then a dire confusion fell Upon the workers, building there. Men called and shouted each to each With strange, uncomprehended speech, And what it meant no one could tell; So they left building in despair.

Yet in their hearts still lived the hope that they Might scale the ramparts of the sky some day.

Sometimes our souls expand and glow With holy visions bright and pure; But when from these deep vales below We proudly try to climb and reach With clumsy masonry of speech, And rounds of rhyme that shall endure, That sky-born thing, that heavenly theme, Touched only by a prayer or dream, A swift confusion o'er us flies, And sudden chills our hands benumb. Our minds are blurred, our tongues are dumb, The vision fades away and dies.

Yet still we dream that song some day may be Rung through the arches of Eternity.

The Old Bell.

THE vines have grown so thick and twined so strong, With clinging hold, about the bell that swings In the old tower, that now it never rings. No one has heard its voice for seasons long.

Sit by me on the broken belfry stair, And I will tell the simple tale to you Of those whose graves through yonder arch you view, Scattered about the churchyard, here and there.

Ah me! How closely memory's tendrils twine About the heart, and choke the words that spring. It only throbs, the touch half-answering, Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine.

The Sea.

FOREVER, like a heart that knows no peace, Like one who wanders weary to and fro About the earth, but finds no resting-place, The sweeping tides of ocean ebb and flow.

Like a discarded lover who entreats For favor still, and will not be denied, Up to the beach, with soft, caressing touch And tearful broken whispers, steals the tide.

But still repulsed, it slow and sad withdraws, Yet at the dear one's feet its treasures lays, And turns again, to wail its sorrows out Through all the hopeless nights and dreary days.

Married.

IT is such a little while From the time the fledgling tries To tip from the edge of the nest to the bough, Then lifts its wings and flies.

Till it sits in its own wee nest, Surprised out of growth or ken, And half-way feels that in some strange way It is learning to fly again.

Motherhood.

FOR two dear heads of bronze and amber, For baby eyes of blue and brown, For two who cling, and kiss, and clamber, And on my shoulder nestle down.

All little hearts are dearer to me, All little faces sweet and bright, All childish tears and woes undo me, And I would heal them all to-night.

Sufficiency.

THE bird that sings one only strain, To tell his passion o'er and o'er, Can feel as much of joy or pain As if he knew a thousand more.

And thou, sweet maid, whose gentle thought In smiles or tears finds present vent, What feeling could thy soul be taught, Or who has words more eloquent?

Ophelia.

CALM dost thou lie in wave-swept resting-place. No more the glances of the haughty Dane Can fill thy gentle breast with longing vain. The waves that stilled thy heart have drowned thy pain, And washed the sorrow from thy sweet, pale face, Ophelia.

Thine be the violets, but his the rue. Though hope should sleep, and deep regret should wake, Thy clasped hand from Death's he could not take; The spell on those mute lips he could not break. What more with life and love hast thou to do, Ophelia?

Requiem.

SLEEP, thou, whom Care so long oppressed. Care whispers by thy couch no more. Kind Death has shut the outer door; None can disturb thee,--sleep and rest.

Thy hands are folded on thy breast That throbs with Life's deep pain no more. Though Love waits grieving by thy door, He cannot enter,--sleep and rest.

Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH, Thou comest a refreshing breath From meadows green, where morning stays, To those who bear the noon-tide blaze.

Elizabeth, Thou couldst look in the eyes of Death, Undaunted, did he promise thee Some bright new scene of mirth or glee. I cannot think that time will gray That sun-bright head, nor bear away One dimple in those rose-cheeks hid; Sure he were daring if he did.

Elinor.

IN that shadow-land, where the Sisters three Are weaving the web of destiny, There floated once through the fateful gloom A thread of sunshine, that gleamed upon The thread of a life from the distaff drawn, And mingling, they passed to the busy loom. The wondering Parcea looked and smiled, As the light grew into the soul of a child, And in and out and through devious ways, They wove it in with the woof of days. But they said on earth (who knew not the Fates) "As the lily's chalice holds the dew, So in her heart, at the morning's gates, She caught the sunshine, when she came through."

On a Fly-Leaf of "Flute and Violin."

A MASTER-HAND hath swept Life's violin and flute. For him they laughed and wept When others found them mute.

From his high altitude He catches, fine and clear, The notes that might elude A less discerning ear.

Transposing to a lower key The dream-song that he hears, He sets his heavenly melody To human smiles and tears.

Inspiration.

THE singer walks by wood and rill, By town and stately river, And varied scenes his vision fill, And make his pulses quiver.

But when his song comes borne across On winds from dreamland blowing, We cannot tell what mystic touch Has set his chimes a-going.

We hear the robins in his rhyme, We see the orchards drifted With crests of bloom that glimmer white When mists of tears are lifted.

A hundred tunes seem intertwined To mingle in his singing, When but a single rose, perhaps, Has set his fancy winging.

On a Fly-Leaf of Irving.

WELCOME art thou, O singer! If thou dost know a song That makes the long eve shorter Because its joys are long. Welcome art thou, tale-bearer, If thou canst bear away Part of the cares that burden The dull and dreary day.

On a Fly-Leaf of Riley's "Afterwhiles."

UNTO him alone who strays Sometimes through the yesterdays, Lingering long in wood and field, Is the meaning all revealed Of these songs. Adown the rhymes Runs a path to bygone times; But 'tis found by those alone, Who the fresh green hills have known, And have felt the tender mood Of the country solitude; Who through lanes of pink peach blooms Used to see the lilac's plumes Nodding welcome by the door Where the home-folks come no more. Blest the singer, then, who leads Back again through clover meads, 'Til old scenes we seem to see, Fair as once they used to be. Who can call from years long gone, Friends we trusted, leaned upon; For whose sake we learned to bless Toilworn hands and homespun dress. As he sings of them, and thus Wafts the pure air back to us Of the fields, there comes again Childhood's faith in God and man.

Chiaro-Oscuro.

SOMEHOW I love to look at the picture I made of her, Work of an idle time, the summer of life's long year; For as I stand and gaze, dreaming of those lost days, Almost it seems to me I can see her sitting here.

That is the way she sat, with her head a trifle raised, Looking thoughtfully out at a scene I could never see. Delicate color of rose dawning and dying down, Flushing the rare sweet face as she listened or spoke to me.

Whitest light of the sky I showered on her upturned brow, Gathered the darkest shades and brushed them into her hair, Thinking the while I worked of the law that always sends The deepest shadows to follow the high lights everywhere. Now as I sit and gaze at the dream on the canvas caught, Sadly the thought comes back, to torture with unbelief-- Why must it always be that the strong white light of love Is followed forevermore by the deepest shadow of grief?

When She Came Home.

"When she comes home again, a thousand ways I fashion to myself the tenderness Of my glad welcome."

RILEY.

"WHEN she comes home," I thought with throbbing heart, That danced a measure to my mind's refrain. Again from out the door I leaned and looked, Where she should come along the leafy lane. And then she came.--I heard the measured sound Of slow, oncoming feet, whose heavy tread Seemed trampling out my life. I saw her face. Then through my brain a sudden numbness spread. The earth seemed spun away, the sun was gone, And time, and place, and thought. There was no thing In all the universe, save one who lay So still and cold and white, unanswering Save by a graven smile my broken moan. She had come home, yet there I knelt _alone_.

A Resolve.

THE fields of thought are plowed so deep, So carefully are tilled, That all the granaries of the world With plenteous store are filled. Unless I deeper plow and sow, What sheaf, then, can I bring? So like the black-bird in the field, I'll eat the wheat and sing.

Stranded.

WE found a wreck cast up on the shore, Battered and bruised, and scarred and rent, And I spoke aloud, "Here was worthless work, And a barque unfit to the sea was sent."

But he said, my friend, in his gentle mood, "Nay, none may say but the barque was good, For none can tell of the seas it sailed, Of the waves it braved and the storms withstood."

Then we spoke no more, but I mutely mused And thought, oh, heart and oh, life of man That we find wrecked! we may never know How brave you were when your course began.

At Last.

WHAT will you give me, O World, O World! If I run in the race and win? Will you give me a fame that can never fade, Will you give me a crown that will never rust, Can you save my soul from the pall of sin, Can you keep my heart from the dust?

What will you give me, O Earth, O Earth! If I fight in the fray and win? More than you gave those kings, who lay Ages past in forgotten clay? Can you give me more than the grave shuts in, Or the years can bear away?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Fame will fade and crowns will rust.

Give me, O Earth, but your true embrace, When the battle is lost or won. Hide me away from the day's white face, From the eye of the dazzling sun. So I may lay my head on your breast, Forget the struggle and be at rest; Forget the laurels that fade away, The love that lasts but a wild, brief day; Forget it all, on your bosom pressed, Forever at rest--at rest!

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Varied hyphenation retained.

Page 21, "spining" changed to "spinning" (The spinning-wheel, the big)

Page 71, in original, first word of poem is not all-capped. This was changed to match rest of the form of the book.

Page 118, "After-Whiles" changed to "Afterwhiles" (Riley's "Afterwhiles")