Part 6

No carol of love from a song-bird's throat; the world lies naked and still, For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.

Not a flower--a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft-- To lay its bloom on the dead river's lips, that have kissed them all so oft.

But look! a ladder is spanning the space 'twixt earth and the sky beyond, A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace--the strong, the subtle, the fond!

Spring, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath, Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.

Spring, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam's heart Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare--see the sap in the great trees start!

Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright, A stirring and spreading of something fair--the dawn is chasing the night!

Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein, The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.

Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in her hair, With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;

Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes, Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead to arise!

For see, as she bends o'er the coffin deep--the frozen valley and hill-- The dead river stirs,--ah, that ling'ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!

And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud, Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!

The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old, And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

MADAM GRUNDY.

Madam, they say, has lost her way. Tell me, has she passed thither? Let her alone and she'll come home, And bring her _tales_ all with her.

THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS.

Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean Pipe their gladness--sweeter, shriller--one would think the world was green. O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake! See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake! Mark the warm October haze! Mark the splendor of the days! And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow; If you listen you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low-- "We are naked," so the fields say, "stripped of all our golden dress." "Heed it not," October answers, "for I love ye none the less. Share my beauty and my cheer While we rest together here, In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year."

All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime's light and grace, All the riches of the harvest, crown her head and light her face; And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass, While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass. O the warm October haze! O the splendor of the days! O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

GOD'S WARMTH IS SHE.

O glad sun, creeping through the casement wide, A million blossoms have you kissed since morn, But none so fair as this one at my side-- Touch soft the bit of love, the babe new born.

Towards all the world my love and pity flow, With high resolves, with trust, with sympathy. This happy heart of mine is all aglow-- This heart that was so cold--God's warmth is she.

HER PRAYER.

Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled, The sunshine falling on her golden hair; The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand! I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine-- This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem! Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low, And pity me when Thou dost think of them.

"My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss Morning and noon and night--her ways so wise, The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss, The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes.

"I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own, Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry. She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone-- My arms are empty and my bosom dry.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring Healing for this great anguish that I bear! A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing, God might have left her to her mother's care!

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal-- Press out the bitterness, fill up with love!

"O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep! O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep! Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!"

DECORATING THE OLD CHURCH.

Gray old gardener, what do you bring? "Laurel and ivy and bay, With palms for the crowning of a King-- The morrow is Christmas Day.

"Holly with thorns, and berries like blood On its shiny greenness flung. O the pierced side, and the thorny crown, And the cross whereon He hung!

"The mistletoe, meaning All-healing, Hangs close to the holly's thorn, Lest we forget that on Christmas Day The Healer of Souls was born.

"Ivy's for faith; on the altar rail Let it creep where all may see; It crept till it kissed a cheek so pale That night in Gethsemane.

"Bay's for remembrance, full and sweet; It speaks with its fragrant breath Of manger and cross and a lowly tomb, And a love that conquered death.

"And laurel leaves for the wreath I bring, The laurel for victory, And palms for the crowning of a King-- The morrow is Christmas Day."

ENVY.

When Satan sends--to vex the mind of man And urge him on to meanness and to wrong-- His satellites, there is not one that can Acquit itself like envy. Not so strong As lust, so quick as fear, so big as hate-- A pigmy thing, the twin of sordid greed-- Its work all noble things to underrate, Decry fair face, fair form, fair thought, fair deed, A sneer it has for what is highest, best, For love's soft voice, and virtue's robe of white; Truth is not true, and pity is not kind, A great task done is but a pastime light. Tormented and tormenting is the mind That grants to envy room to make its nest.

THE SONG OF THE BELLS.

He frowned and shook his snowy head. "Those clanging bells! they deafen quite With their unmeaning song," he said. "I'm weary of it all to-night-- The gladness, sadness. I'm so old I have no sympathy to spare, My heart has grown so hard and cold, So full of self, I do not care How many laugh, or long, or grieve In all the world this Christmas eve.

"There was a time long, long ago-- They take our best, the passing years-- For the old life, and faith, and glow. I'd give--what's on my cheek? Not tears! I have a whim. To-night I'll spend Till eyes turn on me gratefully-- An old man's whim, just to pretend That he is what he used to be; For this one night, not want nor pain Shall look to me for help in vain."

"A foolish whim!" he muttered oft, The while he gave to those in need; But strangely warm and strangely soft His old face grew, for self and greed Slipped from him. Ah, it made him glow To hear the blessing, thanks, the prayer. He looked into his heart, and lo! The old-time faith and love were there. "Ring out, old bells, right gladly ring!" He said, "Full sweet the song you sing."

QUEBEC.

Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lies, with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and her beloved dead. The doves are nesting in the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim Above a field of battle stretching wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past, The strife, the valor of the long ago Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her gray old face.

MEN O' THE FOREST MARK.

What we most need is men of worth, Men o' the forest mark, Of lofty height and mighty girth And green, unbroken bark.

Not men whom circumstances Have stunted, wasted, sapped, Men fearful of fighting chances, Clinging to by-paths mapped.

Holding honor and truth below Promotion, place and pelf; Weaklings that change as winds do blow, Lost in their love of self.

Tricksters playing a game unfair (Count them, sirs, at this hour), Ready to dance to maddest air Piped by the man in power.

The need, sore need, of this young land Is honest men, good sirs, Men as her oak trees tall and grand, Staunch as her stalwart firs.

Steadfast, unswerving, first and last, Fearless of front and strong, Meeting the challenge of the blast With high, clear battle song.

Not sapless things of the byways, Lacking in life and strength, Not shrivelled shrubs of the highways, Pigmy of breadth and length,

But noblest growth of God's green earth-- Men o' the forest mark, Of lofty height and giant girth And green, unbroken bark.

A SONG OF CHEER.

Here's a song of cheer For the whole long year:

We've only to do our best, Take up our part With a strong, true heart-- The Lord will do all the rest.

THE FIRSTBORN.

The harvest sun lay hot and strong On waving grain and grain in sheaf, On dusty highway stretched along, On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.

The wind which stirred the tasseled corn Came creeping through the casement wide, And softly kissed the babe new born That nestled at its mother's side.

That mother spoke in tones that thrilled: "My firstborn's cradled in my arm, Upon my breast his cry is stilled, And here he lies so dear, so warm."

To her had come a generous share Of worldly honors and of fame, Of hours replete with gladness rare, But no one hour seemed just the same

As that which came when, white and spent With pain of travail great, she lay, Thrilled through with rapture and content, And love and pride, that August day.

The fairest picture of the past-- Life's tenderest page till all is done-- A glad young mother holding fast God's wondrous gift--her little son.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea, Here's to the Saint that blessed it! And here's to the billows wild and free That for centuries have caressed it!

Here's to the day when the men that roam Send longing eyes o'er the water! Here's to the land that still spells home To each loyal son and daughter!

Here's to old Ireland--fair, I ween, With the blue skies stretched above her! Here's to her shamrock warm and green, And here's to the hearts that love her!

LESLEY.

From the little bald head to the two little feet, You are winsome, and bonnie, and tender, and sweet, But not for this do I love you.

You're wilful, cajoling, not fond of restraint, A creature of moods--no tiresome saint-- You're wise and you're wistful, and oh, you are quaint, But not for this do I love you.

You're a rose of a maiden, the pink and the white Of your face is to me a rare thing of delight, But not for this do I love you.

That "agoo" on your lips is the tenderest thing, And the eyes smiling at me, ye bonnie wee thing, Are violets washed with the dewdrops of spring, But not for this do I love you.

Come, nestle down close on my bosom, you dear, The secret I'll whisper right into your ear, Because you are _you_ do I love you,

Because you are you, just you, oh, my own, Because you are Lesley, this reason alone Will do for us, darling, until you are grown, Because you are _you_ do I love you.

THE TRYST.

The harvest moon in yellow haze Is steeping all the sea and land, Is kindling paths and shining ways Around the hills, across the sand.

And there are only thou and I-- O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note The glory of the sea and sky, I see a softly rounded throat,

A face uplifted, pure and sweet, Two blue eyes filled with trust and love; Enough, the sea sings at our feet, The harvest moon sails just above.

A GOOD WOMAN.

Her eyes are the windows of a soul Where only the white thoughts spring, And they look, as the eyes of the angels look, For the good in everything.

Her lips can whisper the tenderest words That weary and worn can hear, Can tell of the dawn of a better morn Till only the cowards fear.

Her hands can lift up the fallen one From an overthrow complete, Can take a soul from the mire of sin And lead it to Christ's dear feet.

And she can walk wherever she will-- She walketh never alone. The work she does is the Master's work, And God guards well His own.

DESPAIR.

We catch a glimpse of it, gaunt and gray, When the golden sunbeams are all abroad; We sober a moment, then softly say: The world still lies in the hand of God.

We watch it stealthily creeping o'er The threshold leading to somebody's soul; A shadow, we cry, it cannot be more When faith is one's portion and Heaven one's goal.

A ghost that comes stealing its way along, Affrighting the weak with its gruesome air, But who that is young and glad and strong Fears for a moment to meet Despair?

To this heart of ours we have thought so bold All uninvited it comes one day-- Lo! faith grows wan, and love grows cold, And the heaven of our dreams lies far away.

OUR DEAD IN SOUTH AFRICA.

Day of battle and day of blood Found you steady and strong, I ween; Sons of the land of the Maple Leaf, Face to the foe, you died for the Queen.

Brave boys, our boys, filling to-day Nameless graves upon veldt and plain, Here's to your mem'ry gallant and true, Sons of our soil, who thought it gain

To fight and win, or to fight and fall! Strong of purpose, you took your stand, Proved with your life-blood red and warm Canada's faith in the Motherland!

Brave boys, our boys, this have you done, Drawn us closer, and bound us fast; One are we with the Isle in the sea, One in the future, the present, the past.

Brave boys, our boys, honor we owe, Honor and homage a mighty debt-- You proved our love and our loyalty-- The land that bore you will not forget! Canada's soldiers, Canada's sons, The land that bore you will not forget!

THE BARLEY FIELDS.

The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge, Saffron pale, where a star of white Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.

O the green of the barley fields grows deep, The breath of the barley fields grows rare; There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep-- The wind is holding high revel there,

Singing the song it has often sung-- Hark to the troubadour glad and bold: "Sweet is the earth when the summer is young And the barley fields are green and gold!"

THE IMPRISONED LARK.

Did you send your song to the gates of gold In the days of long ago? A song of sweetness and gladness untold, Till fain was my lady to have and to hold-- Ah! my lady did not know.

'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song, If we only understood. Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong, When the days stretch out so weary and long, Dear little bird of the wood?

The sun came so boldly into your cell-- 'Tis the springtime, pretty bird-- And full sweet the story he had to tell Of doings in meadow and wood and dell, Till your longing grew and stirred.

This cage of my lady's has silver bars, And my lady's voice is mild, But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars, Forget the hurt of the prison bars In the gladness of freedom wild!

To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade Where dewdrops hide from the sun! O fields where the blossoming clover swayed! O voices familiar that music made Till the full, glad day was done!

Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood, And you stilled the laughing throng. To make passionate longing understood You took the height and depth of your mood And flung them into a song!

These guests of my lady's did listen, I know, When out through the silver bars You sent forth a measure, liquid and low As laughter of waters that ebb and flow Under the shimmering stars.

You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best Your longing heart held in store, Till into the careless listener's breast There flashed a sudden and vague unrest, That grew into something more.

Eyes saw for a few brief moments' space The heights that were never trod, And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race That was planned in the hours when youth and grace Came fresh from the hand of God.

Only a homesick bird of the field Trilling a glorious note! Only a homesick bird of the wood With heaven in your full throat!

WOMAN.

Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so, A mingling of the bitter and the sweet; Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low Of hope and trust and happiness complete, Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire, Or make themselves but wells of tenderness Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire-- Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress. Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth, And only heaven fully knows her worth.

THE MULLEIN MEADOW.

Down in the mullein meadow The lusty thistle springs, The butterflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings,

The alderbush is flaunting Her blossoms white as snow-- The same old mullein meadow We played in long ago.

The waste land of the homestead, The arid sandy spot, Where reaper's song is never heard, Where wealth is never sought,

But where the sunshine lingers, And merry breezes come To gather pungent perfumes From the mullein-stalks abloom.

There's a playground on the hillside, A playhouse in the glade, With mulleins for a garden, And mulleins for a shade.

And still the farmer grumbles That nothing good will grow In this old mullein meadow We played in long ago!

LIVING FRESHNESS.

O freshness, living freshness of a day In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight, And not a stain of wear shows on the grass Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls, "Our day of loveliness is past and gone!" I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells, The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks; The wild-flowers found the sunlight where they stood, And some hid their white faces quite away, While others lifted up their starry eyes And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze.

LIFE'S DAY.

"Life's day is too brief," he said at dawn, "I would it were ten times longer, For great tasks wait for me further on." At noonday the wish was stronger.

His place was in the thick of the strife, And hopes were nearing completeness, While one was crowning the joys of life With love's own wonderful sweetness.

"Life's day is too brief for all it contains, The triumphs, the fighting, the proving, The hopes and desires, the joys and the pains-- Too brief for the hating and loving."

* * * * *

To-night he sits in the shadows gray, While heavily sorrow presses. O the long, long day! O the weary day, With its failures and successes!

He sits in the shadows and turns his eyes On the years that lie behind him. "I am tired of all things now," he cries, And the hot tears rise and blind him.

"Rest and stillness is all that I crave, Such robbing of strength has grief done. Make room, dear love, in your lowly grave-- Life's day, thank God, is a brief one!"

MORNING.

The eastern sky grew all aglow, A tinted fleet sailed just below.

The thick wood and the clinging mist Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.

To primrose, tulip, daffodil, The wind came piping gay and shrill:

"Wake up! wake up! while day is new, And all the world is washed with dew!"

GRACE.

(JUNE 13, 1899.)

So still you sleep upon your bed, So motionless and slender, It cannot be that you are dead, My maiden gay and tender!

You were no creature pale and meek That death should hasten after, The dimples played within your cheek, Your lips were made for laughter.

To you the great world was a place That care might never stay in, A playground built by God's good grace For glad young folks to play in.

You made your footpath by life's flowers, O happy, care-free maiden! The sky was full of shine and showers, The wind was perfume laden.

Your dimpled hands are folded now Upon your snowy bosom, The dark hair nestles on your brow-- O tender, broken blossom!

The white lids hide your eyes so clear, So mirthful, so beguiling, But as my tears fall on you, dear, Your lips seem softly smiling.

And do you feel that it is home, The city far above us? And were they glad to have you come? And will you cease to love us?

Methinks when you stand all in white To learn each sweet new duty, Some eye will note, with keen delight, Your radiance and beauty.

And when your laughter softly rings Out where God's streets do glisten, The angels fair will fold their wings And still their song to listen.

THE WAY TO DREAMLAND

With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maiden Sails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss; I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings uplifting As he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss.

Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper, List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this; Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling, As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss.

Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden portals, Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace, jean Would we not leave joys and sorrows, Glad to-days and sad to-morrows, For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?