Part 2

He is here! Massachusetts called him back, And he answered--he is here! Let the walls be hung with black, Yet let roses richly red On the casket of the dead Be in bright profusion spread; And all night with solemn tread Let the dusky sentinel, Guarding what he loved so well, Guarding what he held so dear, Pace beside the quiet bier!

IX.

O beautiful sad day! All of earthly must we lay In the silent grave away. And the very Winter, pale At the sight of so much grief, From her harshness will relent; Stoop to brush away the snow From the frozen earth below Where the noble dead shall lie. Let no glorious dome less high Than the over-arching sky Bend above that royal grave; And for living monument, Over it shall rise and wave Living flower and living leaf. Lay your costly roses down, Civic wreath and cross and crown; These are frail! Spring shall be your sentinel; Guarding now untiring here All of what we held so dear, All of what we loved so well! Lay your costly roses down, Civic wreath and crown and cross; Turn away with hearts made great By the greatness of your loss! Spring shall wait;-- To her sacred care entrust All of what is left us here:-- Dust to dust! Lay your costly roses down, Civic wreath and cross and crown; These are frail! In the dim, unwonted shade, These will fade! But when next ye come this way, Ye shall find the Spring still here; And a grave with violets set; Purple, living violet, With the tears of heaven wet.

SIGHT.

I try to make the baby on my knee Look at the sunset; pointing where it glows Beyond the window-pane in tints of rose And violet and gold; when suddenly He dimples with responsive baby-glee, I think how wonderfully well he knows Its beauty; till the changing child-face shows He had not seen the sky, but laughed to see The sparkle of my rings;--O baby dear, This world of lovely gems and sunsets, bright With children’s faces,--is perhaps the near Though lesser glory, dazzling our poor sight, Until we cannot see, for very light, The heaven that shines for us, revealed and clear.

PURITY.

Some souls are white With perfectness, like stars full-orbed in heaven, Silently moving through the stainless blue; Seeming naught of their nature to have drawn From contact with the earth; and some are white With innocence, like daisies that too near The ground their fair leaves fearlessly unfold. This woman’s soul Is white with purity; the snowy bloom Of a camelia, that feels no disdain In drawing from this common earth of ours The sources of its beauty and its life; Yet with a wise and lofty self-control, Refuses long to blossom to the sun; Spreading its glossy leaves to light and air; Winning a deep, sure knowledge of the world; Rising with quiet dignity and grace Into a higher air; and when at last Its stately petals open to the day, Not with the daisy’s foolish trustfulness, But with the confidence of slow-won strength, To the world’s gaze it silently unfolds The perfect flower of a royal soul, Not innocent, and yet forever pure.

A ROSE.

Last night a little rose of love was laid Softly in this poor hand, by one who knew Not what most gracious breeze from heaven blew The blossom in his path; but since, he said, All loveliest things he summoned to his aid To win me,--let the fragrant flower that grew Surely in Paradise to help him woo And gain his wish,--be mine; then half afraid, Here on my breast I laid it, where it glows With such rich sudden beauty, that my eyes, Quickened by some new instinct, recognize What is indeed my own; for the fair rose,-- The rose of love bewilderingly sweet-- From my own heart had fallen at his feet!

RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE.

It is said That women are more curious than men;-- I should not put it so: they are more frank. A woman who would like to know if this Or that be so or so, makes no disguise, But lifts her clear eyes candidly to yours And asks directly, “_Is this true?_” a man, More wise and quite as curious, simply states A fact: “_This is so_;” knowing well indeed That if it is not, no true woman needs A sharper challenge instantly to arm Her soul with weapons to defend herself, Her country, or her friends; and so he gains The knowledge that he wished, and yet has shown No idle curiosity!

TO MAY H. R----.

Many a lovely dream a poet might Weave into fancies round thy lovely name, Sweetheart; yet I, who surely have no claim To be a poet,--(save the holy right Love gives me to write poems at the sight Of a young face whose eager brightness came As part of life’s best gift to me,--) can frame No fitter reason why in such delight I hold the one sweet syllable, than this: Not for its visions of the field or wood, But for its wealth of possibilities; Its hint of undefined, ideal good, Suggesting all thy soul can scarcely miss, That _May_ one day crown thy rich womanhood.

CYCLES.

Sing cheerily, O bluebird from on high! Earth will be blue with violets by-and-by, More blue than those you came from in the sky.

Haste, butterflies! for radiant Summer brings A crimson rose to match your sunlit wings, Brighter than violets the blue-bird sings.

Croon, happy insects; violet and rose Have faded; yet the autumn corn-field glows Where in the golden grain the poppy grows.

Hush, eager voices! for in dreamless sleep, Wrapped in cool snow, the restless earth would keep Forevermore serenity so deep.

Forevermore? nay, tired earth, not so; Sweet as the violets of long ago The pink arbutus rises from the snow.

Gathered too eagerly, it fades too soon; Then large white lilies open wide in June Their golden hearts up to the golden noon.

And when the perfect lily in the gleam Of too much sunlight, fades like a fair dream, The crimson cardinals fringe the brightening stream.

Then once again the softly falling snow; While bright above the ivy green below The scarlet berries of the holly glow.

EXPERIENCE.

A child laid in the grave ere it had known Earth held delight beyond its mother’s kiss;-- A fair girl passing from a world like this Into God’s vast eternity, alone;-- A brave man’s soul in one brief instant thrown To deepest agony from highest bliss;-- A woman steeling her young heart to miss All joys in life, one dear one having flown;-- These have I seen; yet happier these, I said, Than one who by experience made strong, Learning to live without the precious dead, Survive despair, outlive remorse and wrong, Can say when new grief comes, with unbowed head, “Let me not mourn! I shall forget ere long!”

A TRUST IN GOD.

She knew She was not wise; was conscious in herself Of eager impulses that would have wrecked Her whole heart’s happiness a thousand times, Had not some Power from without herself Shut down the sudden gates, and with its stern “_Thou shalt not!_” left her, stunned perhaps, but saved. For she was but a woman, and her will Hung poised upon her heart, and swayed with each Quick-passing impulse, like a humming-bird Lit tremulous on some rich-tinted flower. Rich-tinted, truly; no forget-me-not, Placid with blue serenity; nor yet That regal flower, stately in its calm Fair dignity, that hoards its loveliness From common gaze, with instinct to discern The presence of unworthy worshippers. Not till the twilight shadows have shut out The common crowd that would have rifled all Its queenly beauty,--does it condescend For him who with a patient reverence Has waited, to unfold with lovely grace The royal petals; and it droops and dies Before the garish day has ushered in Again the curious crowd. This woman’s soul Was not so snowy in its purity, And not so keen in its fine instincts; nay, But tinted with all splendid hues, intense With high enthusiasms, and yet indeed Not passionate, but pure as lilies are. Transparent flames are surely just as pure As icicles; and something of the rich And brilliant glow of her own nature fell On everyone about her, till they stood Transfigured in her eyes, with glory caught From her own loveliness. She was not keen To judge of human nature; she believed All men were noble; and a thousand times The poor heart would have offered up its all On some unworthy shrine, had not the fates Kindly removed the shrine. How could she help Believe that God had stooped from highest heaven, To save her from herself?

FORESIGHT.

Unbar, O heavy clouds, the gated West! That this most weary day, beholding so Her goal, may hasten her sad steps; I know She comes without fair gifts; upon her breast Close-clasped, the pale cold hands together pressed Hold nothing;--then let some red sunset glow Tempt her to seek the unknown world below The far horizon where she hopes for rest!

At last the day, like some poor toil-worn slave, Passes, and leaves in sooth no gift for me;-- Yet I, who thought my heart could be so brave To bear what I had wisdom to foresee, Sob in despair, as this poor day that gave Me nothing, sinks behind the western sea!

TO FRANK S. R----.

WITH A VIOLIN.

The stately trees that in the forest grow Are not all destined for the same high thing; Some burn to useless cinders in the glow Of the hearth-fire; while some are meant to sing

For centuries the never-dying song Once caught from wandering breeze or lingering bird So clearly and so surely, that the strong Firm wood was quickly seized by one who heard,

To fashion his dear violin;--even so Our human souls are fashioned; some will fade Away to useless ashes, others grow Immortal through the sweetness they have made.

“THE EAGER SUN COMES GLADLY FROM THE SEA.”

The eager sun comes gladly from the sea; Remembering that one short year ago He rose from unknown worlds of light below Those same far waves, to shine on you and me Standing together on the shore;--but we Are strangely far apart to-day; and so The saddened sun with lingering step and slow Climbs the horizon, wondering not to see Your face beside mine; nor can understand As we do, dear, that you and I to-day,-- Though million miles of ocean or of land And centuries of time between us lay,-- Are nearer to each other than when hand Touched hand, before we gave our hearts away!

RESERVE.

I hear you praise What you are pleased to call unsounded depths Of character; a nature that the world Would call reserved; tempting you while it hides-- Or you suspect it hides--a richer wealth Deep in some far recesses of the soul. As if, indeed, you should approve the host Who with most admirable courtesy Should throw wide open to your curious gaze His drawing-room, his green-house and his hall; Yet should not hesitate to let you see Certain close-bolted doors of hardest oak, Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here, Alas! I cannot let you enter.” You At once are filled with curiosity To listen at the keyhole. So am I; Yet much I doubt if after all those deep Recesses of the soul are filled with aught But emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang; The master of the house can scarce himself Feel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts; Although he take an honorable pride, Leaning at ease in comfortable chair, To know there are some chambers in his soul Unentered even by himself. But him I call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a well Of frank sincerity; whose smiling lips, Curving with hospitable gayety, Bid you most welcome to his house and home; Throwing wide open to your curious gaze Each nook and corner; leaving you at ease To wander where you will; and if at times You half suspect some hidden sweet retreat Where hyacinths are blossoming unseen, ’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doors Whisper of secrets you would fain explore; But that the tapestries upon the wall So lightly hang, that swaying to and fro, They half betray a fragrance from within. You never once suspect that secret doors Are sliding in the panels underneath; But when you go, the master of the house Lifts easily the soft and shining silk, To find there sacred silence from you all. ’Tis easier To read the secrets of a dark, deep pool That coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,” With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky, Than catch the meaning of a silver spring, Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heart Delicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun.

A SONG OF SUMMER.

Laden with gifts of your giving, O summer of June! With the rapturous idyl of living In perfect attune; With the sweetness of eve when it closes A day of delight; With the tremulous breath of the roses Entrancing the night; With the glow of your cardinal flowers On lips that had paled; And the coolness of silvery showers For hands that had failed; With geraniums vivid with fire To wear on my breast, Where the lilies had paled with desire To bring to me rest; With the joy that was born of your brightness Still thrilling my soul, And a heart whose bewildering lightness I cannot control; Ah! now that your idyl of living Is over too soon, What gifts can compare with your giving, O summer of June?

Then a wraith of the winter said gently, “I will not deceive; Of the brightness you prize so intently No trace shall I leave. The glow of the cardinal flowers Shall pass from the field, And the softness of silvery showers To ice be congealed; The geraniums vivid with fire Shall curl at the heart; And the lily forget the desire Its peace to impart; Pale as the rose that is dying, Your whitening cheek; Faint as its tremulous sighing, Words you would speak; For a joy that was born of their brightness I tremble with you, When the gleam and the glory and lightness Shall pass with the dew. Ah! now that your idyl of living Is over so soon, What gifts will be left of your giving, O summer of June?”

THOUGHT.

A palace richly furnished is the mind, In whose fair chambers we may walk at will; And in its cloistered calm, serene and still, Continual delight and comfort find. Not only fretful cares we leave behind, But restless happiness, and hopes that fill The eager soul with too much light, until Eyes dazzled see less wisely than the blind. So perfect is the joy we find therein, No pleasures of the outer world compare With the divine repose so gladly sought; When from the wearying world we turn to win High mental solitude, and cherish there Silent companionship with lofty thought.

A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE.

I thought to hold thy memory as the sea Holds in its heart a pale reflected moon, Lost when the sunny radiance of noon Dissolves the moonlight’s tender mystery.

Lo! thou art not her semblance in the seas, But the fair moon herself, that near or far, Orbed high in heaven as a shining star Or hid from sight at love’s antipodes;--

Still sways the waters with love’s restless tides; Not by her own will; no coquette is she,-- The lovely moon to whom I liken thee;-- For high above our earthly air she glides,

Unconscious as the waves that rise to greet Her coming, of the mystery of God’s law Compelling her those far-off waves to draw Forever towards her whom they never meet.

A REMEMBERED CRITIC.

TO J. R. D.

Kind words, that greater kindness still implied From one unused to praise, for one unknown To him and to the world where he had grown Less wont to cheer the artist than to chide; And always in my heart I thought with pride Some day to know him, and for him alone Bring the fair finished work, that he might own-- “O friend, behold my full faith justified!” Now he is dead! a man severe, they said Who knew the critic; but around the spot We call his grave, by some sweet memory led Of kindred sweetness, violets have not Refused to bloom; and one he had forgot Wept suddenly to hear that he was dead.

DAWN.

Wake, happy heart, O awake! For the mists are flitting away; And the hawthorn boughs for thy sake Are eager and longing to break Into garlands of blossoming spray. Sing, sing it, O gay little linnet! And hasten, O glad lark, to bring it, The beautiful Day!

O Dawn, I am hungry with yearning For gifts thou canst give;-- The proud soul within me is burning With new life to live. I am strong with the strength of long sleeping; Fill full now each vein With rich crimson wine thou art keeping For glad hearts to drain! O hush! for the clouds break asunder; Her delicate feet Touch the hills with a reverent wonder If earth will be sweet. And the heart that within me was breaking With longing for her, Breaks utterly, now that awaking I hear her low stir. So frail and so dainty and tender; What heart could foresee That the goddess it longed for, a slender Young fairy would be? Empty-handed, she dreads my displeasure, And turns half away; ’Tis for me then to give of my treasure, O beautiful Day! Appealing, she waits till I greet her, With no gifts for me; Dear Day, after all it is sweeter For me to crown thee! If I am not a happier maiden Because of thy stay, Thou shalt be with bright gifts from me laden, A happier Day!

WITH AN ANTIQUE.

The old, old story men would call our love; One cannot think of any time so old That some “I love you” was not gladly told To some one listening gladly; each remove Of the long lingering centuries does but prove Its deathlessness;--and we to-day who hold Each other dear as if young Love had sold To us alone his birthright from above,-- Love’s secret ours alone,--turn back to seek In the rich types of Roman art or Greek Some fitting gift wherewith to fitly speak A love that each heart to the other drew;-- An old, old story it may seem to you; To us, each year more beautiful, more new.

DOUBT.

Tell me, my friend; Across your faith (which, pardon me, I know To be sincere and honest; else, indeed, I had not spent this hour with you here;) Across your faith, then, does there never creep A haunting doubt it may not all be true? For me, although my life were spanned above With faith as honest as your own, if once On the horizon there had dawned a doubt No bigger than a pigmy’s little hand, Then heaven would be always overcast With possible untruth, and I should think The stars I saw were but poor will-o’-the-wisps Created in my brain, beyond which rolled The eternal darkness of a blank despair. Whereas now, living underneath a sky Continually clouded,--when a rift Shows me a tender heavenly blue beyond, I fancy then the darkness overhead May be a gathered mist of my poor brain, Beyond which rolls, immortal and unstained, The glory of the everlasting Truth!

“I KNOW MYSELF THE BEST-BELOVED OF ALL.”

I know myself the best-beloved of all The many dear to him; yet not indeed Because of his swift thought for every need Of my love’s craving; I could scarcely call My very own the power to enthrall Such chivalry as his, that turns to heed Each slightest claim, nor thinks to ask the meed Of love returned where love’s sweet offerings fall. Not then because of all he is to me; But by this surer token; when he earns The right to his own happiness, or yearns For some sweet, sudden, answering sympathy, Ah me! with what quick-beating heart I see For his own joy it is to me he turns!

OCTOBER.

The very air Has grown heroic; a few crimson leaves Have fallen here; yet not to yield their breath In pitiful sighing at so sad a fate, But royally, as with spilt blood of kings. The full life throbs exultant in my veins, Till half ashamed to wear so high a mood, Not for some splendid triumph of the soul, But simply in response to light and air, Slowly I let it fall. And later, steal Down the broad garden-walk, where cool and clear The sharp-defined white moonlight marks the path. Not the young moon that shy and wavering down Trembled through leafy tracery of the boughs In happy nights of June; the peace that wraps Me here is not the warm and golden peace Of summer afternoons that lull the soul To dreamy indolence; but strong white peace, Peace that is conscious power in repose. No fragrance floats on the autumnal air; The white chrysanthemums and asters star The frosty silence, but their leaves exhale No passion of remembrance or regret. The perfect calmness and the perfect strength My senses wrap in an enchanted robe Woven of frost and fire; while in my soul Blend the same mingled sovereignty and rest; As if indeed my spirit had drained deep Some delicate elixir of rich wine, Ripened beneath the haughtiest of suns, Then cooled with flakes of snow.

SERENITY.

Her days are as a silver-flowing stream;-- Above, the rippling sunbeams flash and gleam; Beneath, strong currents noiseless as a dream.

Her heart is like the lilies that bloom wide In restful beauty on the restless tide, Asking not where the eager waters glide.

Her thoughts are white-winged birds, that from below To the high heavens soar and vanish so-- Alas! mine cannot follow where they go.

Her joys are bright-winged birds that from on high Come singing down, and tempt the stream to try And sing with them as they flit singing by.

Her sorrows--she has none her heart will own; The air is silent when the birds have flown; But the poor stream still sings the song, alone.

“A YEAR AGO TO-DAY, LOVE.”

A year ago to-day, love, for the space Of a brief sudden moment, richly fraught With deeper meaning than our light hearts thought, You held my hand and looked into the face Which, poor in gifts, has since by God’s good grace Grown dear to you;--and the full year has brought Friendship--and love--and marriage; yet has taught My heart to call you in its sacred place Still by the earliest name; for you who are My lover and my husband, and who bring Heaven close around me, will not let me cling To that near heaven; but tempt my soul afar By your ideals for me; till life end, My calm, dispassionate, sincerest _friend_.

STEADFAST.

Not like the stars that high in heaven Shine so serenely with unchanging rays That marveling at their calmness, you believe Of their “firm-fixed and lasting quality” There is no type upon the earth beneath. A few weeks hence look up, and you shall find Each steadfast planet steadfastly has moved Across the midnight azure of the sky With silent rays still tranquil and serene. Not steadfast like the stars is she I love, But as this gem I wear upon my breast; Whose rich rays wander from me through the room, Sparkling and fading with capricious gleam Of light and color, like the varying moods Of my beloved one; those who turn to praise The beauty of the gem, admire most The changefulness of its most restless rays; Yet I feel no uneasiness or doubt; Knowing full well whenever I look down Upon my breast, the jewel will be there.

WITH A CRYSTAL LION.

For L. R. W.

Keep watch and ward, In stately guard, Around my Una’s wayward feet; Not lest she tread False ways instead Of higher paths, serenely sweet;--