Chapter 14

Each day, when the glow of sunset Fades in the western sky, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go tripping lightly by, I steal away from my husband, Asleep in his easy-chair, And watch from the open door-way Their faces fresh and fair.

Alone in the dear old homestead That once was full of life, Ringing with girlish laughter, Echoing boyish strife, We two are waiting together; And oft, as the shadows come, With tremulous voice he calls me, "It is night! are the children home?"

"Yes, love!" I answer him gently, "They're all home long ago;"-- And I sing, in my quivering treble, A song so soft and low, Till the old man drops to slumber, With his head upon his hand, And I tell to myself the number At home in the better land.

At home, where never a sorrow Shall dim their eyes with tears! Where the smile of God is on them Through all the summer years! I know,--yet my arms are empty, That fondly folded seven, And the mother heart within me Is almost starved for heaven.

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, I only shut my eyes, And the children are all about me, A vision from the skies: The babes whose dimpled fingers Lost the way to my breast, And the beautiful ones, the angels, Passed to the world of the blest.

With never a cloud upon them, I see their radiant brows; My boys that I gave to freedom,-- The red sword sealed their vows! In a tangled Southern forest, Twin brothers bold and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for, Thank God! floats over their grave.

A breath, and the vision is lifted Away on wings of light, And again we two are together, All alone in the night. They tell me his mind is failing, But I smile at idle fears; He is only back with the children, In the dear and peaceful years.

And still, as the summer sunset Fades away in the west, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go trooping home to rest, My husband calls from his corner, "Say, love, have the children come?" And I answer, with eyes uplifted, "Yes, dear! they are all at home."

MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER.

JIM'S KIDS.

Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill, Over the beach lived he and his wife, In a little house--you can see it still-- An' their two fair boys; upon my life You never seen two likelier kids, In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise, Than them two boys!

Jim would go out in his boat on the sea, Just as the rest of us fishermen did, An' when he come back at night thar'd be, Up to his knees in the surf, each kid, A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim; He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar Of the waves on the shore.

But one night Jim came a sailin' home And the little kids weren't on the sands; Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come, And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands, And he learnt the worst up on the hill, In the little house, an' he bowed his head, "The fever," they said.

'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim, With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes, They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him, For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries Were about the waves and fisherman Jim And the little boat a sailin' for shore Till they spoke no more.

Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on, And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone, And he never was heard to speak the name Of the little kids who were buried there, Upon the hill in sight o' the sea, Under a willow tree.

One night they came and told me to haste To the house on the hill, for Jim was sick, And they said I hadn't no time to waste, For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick An' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like, An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see, An' had called for me.

And fisherman Jim sez he to me, "It's my last, last cruise, you understand, I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea, But off on the further shore, on the sand, Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know, In the long ago."

No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die, For all that night he seemed to see His little boys of the years gone by, And to hear sweet voices forgot by me; An' just as the mornin' sun came up, "They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried, And so he died.

EUGENE FIELD.

THE MAY QUEEN.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,-- Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but _none_ so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say: So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,-- But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white; And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

They say he's dying all for love,--but that can never be; They say his heart is breaking, mother,--what is that to me? There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day; And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away; And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray; And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day; And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year; To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year. It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,-- Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set,--he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,-- Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills,--the frost is on the pane; I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again. I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,-- I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave.

Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,-- When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild; You should not fret for me, mother--you have another child.

If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say. And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.

Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,-- She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor. Let her take 'em--they are hers; I shall never garden more. But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor window and the box of mignonette.

Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,-- So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies; And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise; And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow; And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go.

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done! But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair, And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin; Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in. Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be; For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,-- There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,-- It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For, lying broad awake, T thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both,--and so I felt resigned, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed; And then did something speak to me,--I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,--it's mine;" And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars; Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know The blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day; But Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,-- Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,-- Forever and forever with those just souls and true,-- And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,-- And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,-- To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,-- And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

ON ANNE ALLEN.

The wind blew keenly from the Western sea, And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree-- Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith-- Heaping them up before her Father's door When I saw her whom I shall see no more-- We cannot bribe thee, Death.

She went abroad the falling leaves among, She saw the merry season fade, and sung-- Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- Freely she wandered in the leafless wood, And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good-- She knew thee not, O Death.

She bound her shining hair across her brow, She went into the garden fading now; Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- And if one sighed to think that it was sere, She smiled to think that it would bloom next year! She feared thee not, O Death.

Blooming she came back to the cheerful room With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom-- Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- A fragrant knot for each of us she tied, And placed the fairest at her Father's side-- She cannot charm thee, Death.

Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all; We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall-- Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- We heard her sometimes after evening prayer, As she went singing softly up the stair-- No voice can charm thee, Death.

Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind, That made sweet music of the winter wind? Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- Idly they gaze upon her empty place, Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face-- She is with thee, O Death.

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

SONNET.

(SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)

Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear, And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes; He stands upon the threshold, quick to close The gate of happiness ere should appear Death's dreaded presence--ay, but Death draws near, And large and gray the towering outline grows, Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knows Full well, too well, alas! that Death is here. Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in, Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread, Would bar the way--poor Love, whose wings begin To droop, half-torn as are the roses dead Already at his feet--but Death must win, And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread!

LADY LINDSAY.

JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR.

The bier descends, the spotless roses too, The father's tribute in his saddest hour: O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,-- The fair young girl and flower.

Give them not back unto a world again, Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,-- Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,-- That fair young girl and flower.

Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now, Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower; They both have perished in their morning glow,-- The fair young girl and flower.

But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale, Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower, And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail, O fair young girl and flower!

From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND.

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours.

THOMAS HOOD.

A DEATH-BED.

Her suffering ended with the day; Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away, In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state, Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory's morning-gate, And walked in Paradise!

JAMES ALDRICH.

REQUIESCAT.

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample Spirit, It fluttered and failed for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty Hall of Death.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

"THE UNILLUMINED VERGE."

TO A FRIEND DYING.

They tell you that Death's at the turn of the road, That under the shade of a cypress you'll find him, And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.

I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill, And we'll talk of the way we have come through the valley; Down below there a bird breaks into a trill, And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley.

You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave-- "Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing! Yet it's joyful to live, and it's hard to be brave When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going."

We are almost there--our last walk on this height-- I must bid you good-bye at that cross on the mountain. See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain!

And it shines in your face and illumines your soul; We are comrades as ever, right here at your going; You may rest if you will within sight of the goal, While I must return to my oar and the rowing.

We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend; I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning Just over the ridge within reach of the end Of your arduous toil,--the beginning of learning.

You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge, "An revoir!" and "Good night!" while the twilight is creeping Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge? Yes, I hear your faint voice: "This is rest, and like sleeping!"

ROBERT BRIDGES (_Droch_).

CORONACH.

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO III.

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow:

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

EVELYN HOPE.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut,--no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,-- It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares; And now was quiet, now astir,-- Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals,--naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love; I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Much is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come--at last it will-- When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth,--in the years long still,-- That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red,-- And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men. Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing--one--in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me,-- And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; My heart seemed full as it could hold,-- There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand.

ROBERT BROWNING.

ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee,-- With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came, And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre, In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes! that was the reason (as all men know) In this kingdom by the sea, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heayen above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.