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diff --git a/39032.txt b/39032.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a760a76 --- /dev/null +++ b/39032.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2616 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs Ysame, by +Annie Fellows Johnston and Albion Fellows Bacon + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Songs Ysame + +Author: Annie Fellows Johnston + Albion Fellows Bacon + +Release Date: March 3, 2012 [EBook #39032] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS YSAME *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Cover] + + + + +SONGS YSAME + + + + +Dainty Volumes of Poetry + + +[Illustration: decoration] + +Price, per volume, $1.25 + +[Illustration: decoration] + + GOLDEN TREASURY OF AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS. + + Edited by F. L. KNOWLES. + + CAP AND GOWN. First Series. + + Edited by J. L. HARRISON. + + CAP AND GOWN. Second Series. + + Edited by F. L. KNOWLES. + + SONGS YSAME. + + By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON and ALBION FELLOWS BACON. + + OUT OF THE HEART. + + Edited by J. W. CHADWICK. + + + L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY, Publishers + (INCORPORATED) + 196 Summer Street, Boston + +[Illustration: _Motherhood_] + + + + +SONGS YSAME + +BY ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON AND ALBION FELLOWS BACON + +[Illustration] + + BOSTON + L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY + (INCORPORATED) + MDCCCXCVII + + + + + _Copyright, 1897_, + BY L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY + + (INCORPORATED) + + Colonial Press: + + Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. + Boston, Mass., U. S. A. + + + + + TO + + Our Mother + MARY ERSKINE FELLOWS + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON + PAGE + [A]AT A TENEMENT WINDOW 53 + [A]AT EARLY CANDLE-LIGHTING 18 + BANDITTI 65 + [B]"BOB WHITE" 25 + ECHOES FROM ERIN 47 + ELINOR 114 + [B]FELIPA, WIFE OF COLUMBUS 60 + INTERLUDE 79 + IN THIS CRADLE-LIFE OF OURS 74 + MY CAROL 71 + OCTOBER 88 + ON A FLY-LEAF OF "AFTERWHILES" 118 + ON A FLY-LEAF OF "FLUTE AND VIOLIN" 115 + PRELUDE (NOW I CAN SING, ETC.) xiii + RETROSPECTION 45 + SPENDTHRIFT 67 + THE FICKLE HEART 64 + THE LEGEND OF THE PANSIES 102 + [A]THROUGH AN AMBER PANE 50 + TRAILING ARBUTUS 100 + 'TWIXT CREEK AND BAY 62 + VOICES OF THE OLD, OLD DAYS 39 + + + ALBION FELLOWS BACON. + + A MADRIGAL 98 + [C]A MOOD 101 + A RESOLVE 123 + A SONG 55 + AN ALPINE VALLEY 49 + AN OLD-TIME PEDAGOGUE 31 + AT LAST 125 + AT TWILIGHT 90 + CHIARO-OSCURO 120 + ECLIPSE 57 + ELIZABETH 113 + GRANDFATHER 27 + HER TITLE-DEEDS 34 + HERE AND THERE 75 + IN THE DARK 58 + INSPIRATION 116 + LEFT OUT 95 + LOST 69 + MAY-TIME 84 + MARRIED 108 + MOTHERHOOD 109 + "OH, DREARY DAY" 83 + ON A FLY-LEAF OF IRVING 117 + OPHELIA 111 + "OUR FATHER" 97 + PRELUDE (WE CANNOT SING, ETC.) xiii + REQUIEM 112 + SILENT KEYS 41 + SPRING'S COPHETUA 86 + STRANDED 124 + SUFFICIENCY 110 + THE LIGHTING OF THE CANDLES 17 + THE MILKY WAY 76 + THE OLD BELL 106 + THE OLD CHURCH 29 + THE POTTER'S FIELD 93 + THE PROPHET 91 + THE ROBBER 70 + THE SEA 107 + THE SILENT BROTHERHOOD 66 + THE TIME O' DAY 99 + THE TOWER OF BABEL 104 + WINTER BEAUTY 87 + WHEN YOUTH IS GONE 63 + WHEN SHE COMES HOME 122 + +FOOTNOTES: + +[A] By permission of _Youth's Companion_. + +[B] By permission of _Harper's Weekly_. + +[C] By permission of _Frank Leslie_. + + + + +PRELUDE. + + + _WE cannot sing of life, whose years are brief, + Nor sad heart-stories tell, who know no grief, + Nor write of shipwrecks on the seas of Fate, + Whose ship from out the harbor sailed but late. + But we may sing of fair and sunny days, + Of Love that walks in peace through quiet ways; + And unto him who turns the page to see + Our simple story, haply it may be + As when in some mild day in early spring, + One through the budding woods goes wandering; + And finds, where late the snow has blown across, + Beneath the leaves, a violet in the moss._ + _1887._ _A. F. B._ + + + _NOW I can sing of life, whose days are brief, + For I have walked close hand in hand with grief. + And I may tell of shipwrecked hopes, since mine + Sank just outside the happy harbor line. + But still my song is of those sunny days + When Love was with me in those quiet ways. + And unto him who turns the page to see + That day's short story, haply it may be, + The joy of those old memories he feels: + As one who through the wintry twilight steals, + And sees, across the chilly wastes of snow, + The darkened sunset's rosy afterglow._ + _1892._ _A. F. J._ + + + + +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. + + + + +PART II. + + + + +Retrospection. + + + THE grandsire, in the chimney corner, takes + The almanac from its accustomed place, + And while the kettle swings upon the crane, + And firelight flickers on his wrinkled face, + Reviews the slow procession of the months; + And sees again upon the hills of green + The gypsy Springtime pitch her airy tent + Among the blossoms. Then the silver sheen + Of harvest moon shines down on rustling corn + Until the hazy air of Autumn thrills + With sound of woodman's ax and hunter's horn, + And darker shadows climb the russet hills. + + But while he ponders on the open page, + The last sand in the hour-glass slips away. + The end seems near of his long pilgrimage, + And he would call the fleeting year to stay. + But passing on, she goes--a sweet-faced nun-- + To take within the Convent of the Past + The veil of silence. Then the gates swing shut, + And Time, the grim old warden, bolts them fast. + No more can come again those halcyon days + The Year took with it to its dim-lit cell; + But often at the bars they stand and gaze, + When through the heart rings memory's matin-bell. + + + + +Echoes From Erin. + + + ACROSS old Purple Mountain I hear a bugle call, + And down the rocks, like water, the echoes leap and fall. + One note alone can startle the voices of the peaks, + And waken songs of Erin, whene'er the bugle speaks. + They call and call and call, + Until the voices all + Ring down the dusky hollows and in the distance fall. + + Methinks, like Purple Mountain, the past will sometimes rise, + And memory's call awaken its echoing replies. + Within the tower of Shandon again the bells will sway, + And follow, with their ringing, the Lee upon its way, + And chime and chime and chime, + Where ivy tendrils climb, + Till bells and river mingle to sound the silvery rhyme. + + Again the daisied grasses beside the castle walls + Will stir with softest sighing, to hear the wind's footfalls; + And through the moss-grown abbey, along Killarney's shore, + The melodies of Erin will echo evermore, + And roll and roll and roll, + Till spirit hands shall toll + The music of the uplands unto the listening soul. + +_Killarney, Ireland._ + + + + +An Alpine Valley. + + + OH, happy valley at the mountain's feet, + If half your happiness you could but know! + Though over you a shadow always falls, + And far above you rise those heights of snow, + So far, your yearning love you may not speak + With rosy flush like some high sister peak, + Yet you may clasp its feet in fond embrace, + And gaze up in its face. + + And sometimes down its slopes a wind will come + And bring a sudden, noiseless sweep of snow, + Like a soft greeting from those summits sent + To comfort you below. + + What more? Love may not ask too great a boon. + Enough to be so near, though cast so low. + Think that a sea had rolled between you twain + If careless fortune had decreed it so, + And you could only lie and look across + To distant cloudy heights and know your loss, + And see some favored valley, fair and sweet, + Heap flowers at its feet. + +_Cham, Switzerland._ + + + + +Through an Amber Pane. + + + BY some strange alchemy that turns to gold + The light that drops from gray and leaden skies, + Though heavy mists the outer world enfold, + 'Tis always sunshine where Napoleon lies. + No more an exile by an alien sea, + Forgetful of the banishment and bane; + Now lies he there, in kingly dignity, + His tomb a Mecca shrine beside the Seine. + And there the pilgrim hears the story told, + How Paris placed above her hero, dead, + A window that should turn to yellow gold + The light that on his resting place is shed. + So on him falls, though summers wane, + The sunshine of that amber pane. + + By some strange miracle, maybe divine, + The sunlight falls upon the buried past + And turns its water into sparkling wine, + And gilds the coin its coffers have amassed. + Could it have been those long-lost halcyon days + Trailed not a cloud across our April sky? + Faltered we not along those untried ways? + Grew we not weary as the days went by? + Ah, yes! But unreturning feet forget + Rough places trodden in the long ago, + Rememb'ring only paths with flowers beset, + While pressing onward, wearily and slow. + For Memory's windows but retain + The sunshine of an amber pane. + + The little white, wind-blown anemone + By one round dewdrop may be fully filled, + And by some light-winged, passing honey-bee + Its cup of crystal water may be spilled. + So does the child heart hold its happiness: + A drop will fill it to its rosy rim. + It is not that these later days bring less, + That joy so rarely rises to the brim; + It is because the heart has deeper grown. + A fuller knowledge must its thirst assuage. + Perhaps we would not deem those pleasures flown + As bright as those which star the present age, + Had not upon them long years lain + The sunshine of an amber pane. + + The dust of dim forgetfulness piles fast + Upon the chains that thralled us yesterday. + So will it be when this day, too, is past, + And in its arms we've seen it bear away + The cares that brooded in the tired brain; + The work that weighted down the weary hand; + The high hopes that we struggled to attain; + The problems that we could not understand. + Washed of its stain, bereft of any sting, + Seen through the window of the Memory, + Perchance, a gentler grace to it may cling + Than we may now think possible to see. + For skies will gleam, though gray with rain, + Like sunshine through that amber pane. + + We may not stand on Patmos, and look through + The star-hinged portals where the great pearls gleam. + No brush that unveiled beauty ever drew, + Save one, that caught its shadow in a dream. + So lest we falter, faithless and afraid, + The Merciful, remembering we are dust, + Reveals not heaven for which our hearts have prayed, + But by a token teaches us to trust; + And day by day allows us to look through + The window of the Memory, broad and vast, + (Till jasper minarets rise into view) + Upon the happy heaven of the past; + And gives, till purer light we gain, + The sunshine of that amber pane. + + + + +At a Tenement Window. + + + SOMETIMES my needle stops with half-drawn thread + (Not often though, each moment's waste means bread, + And missing stitches leave the little mouths unfed). + I look down on the dingy court below: + A tuft of grass is all it has to show,-- + A broken pump, where thirsty children go. + Above, there shines a bit of sky, so small + That it might be a passing blue-bird's wing. + One tree leans up against the high brick wall, + And there the sparrows twitter of the spring, + Until they waken in my heart a cry + Of hunger, that no bread can satisfy. + + Always before, when Maytime took her way + Across the fields, I followed close. To-day + I can but dream of all her bright array. + My work drops down. Across the sill I lean, + And long with bitter longing, for unseen + Rain-freshened paths, where budding woods grow green. + The water trickles from the pump below + Upon the stones. With eyes half shut, I hear + It falling in a pool where rushes grow, + And feel a cooling presence drawing near. + And now the sparrows chirp again. No, hark!-- + A singing as of some far meadow lark. + + It is the same old miracle applied + Unto myself, that on the mountain-side + The few small loaves and fishes multiplied. + Behold, how strange and sweet the mystery! + The birds, the broken pump, the gnarled tree, + Have brought the fullness of the spring to me. + For in the leaves that rustle by the wall + All forests find a tongue. And so that grass + Can, with its struggling tuft of green, recall + Wide, bloom-filled meadows where the cattle pass. + How it can be, but dimly I divine. + These crumbs, God given, make the whole loaf mine. + + + + +A Song. + + "Home-keeping hearts are happiest."--LONGFELLOW. + + + THERE will be distant journeyings enough + To reach that Land beyond the ether's sea, + To satisfy the veriest roaming heart,-- + Let me stay home with thee! + + There will be new companionships enough + In that bright spirit-life. Why should we flee + So soon to alien hearts and stranger scenes? + I would stay home with thee. + + The heart grows homesick, thinking of the change + When these familiar things no more shall be; + When e'en the thought of them, perchance, shall fade,-- + Let me stay home with thee. + + I would imprint upon my mind each scene, + Each meadow path, and stream, and orchard-tree, + Beloved since childhood, holy with our hopes, + Sweet with the thoughts of thee. + + And each dear household place, let me learn all + By heart, where I am wont thy form to see. + Who knows what things shall pass? If I may share + A hearth in heaven with thee? + + + + +Eclipse. + + + GOD keep us from the sordid mood + That shrinks to self-infinitude, + That sees no thing as good or grand, + That answers not the hour's demand, + And throws o'er Heaven's splendors furled + The shadow of our little world. + + + + +In the Dark. + + + HERE in the dark I lie, and watch the stars + That through the soft gloom shine like tear-bright eyes + Behind a mourner's veil. The darkness seems + Almost a vapor, palpable and dense, + In which my room's familiar outlines melt, + And all seems one black pall that folds me round. + Only a mirror glimmers through the dusk, + And on the wall a dim, uncertain square + Shows where a portrait hangs. Ah, even so + Beloved faces fade into the past + And naught remains except a space of light + To show us where they were. + How still it seems! + The busy clock, whose tell-tale talk was drowned + By Day's uproarious voices, calls aloud, + Undaunted by the dark, the flight of time, + And through the halls its tones ring drearily. + The breeze on tiptoe seems to tread, as though + It were afraid to rouse the drowsy leaves. + The long, dim street is quiet. Nothing breaks + The dream of Night, asleep on Nature's breast. + Hark! Some one passes. On the pavement stones + Each stealthy step gives back a muffled sound, + Till the last foot-fall seems in distance drowned. + So Death might pass, bent on his mission dread, + Adown the silent street, and none might know + What hour he passed or what he bore away. + Ah, sadder thought! So Life goes, unawares, + Noiseless and swift and resolutely on, + While the dumb world lies folded in the gloom, + Unconscious and uncaring in its sleep. + And towards the west, the stars, all silently + Like golden sands in God's great hour-glass, glide + And fall into the nether crystal globe. + + + + +Felipa, Wife of Columbus. + + + MORE than the compass to the mariner, + Wast thou, Felipa, to his dauntless soul. + Through adverse winds that threatened wreck, and nights + Of rayless gloom, thou pointed ever to + The North Star of his great ambition. He + Who once has lost an Eden, or has gained + A paradise by Eve's sweet influence, + Alone can know how strong a spell lies in + The witchery of a woman's beckoning hand. + And thou didst draw him, tide-like, higher still, + Felipa, whispering the lessons learned + From thy courageous father, till the flood + Of his ambition burst all barriers + And swept him onward to his longed-for goal. + + Before the jewels of a Spanish queen + Built fleets to waft him on his untried way, + Thou gavest thy wealth of wifely sympathy + To build the lofty purpose of his soul. + And now the centuries have cycled by, + Till thou art all-forgotten by the throng + That lauds the great Pathfinder of the deep. + It matters not in that infinitude + Of space, where thou dost guide thy spirit-bark + To undiscovered lands, supremely fair. + If to this little planet thou couldst turn + And voyage, wraithlike, to its cloud-hung rim, + Thou wouldst not care for praise. And if, perchance, + Some hand held out to thee a laurel bough, + Thou wouldst not claim one leaf, but fondly turn + To lay thy tribute, also, at his feet. + + + + +'Twixt Creek and Bay. + + + 'TWIXT creek and bay + We whisper to our white sails "stay! + Oh, Life, a little while delay! + 'Twixt creek and bay." + + So loath to go + From these calm shallows that we know, + We fain would stay the year's swift flow, + Nor onward go + + To banks more wide, + Where seaward drawings of the tide + Impel to deeper depths untried, + Where Life grows wide. + + 'Twixt creek and bay-- + The morning deepens into day, + And richer freight we bear, alway, + When in the bay. + + + + +When Youth is Gone. + + + HOW can we know when youth is gone,-- + When age has surely come at last? + There is no marked meridian + Through which we sail, and feel when past. + + A keener air our faces strike, + A chiller current swifter run; + They meet and glide like tide with tide, + Our youth and age, when youth is done. + + + + +The Fickle Heart. + + + CANST tell me, thou inconstant heart, + What like unto thou art? + A gypsy wandering up and down + Through April's green and Autumn's brown, + Until the year is spent; + And then, when hills are white with snow, + And brooks, ice-bound, have ceased to flow, + No place to pitch his tent. + + + + +Banditti. + + + UPON Life's lonely highway, robber bands + Of grim-faced years seize with relentless hands + Each traveler, and wrest from out his grasp + The treasures that he fain would closer clasp. + None can escape. Each year demands its toll, + Till robbed of youth, we grope toward the goal, + Halting and blind, of all but life bereft, + And death claims that--the only boon that's left. + + + + +The Silent Brotherhood. + + + ON through the cloisters of eternity + The years, like monks, in slow procession pass, + Telling their rosary beads, the golden days, + With penance prayers of dark and dismal nights. + Hooded and cowled, with silence on they pass, + Nor will they pause until their vesper rings + A solemn curfew at the sunset hour, + When all the fires of life are buried low, + And all the worlds drop down upon their knees, + To say a last mass ere the death of Time. + + + + +Spendthrift. + + + HE was a king one time, + And they wrapped the ermine around him, + And the bells rang out when they crowned him, + Rang with a joyful chime. + + And he sat on a throne! + The wealth that a world could offer + Was heaped in the New Year's coffer, + For the world was his own. + + He was a spendthrift though, + And the coins of his lavish giving + Were the golden moments of living,-- + Coins that he squandered so. + + He is a beggar now. + In the night and the storm he lingers, + No gold in his prodigal fingers,-- + King with the uncrowned brow. + + Nothing to call his own! + His fortune scattered behind him; + Death empty-handed shall find him,-- + A New Year takes his throne. + + + + +Lost. + + + CHILDHOOD flits by with flowers in both its hands,-- + We know not why it leaves, nor when it goes; + But suddenly we miss some subtle grace, + As perfume passes from a fading rose; + We scarce divine, yet somehow faintly feel + In the soft air a far-blown breath of snows. + + Straying afar, unheeded and alone + Upon life's highway 'mid the busy throng, + Swept in its eager, restless race along + To the great future, unexplored, unknown, + The little child is lost. And when with haste + The wanderer's footsteps through the streets are traced, + They find a man with features pale and stern, + But the lost child will nevermore return. + + + + +The Robber. + + + DO you know why Time flies by so slow + When we are sad and old? + Why he turns and waits as if loath to go + On his journey cold? + Because from our coffers of hope and youth, + Where we kept life's gold, + He has stolen our treasures all, in sooth, + From their sacred hold. + He who came with a gift in hand + Was a robber bold. + He whose greeting was smooth and bland + Was a wolf in the fold. + And this is the reason that he goes by, + When we're worn and old, + So slowly, because he can scarcely fly + With his weight of gold. + + + + +My Carol. + + + 'TIS the time when holly berries + Grow red as the Yule-log's glow, + And hearth and hall are decked by all + With the green of the mistletoe. + Time when the joy of giving + Is felt at each fireside, + And wings seek rest in the old home nest, + For the time is Christmas-tide. + + Though only a carol singer + With nothing of gold in store, + And little to bring as an offering, + I stand outside your door. + Open! This blessed morning + Peace be to thee and thine! + Here to you all I gaily call + A greeting from me and mine. + + Haply it may awaken + Some joy that so long ago, + On the frosty dawn of a Christmas gone, + You found in your stocking toe. + Though but an old, old carol, + It bears love's myrrh and gold, + And the frankincense of a joy intense + That the angel hosts foretold. + + + + +Carol. + + + _Listen! The heralds proclaim Him! + Follow! A star leads the way! + Oh, joy, in the City of David + The Christ-child reigns to-day!_ + + + I greet you this blessed morning. + Peace be to thee and thine! + To the dear ones here be Christmas cheer, + And the love of me and mine. + + + + +"In This Cradle Life of Ours." + + + THE world swings slowly back and forth, + From dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn, + And we forget the hand that rocks, + But, cradle-like, the world swings on. + + A little while to stir and fret, + Or sob with trembling lip + Because the sunbeams we would grasp + Through helpless fingers slip. + + A little while to moan, and start + From fevered dreams, and weep, + For still the cradle sways and swings + Until we fall asleep. + + The broad earth's pillow is so soft + To weary heads, and who can tell + But through that sleep sound lullabies + Of the white angel, Israfel? + + + + +Here and There. + + + HOW must they sing, those angel choirs, + Who breathe Heaven's pure, sweet air! + They need but waft it from their lips + To make it music rare. + + Here on these chill, damp plains below, + Where stifling vapors rise, + We draw the heavy air of earth, + And breathe it out in sighs. + + + + +The Milky Way. + + + UP the steep heights whereon God's citadel + Is set, the prayers of mortals to that bourne, + For ages toiling, in the adamant, + Across the sky a glittering path have worn. + + + + +INTERLUDE. + + + + +Interlude. + + + WITHIN the pauses of the anthem falls a hush, + And the deep organ's solemn voice goes on alone + In a low undertone, + As rain comes sometimes with a sudden sweeping rush, + And then is still, save that it slowly drips and falls + From leaves at intervals. + So memory sings alone + Between the busy hours when comes a lull, + And naught is audible + But its low undertone. + So darkness drops between the days, an interlude + When night's low sighing stirs the sleepy solitude. + So, when the little cycle of this life is rounded, + Before the spirit enters into life unbounded, + It waits to hear, with bated breath, + The solemn interlude of death. + + + + +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") + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs Ysame, by +Annie Fellows Johnston and Albion Fellows Bacon + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS YSAME *** + +***** This file should be named 39032.txt or 39032.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/0/3/39032/ + +Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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