path: root/76783-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76783 ***





                          HEART OF NEW ENGLAND




                          Heart of New England

                                   By
                          Abbie Farwell Brown

[Illustration: [Logo]]

                          BOSTON AND NEW YORK
                        HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
                    =The Riverside Press Cambridge=
                                  1920




                COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




                                  =To
                       The Memory of my Ancestor
                         Mary Allerton Cushman
                    Last of the Mayflower Pilgrims=




Thanks are due the publishers of various magazines for courteous
permission to reprint poems that first appeared in their pages, as
follows: _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper’s Magazine_, _The Bookman_,
_The Bellman_, _Contemporary Verse_, _The Delineator_, _The Designer_,
_The Ladies’ Home Journal_, _The Woman’s Home Companion_, _The Smart
Set_, _The Youth’s Companion_, _The Living Church_, _The Christian
Endeavor World_, _The Congregationalist_, _The New England Magazine_,
_Life_, _Saint Nicholas_, _Radcliffe Quarterly_, _Boston Transcript_,
_Boston Herald_, _New York Tribune_, _New York Times_, _The Old Farmer’s
Almanack_.

“The Rock of Liberty; A Pilgrim Ode,” with music for Chorus by Rosseter
Cole, is copyrighted and published in 1920 by the Arthur P. Schmidt
Company, of Boston.




                                CONTENTS


           EAST WIND                                       2
           NAMES                                           3
           COMFORTERS                                      6
           PILGRIM MOTHERS                                 9
           CROSS-CURRENTS                                 11
           SAVAGES                                        14
           PIRATE TREASURE                                16
           THE WALL                                       19
           HAMPTON TOWN                                   22
           THE OLD GARDEN                                 24
           GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE                            25
           GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN                           27
           THE FRIGHTENED PATH                            28
           DEVIL’S GOLD: A HAMPTON LEGEND                 29
           THE HAUNTED HOUSE                              32
           ROSE PERENNIAL                                 34
           SCARECROW                                      37
           INSPIRATION                                    39
           A WASTED MORNING                               40
           CIPHERS                                        42
           PINE MUSIC                                     44
           MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS                            45
           IN THE DARK                                    47
           GARDEN THOUGHTS                                48
           THE PASSER-BY                                  49
           FROST                                          51
           WINTER SONG                                    53
           TANAGER                                        54
           SONG                                           56
           THE KNOCK                                      57
           AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN                    59
           A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY               61
           THE BLAZED TRAIL                               64
           BUT THERE ARE WINGS                            66
           SAFE?                                          67
           THE UP-HILL STREET                             68
           CITY SMOKE                                     71
           GREEN CROSSES                                  73
           THE MYSTIC CIRCLE                              76
           SONG OF THE BOOKWORM                           80
           THE BOOKS I OUGHT TO READ                      82
           JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE                       83
           THE JOY-VENDER                                 85
           THE SPARROW                                    88
           SYLVIA                                         90
           THE PLUME                                      91
           THE WOODSY ONES                                93
           THE WEE KNITTER                                94
           A CHARM SAID UNDER AN OAK                      96
           FAIRY RING                                     98
           DANGEROUS PASSING                              99
           THE DRYAD                                     101
           FAIRY WINE                                    103
           WEBS                                          104
           THE FAIRY FORT                                105
           ─────────────────────────────────────────────────
           PEACE—WITH A SWORD                            109
           THE CRY                                       112
           CRUSADERS                                     114
           THE KNIGHTS                                   115
           FROM THE CANTEEN                              117
           CRIPPLED SOLDIER                              119
           THE FLAG TRIUMPHANT                           121
           THREE GOLDEN STARS                            123
           THE SPRING OF THE YEAR                        126
           PRAYER FOR AMERICA                            128
           ─────────────────────────────────────────────────
           THE ROCK OF LIBERTY; A PILGRIM ODE. 1620–1920 131




                          HEART OF NEW ENGLAND




                               EAST WIND


    _I dream of a languorous, tideless shore,
      Of azure light in magic caves;
    Of heathery hills with summits hoar,
      That wade knee-deep in northern waves;
    Of rainbow sails like butterflies
      That flutter to an Old World quay;
    Of where a buried city lies
      Beneath the sands of Brittany._

    _Nay! But my own New England coast,
      Pungent with wild rose, pine, and bay;
    Brown marsh, white sand, gray rocks that boast
      The fiercest surf, the wildest spray!
            Ho! For me,
    Where the white, white sails go flashing to the sea;
    And the sea wind is the east wind, as the sea wind ought to be!_

    _I dream of a castle-covered height;
      Of gardens with eternal flowers,
    And mossy fountains gleaming white;
      Of lemon groves and myrtle bowers;
    Of fairy glens and haunted halls,
      Where mystery walks to and fro;
    Of palaces on gay canals;
      Of English green, and Alpenglow._

    _Nay! But New England’s apple trees,
      Her homely houses, square and plain,
    The simple gardens loved of bees,
      The maple groves, the firs of Maine!
            Ho! For me,
    Where the spring comes slowly, like a play to see;
    And the sea wind is the east wind, as the sea wind ought to be!_




                          Heart of New England
                                   ⁂




                                 NAMES


                From Somerset and Devon,
                  From Kent and Lincolnshire,
                The younger sons came sailing
                  With hearts of steel and fire.

                From leafy lane and valley,
                  Fair glebe and ancient wood,
                The counties of old England
                  Poured forth their warmest blood.

                Out of the gray-walled cities,
                  Away from the castled towns,
                Corners of thatch and roses,
                  Heathery combes and downs,

                With neither crown nor penny,
                  But an iron will they came,
                Heirs of an old tradition
                  And a good old English name.

                A brooding silence met them
                  On a nameless, savage shore;
                But they called the wild—“New England,”
                  For the sake of the blood they bore.

                “_Plymouth_, _Exeter_, _Bristol_,
                  _Boston_, _Windsor_, _Wells_.”
                Beloved names of England
                  Rang in their hearts like bells.

                They named their rocky farmlands,
                  Their hamlets by the sea,
                For the mother-towns that bred them
                  In racial loyalty.

                “_Cambridge_, _Hartford_, _Gloucester_,
                  _Hampton_, _Norwich_, _Stowe_.”
                The younger sons looked backward
                  And sealed their sonship so.

                The old blood thrills in answer,
                  As centuries go by,
                To names that meant a challenge,
                  A signal, or a sigh.

                Now over friendly waters
                  The old towns, each to each,
                Call with the kinship in a name;
                  One race, one truth, one speech.




                               COMFORTERS


          Raw April came. The snow was melting fast
          From the bleak Plymouth hills. The _Mayflower_,
          Who had been fretting at her anchor-chains
          Through the unfriendly weeks of rain and snow,
          Flew like a homing pigeon out to sea,
          With treacherous captain and a sulky crew.
          But not one of the Faithful was returning.
          Iron of purpose, worn but undismayed
          By the fell winter, on a little hill
          That bedded half the flock in a long sleep,
          Pale Pilgrims watched the shining sails grow dim,
          With straining vision. So, the final link
          With home was severed now! The happy ship
          Was homeward bound to the belovèd land,
          Where soon the may would blossom in the hedges
          Of Kent and Suffolk; while in Lincolnshire
          The friendly robin sang by flooding tides.
          “Never again to see the green of England
          Or hear that song!” they murmured. “Never again!
          For us sad exiles on a barren shore,
          Sorrow and toil till death, uncomforted.
          Yet the Lord’s will be done!”
                                  Running there came
          A little maid with treasure-trove in hand,
          A flushed and furry blossom. “Look!” she cried,
          “The first pink posy peeping through the snow
          Upon a sunny hillside in the wood!
          Is it not like the precious English may,
          But sweeter still?” “Behold, the mayflower!”
          The Pilgrims whispered. “God has sent to us
          A messenger of homeland and the spring!”
          The wistful shadow faded from their eyes,
          Their set lips softened.
                                  Came a little lad,
          Leaping and laughing. “I have heard a song!
          A redbreast bubbling in the willow-tree
          Caroled ‘Cheer up! Cheer up!’ See where he flies
          With his bright feathers!” Eagerly they peered,
          Elder and Captain, man and weary wife,
          Orphans with little faces pinched and pale.
          Forgetting now the vanished ship, they cried—
          “The robin and the mayflower are here!
          Now in New England shall we be at home,
          God wills it so.” Thereon they shyly smiled,
          Straightened bent shoulders, and with lifted hearts
          Slowly departed; thinking more than speaking,
          In the old English fashion.




                            PILGRIM MOTHERS


               Now thank God for the women
                 Who dared the perilous sea
               With our adventurous ancestors,
                 To bear them company!

               They sailed, they knew not whither,
                 They came, nor questioned why,
               But that the men-folk whom they loved
                 Without their care would die.

               Babes newly born they carried,
                 And bairns with wavering feet;
               But never a cow was there for milk,
                 And never a stove for heat.

               Through icy waves they landed,
                 They washed in frozen streams;
               They shivered through the nights of dread
                 With horror in their dreams.

               Through toil and want and danger
                 High-hearted they could wait;
               They lived and died for the commonweal,
                 And mothered a nursling State.

               They had no voice in meeting,
                 No vote in pact or law;
               But of their flesh and blood is built
                 Our strength for peace and war.

               Thank God for the brave women
                 Of a hard three-hundred years!
               Have they not earned a nation’s trust
                 Through sacrifice and tears?




                             CROSS-CURRENTS


                 Through twelve stout generations
                   New England blood I boast;
                 The stubborn pastures bred them,
                   The grim, uncordial coast,

                 Sedate and proud old cities—
                   Loved well enough by me.
                 Then how should I be yearning
                   To scour the earth and sea?

                 Each of my Yankee forbears
                   Wed a New England mate;
                 They dwelt and did and died here,
                   Nor glimpsed a rosier fate.

                 My clan endured their kindred;
                   But foreigners they loathed,
                 And wandering folk, and minstrels,
                   And gypsies motley-clothed.

                 Then why do patches please me,
                   Fantastic, wild array?
                 Why have I vagrant fancies
                   For lads from far away?

                 My kin were godly Churchmen—
                   Or paced in elders’ weeds;
                 But all were grave and pious
                   And hated heathen creeds.

                 Then why are Thor and Wotan
                   To me dread forces still?
                 Why does my heart go questing
                   For Pan beyond the hill?

                 My people clutched at freedom,
                   (Though others’ wills they chained)
                 But made the Law and kept it,
                   And Beauty they restrained.

                 Then why am I a rebel
                   To laws of rule and square?
                 Why would I dream and dally,
                   Or, reckless, do and dare?

                 O righteous, solemn Grandsires,
                   O Dames, correct and mild,
                 Who bred me of your virtues,
                   Whence comes this changeling child?

                 The thirteenth generation—
                   Unlucky number this!—
                 My grandam loved a pirate,
                   And all my faults are his.

                 A gallant, ruffled rover,
                   With beauty-loving eye,
                 He swept Colonial waters
                   Of coarser, bloodier fry.

                 He waved his hat to Danger,
                   At Law he shook his fist.
                 Ah, merrily he plundered,
                   He sang and fought and kissed!

                 Though none have found his treasure,
                   And none his part would take,
                 I bless that thirteenth lady
                   Who chose him for my sake.




                                SAVAGES


            The Heathen hailed us from the beach,
            Prayed the new gods to bless and teach.
            They worshiped us and gave us food,
            Sweet water and maize, nuts from the wood;
            Showed us safe harbor. Liquor and beads
            Got us broad acres for our needs;
            We set shrewd boundaries to the farms.
            Too generously we loaned them arms;
            Froward they grew and scorned our laws,
            They bared white fangs, unsheathed fierce claws.
            Haunts in the wilderness they made
            To spy upon our barricade,
            Our meeting-house and granaries,
            Coveting them with cruel eyes.
            One stole a heifer from our yard;
            We hanged the whelp; they scalped our guard;
            We shot their chief and eight tall braves.
            The devils swarmed from dens and caves,
            And burned the roofs above our heads;
            Murdered the children in their beds!
            With righteous wrath we armed for war,
            Scouring the forest near and far,
            River and lake with uncouth name,
            All the fair region once their claim,
            Killing the Redskin fiends at sight.
            At last we rid us of the blight;
            We made the savage race to cease,
            And earned a Sabbath Day of peace.
            We walled the tilth and reared this town.

            O great Jehovah looking down,
            Reward our pious people still,
            Who set Thy temple on the hill.




                            PIRATE TREASURE


            A lady loved a swaggering rover,
            The seven salt seas he voyaged over,
            Bragged of a hoard none could discover,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            She bloomed in a mansion dull and stately,
            And as to Meeting she walked sedately,
            From the tail of her eye she liked him greatly,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            Rings in his ears and a red sash wore he,
            He sang her a song and told her a story;
            “I’ll make ye Queen of the Ocean!” swore he,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            She crept from bed by her sleeping sister;
            By the old gray mill he met and kissed her.
            Blue day dawned before they missed her,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            And while they prayed her out of Meeting,
            Her wild little heart with bliss was beating,
            As seaward went the lugger fleeting,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            Choose in haste and repent at leisure;
            A buccaneer life is not all pleasure.
            He set her ashore with a little treasure,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            Off he went where waves were dashing,
            Knives were gleaming, cutlasses clashing;
            And a ship on jagged rocks went crashing.
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            Over his bones the tides are sweeping;
            The only trace of the pirate sleeping
            Is what he left in the lady’s keeping,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            Two hundred years is his name unspoken,
            The secret of his hoard unbroken.
            But a black-browed race wears the rover’s token,
                        Hey! Jolly Roger, O.

            Sea-blue eyes that gleam and glisten,
            Lips that sing—and you like to listen—
            A swaggering song; it might be this one,
                        “Hey! Jolly Roger, O!”




                                THE WALL


            “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall”
                                                ROBERT FROST

           “Not love a wall!”
           I sit above the meadow in the glowing fall,
           Tracing the gray redoubt from square to square
           That bounds the acres harvest-ripe and fair,
             And wonder if it’s true?
           Nay! Ask the sumac and the teeming vine
             That lean upon the boulders;
           The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbine,
             Whose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders;
             The golden-rod, the aster, and the rue.
           Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheek
             Skipping from stone to stone
           By a quick route, his hidden hoard to seek,
             Making the little viaduct his own.
           Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious head
           Between the rocks, close by the cabbage bed;
             The honey-bees have built a secret hive
           In a forgotten chink;
             And there a gray cocoon is tucked away,
           Shrouding a miracle of mauve and pink
             To wait its Easter Day.
               The wall with pageantry is all alive.

           And I who gaze
             On the dark border here,
           Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways,
             Embroidered with the glory of the year—
           What is the wall to me?
           Has it no beauty more than eyes can see?
           Lo, I remember how in days of old
             A grandsire toiled with weariness and pain
           To dig the clumsy boulders from the mould;
             Piled them in ordered rows again,
           Fitting them firm and fast,
           A monument to last
           Long after his own harried day was past.
             He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain
           By which his children throve
           To carry on the race.
             We live by his life-giving.
           I see each stone, rough like his granite face—
           Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love,
           Dowered with little grace,
             Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living;
           But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time,
             And bolts that heaven lets fall.
           Built of a patriot’s prime—
             How well I love the wall!




                              HAMPTON TOWN


                The Hampton marshes to the sea
                Stretch out a colored tapestry;
                A woven, iridescent gleam,
                Patterned with many a sea-filled stream,
                Where dips the heron silently.

                Above the Hampton meadows soar
                Wisps of a quaint, forgotten lore,
                Wild legends of another day,
                Sea-born and salty, like the spray
                Flung from the great tusks of the Boar.

                And as I wander down the street
                Of Hampton Town with loitering feet,
                A fragrance breathes from gardens old,
                Drawn from the centuries of mould,
                Thyme, bleeding-heart, and bitter-sweet.

                The ghosts of lovely ladies rise,
                With terror in their haunted eyes;
                Witches and redskins, soldiers grim;
                Pirate and Puritan—oath and hymn—
                All in a web whose threads I share.

                The Hampton pines these legends know,
                And gossip them in whispers low.
                They spin an eerie charm that twines
                About the lovely Place of Pines,
                To blood that throbs from long ago.




                             THE OLD GARDEN


             I chanced upon the little bowered retreat
               For the first time, and never shall forget
               The spell of tangled mystery! The wet
             Bejeweled leaves like fingers curled to meet
             My childish hand; the unimagined sweet
               Of briar, heliotrope, and mignonette;
               The tang of box, and quainter blossoms set
             By mazy paths for liliputian feet.

             High walls of hollyhock and morning-glory
             Concealed the ancient house with gables wide;
             Shut out the world of swift and merry hours.
             In the long silence of a fairy-story
             My heart stood still. Then, at a turn I spied
             My Mother, smiling at the other flowers.




                          GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE


       Grandmother’s house is far away.
       You take the train and you ride all day,
       Till you come to a meadow beside the sea,
       As green and still as a place can be.

       In a little white room is a little white bed;
       The pillow is sweet where you lay your head;
       And all around is the scent of rose,
       That breathes wherever Grandmother goes.

       Down in the meadow the crickets trill
       As if they thought it was daytime still;
       “_Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!
           Cheepy, cheepy! Cheep! Cheep!_”
       Oh, how can a body go to sleep?

       All alone you lie and hark
       To the curious sounds that come in the dark;
       For the wall says “_Crick!_” And the floor goes “_Creak!_”
       Then out in the hall is a rustle and squeak.

       A wee voice cries and is still again;
       Then Something taps on the window-pane.
       There’s a whispering in the tree outside,
       And a sigh, that Grandmother _says_ is the tide.

       Grandmother’s house is nice by day,
       But at night you seem very far away.
       And the noise of the quiet is so loud,
       It bothers you more than the noise of a crowd.




                          GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN


          This was the garden that Grandmother made,
          Here in the filtering sunlight and shade.
          Here grew the delicate, old-fashioned posies,
          Columbine, larkspur, cinnamon roses,
          Balsam and lavender, briar and box,
          Pale mignonette and chintz hollyhocks;
          Neatest of paths for the tiniest feet,
          Wandering, wavering, all through the sweet.
          And there, quite the prettiest blossom of all,
          Mother went tiptoeing when she was small.

          This is the garden that Grandmother made—
          New buds to open as older ones fade.
          With her wee waterpot making the showers,
          _My_ mother dallied with _her_ mother’s flowers;
          Quaint little figure with cheeks like a rose,
          Starched pantalettes and slippers with bows;
          Bonny brown hair and a bonnet of straw,
          And the merriest eyes that the sun ever saw.
          But for Grandmother’s garden and all that was in it,
          Why, where should _I_ be this blessed minute?




                          THE FRIGHTENED PATH


                The wood grew very quiet
                  As the road made a sudden turn;
                Then a wavering, furtive path crept out
                  From the tangled briar and fern.

                “Where does it lead?” I asked the child;
                  She shivered and shook her head.
                “It doesn’t _lead_ to any place.
                  It is running away!” she said.

                “It is running away on tiptoe
                  Through the untrodden grass,
                To join the cheerful highroad,
                  Where real, live people pass.

                “It runs from a heap of ruins
                  Where a home stood in old days;
                But nothing living goes there now,
                  And—Nothing Living stays!”




                              DEVIL’S GOLD


                            A HAMPTON LEGEND

            The General rolled in a coach-and-four,
              His head held high in pride;
            And Mary, who should have married me,
              Cowered in silk at his side.

            The mud of the General’s chariot-wheels
              Grimed me, plodding by;
            But I saw a doom on his pallid face,
              And met the fear in her eye.

            For well she knew—as I know now,
              As neighbors guessed full well—
            He had sold his soul for a bootful of gold
              To the Devil himself from Hell.

                   ·       ·       ·       ·       ·

            He called from the hearth of his paneled hall
              To the Fiend on the chimney-crown;
            His jack-boot stood in the chimney-place,
              And the gold came pouring down.

            The gold poured down in a tinkling flood,
              And covered the great hall floor;
            But the General roared to the Devil above—
              “Nay! more! and more! and more!”

            For the great jack-boot was never filled
              Till the gold lay three-foot thick;
            The bargainer had cut the toe,
              And fooled the Fiend by the trick.

            But the lady shivered in the dark
              At the roar of the General’s mirth;
            While brimstone flashes seared the roof,
              And the Fiend’s wrath shook the earth.

                   ·       ·       ·       ·       ·

            I read in the face of the smitten man
              As he passed me on that day,
            And in the haunted lady’s eye—
              That his hour was near to _pay_.

            And when we bore the General’s bier
              To his proud tomb up the road,
            Ten of the sturdiest lads in town
              Staggered beneath the load.

            Ten of the sturdiest lads in town
              Turned pale as lime-bleached bones
            When their burden dropped and the cover loosed;
              The coffin was filled with stones!

            My Mary fled from the haunted house
              To toil as a poor man’s wife;
            For not one pound of her widow’s wealth
              Would I suffer to curse our life.

            The only dower she brought away
              Was the terrible tale she told;
            And our children bred in a humble home
              Are marked with the hate of gold.




                           THE HAUNTED HOUSE


        Upon a little rise it stands alone,
          Dark and forbidding, where three crossroads meet;
          The dim, fierce windows frown upon the street
        From walls with mould and mosses overgrown.

        Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door,
          And bend above the latch with prying eyes,
          Or shake their heads and whisper, gossipwise,
        Secrets that trouble living hearts no more.

        The rusty hinges give a warning scream;
          The jealous panels shudder as they swing.
          About my face the dusty cobwebs cling,
        Soft as the shadow-fingers of a dream.

        There is a window looking to the sea;
          The small, cracked panes are blurred as if with tears.
          Here long ago a young bride felt the fears
        That even now creep coldly over me.

        Here trembling still she sat, yet made no moan,
          But felt an unseen presence fill the door,
          And heard a light step steal across the floor,
        And shrank beneath a touch that chilled her own....

        Once more I pass the hall, the dim oak stair.
          A sudden gust breathes down, a tremulous sigh;
          A silken rustle lightly whispers by;
        A fragrance as of roses fills the air.




                             ROSE PERENNIAL


        The worn gray slab yet lies before
        What once was a thrifty farmer’s door;
        Now roofless cellar and scattered stones
        Show skeleton hopes with time-picked bones.
        Here backed against a crumbling wall
        Still blooms at bay, unpruned and tall,
        A soil-disdaining moss-rose bush,
        The delicate buds in faintest flush,
        Clutched by the brambles and woodbine,
        Whose envious fingers tear and twine.

        There was the huge barn; here the yard,
        Where the grim farmer labored hard
        From dawn to dark, and never knew
        A dream beyond the crops he grew,
        The stock he raised, the silver store
        Under the loose board in the floor.

        To and fro, to and fro,
        The feet of his little wife would go,
        All day long and half the night,
        Up a flight and down a flight;
        Pantry to kitchen, pen to barn,
        Cellar to garret with loom of yarn;
        In to the babies, out to the men,
        Down to the pasture and back again.
        Farms were never planned, you find,
        To save the steps of womenkind.

        One can trudge and drudge through a long life’s course,
        If she discover a hidden source
        To seek when the spirit is faint and dry.

        Here was her rosebush growing high,
        That he never knew—for he never cared;
        This was her joy no mortal shared.
        Her hands were never too stiff or tired
        To foster beauty the soul desired;
        The first shy green, the venturesome shoot,
        Flushing sap from the sturdy root,
        Moss-veiled bud and passionate bloom;
        Scarlet hips for the winter gloom.
        Never too worn the busy feet,
        Never too dull the old heart’s beat,
        For a furtive trip to the little shrine
        That made the moment a pause divine.

        Here by the bush one glimpsed the Hills,
        Where forests crooned and ran free rills;
        One breathed deep draughts from a windswept sky,
        Sunset, moonglow, mystery.

        This was her rosebush by the wall.
        Gone is the farmer, farm and all;
        Gone herd and crops and silver store.
        The children grown return no more
        To the hearth deserted, the loveless place,
        Haunted by one enduring grace;
        A dream of beauty, torn with briar,
        Clutched in vain as it reaches higher.




                               SCARECROW


             Rags and tags of what he was,
               Topped with straw and stuffed with hay;
             Balanced tipsily askew,
               It grins to scare the crows away.

             I saw _Him_ first in that old hat—
               It seemed the crown of a king to me.
             I liked his careless swagger then;
               Lord! He was straight and fine to see.

             He courted me in that same coat—
               He couldn’t meet it now, I guess.
             That gay vest was the one he wore
               When I walked bride in my silver dress.

             He seemed as proud as I, those days.
               I never dreamed, when we were wed,
             I’d think the Scarecrow a better man,
               With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head.

             Rags and tags of what he seemed,
               Mocking me in the field all day.
             What can I make a scarecrow of,
               To drive the hungry thoughts away?




                              INSPIRATION


                Life—Death in a drop of dew;
                And a prism to sift a sunbeam through.

                Fragile, perfect, briefly bright,
                A tremulous miracle of light;

                Beauty poised on a flower-tip;
                A whole round world for a Thrush to sip!




                            A WASTED MORNING


           I wasted a morning!
                               Where? And why?
           I let swift hours go silently by,
           As I lay at the foot of an ancient tree,
           And let God’s universe talk to me.

           Wind and shadow, cloud and bird,
           Spoke each to my heart a musical word.
           The little brown cone that fell on my cheek,
           The squirrel who mocked with an impudent squeak,
           The golden mushroom brimmed with death,
           The twin-flower blessing the air with its breath;
           Old spider spinning above my head
           A magical dream with her rainbow thread;
           The liliput vases of moss below;
           The sudden caw of a picket crow;
           The rhythmical green of a supple snake
           Quivering into a lair of brake;
           The grumbling bee, the whispering pine—
           What need had they for a word of mine?
           They lived the poem; they wove the spell
           No tongue could utter, no phrases tell;
           And a human voice could but disgrace
           The eloquent stillness of the place.

           So I lay at the foot of the ancient tree,
           And let God’s free verse sing to me.




                                CIPHERS


                  Oh, to be a wonder-child
                  And read the cipher of the wild!

                  A starry-splintered alphabet
                  In the ancient rocks is set,
                  Spelling, if one held the key,
                  All creation’s history.
                  Cryptic messages I trace
                  Etched on many a flower-face;
                  Graven symbols score the pines,
                  The birches wear mysterious signs—
                  Perhaps the wistful diary
                  Of the Dryad in her tree.

                  On the open page of snow
                  Curious hieroglyphics show,
                  Dots and dashes, twist and thrust,
                  Carven in the crystal crust;
                  Marks of furred and feathered things
                  With furtive feet or startled wings—
                  Comic secrets of the dark,
                  Silent tragedy and stark.

                  Ciphers, ciphers everywhere,
                  In the sky, the wave, the air!
                  On the faces that one meets
                  Adrift upon the eddying streets;
                  On the near and dear, that change
                  With lines inscrutable and strange—
                  Palimpsests that time has wrought
                  With the signs of hidden thought,
                  Dreams unguessed and griefs unsaid,
                  Passionate yearning unbetrayed.

                  Ah, could Love but find and own
                  Nature’s old Rosetta Stone!




                               PINE MUSIC


                   A hundred years I seek the stars
                     Through tempest, heat, and cold;
                   My body scarred by many scars,
                     My spirit wisely old.

                   Yet the eternal song I sing,
                     From sun and shadow made,
                   Is lisped as sweetly every spring
                     By the least flowers that fade.




                          MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS


                  Oddly fashioned, quaintly dyed,
                  In the wood the mushrooms hide;
                  Rich and meaty, full of flavor,
                  Made for man’s delicious savor.
                  But he shudders and he shrinks
                  At the piquant mauves and pinks.
                  Who is brave enough to dare
                  Curious shapes and colors rare,
                  Dainties in peculiar dresses,
                  Fairy-rings and inky messes?
                  Something sinister must be
                  In the strange variety.
                  It is better not to know;
                  Safer but to peer—and go.

                  So the mushrooms dry and fade,
                  Like full many a blooming maid,
                  With her dower of preciousness
                  Hid too well for men to guess.
                  But the toadstools bright and yellow
                  Tempt and poison many a fellow,
                  With their flaunting beauty bright,
                  The bold promise of delight.
                  Taste and suffer, ache and burn;
                  Generations do not learn!

                  Nay, a little mushroom study
                  Would not injure anybody.




                              IN THE DARK


                    In the dark I lie and think
                      Of the glory in a day;
                    Of the sunshine and the shade,
                      All the color soft or gay.

                    I can see it better now
                      As I lie with curtained eyes.
                    Oh, the rainbow and the moon;
                      Oh, the opal of the skies!

                    How the poppies glow and thrill,
                      How the pigeon-feathers shine!
                    I will weave them into dreams,
                      I will make them ever mine.

                    All the wonder of a wave,
                      All the magic of a tree—
                    I shall wear them in my soul
                      When these eyes no longer see.




                            GARDEN THOUGHTS


                    Some of us are roses,
                      Some of us are weeds;
                    All of us began in clay,
                      Silent little seeds.

                    Some of us are flaunting,
                      Some of us are shy;
                    All of us have roots in earth,
                      Faces to the sky.

                    Some give joy by living,
                      Some leave fragrance, dead;
                    Thorns and spines and ugliness
                      May yield balm or bread.

                    Twisted, seared and stunted,
                      Radiant, sweet and glad;
                    Who shall say that one is “good”
                      And another “bad”?




                             THE PASSER-BY


                   In the fragrant, moonlit night,
                     Without a thought of fear,
                   I wakened in my seaward room
                     And felt a Presence near.

                   The open window glowed,
                     And suddenly I knew
                   That Some One was out walking
                     Above the summer dew.

                   The tall pines held their breath,
                     And the little cedar trees,
                   With all the grasses in the field,
                     Were kneeling on their knees.

                   Beyond the dunes the sea
                     Was like a silver floor,
                   For Some One’s holy feet to cross
                     Out of a foreign shore.

                   Then lo! Above the trees
                     A halo, round and bright!
                   No more I saw of One who passed
                     All silent in the night.




                                 FROST


    Hark to a call in the late September night,
      From the little garden-close crying—crying!
    As the cold stars watch from their safe, untroubled height,
      Faintly breathes the scented prayer—“Help! We are dying!”

    Who would invade the sisterhood of flowers,
      In their cloistered innocence fresh and gently gay?
    What so cruel foe would dare profane the hours,
      To fright the tender sleeping buds and steal their peace away?

    Hark! The wistful cry again! Wafted o’er the grasses
      Comes the trembling fragrance, a sigh from hearts of gold.
    Something sly and sinister in the shadow passes;
      Shivering draw the covers close, the blood runs cold!

    Lo, in the morning, the bleak and hoary morning.
      Desolate the garden where the white foe crept;
    Wall or moat no bar to him, come without a warning.
      Capturing the pretty ones helpless where they slept.

    Cruel was the touch of him, blighting was his breath.
      Beauty shrank before him, but found no place to hide.
    Fragile, piteous martyrs coldly done to death,
      Was there none to answer when your sweet souls cried?




                              WINTER SONG


                    Because I sang in April
                      With magic in the air.
                    Must I be sad and silent now
                      When winter boughs are bare?

                    My heart is not a songster
                      That waits upon the spring,
                    But while there is a blessèd sky
                      And friendly earth, I sing!

                    For evergreen my joy is,
                      Like any cedar tree;
                    It makes a tune of ice and snow
                      And whispers it to me.




                                TANAGER


          Scarlet bird!
          Whence have you fluttered into my green gloom,
            My sleepy solitude, on quiet wing,
          Your voice unheard?
            Why do you linger there upon the tree.
            And still forbear to sing,
          As if your message were a silent doom?
            O torch of fire;
            Enkindled at the flame of heart’s desire.
          In some enchanted land! O wingèd rose.
            Blown from the living garden of delight!
          O flash of joy
            Deliriously bright.
          Escaping from the heart of some fierce boy,
          Or girl who thrills and glows!
          O dream incarnadine
          Out of the jeweled past; red rapture that was mine!
            Why sent to torture me?
          You cut the shadow like an open wound;
            The forest bleeds with your intensity,
          In a mysterious anguish unrelieved by sound.

            And when you flit away,
            Back to your radiant realm, your vivid day,
          And shivering I shall gaze
          Down the dim alley empty of your blaze,
            The darkness will be darker evermore,
            The silence stiller than it was before.
          Then faded peace will brood—
            A moment stirred
          In the transfigured wood,
            O scarlet bird!




                                  SONG


                 Oh, yes, I love you still, my lad,
                   For that is woman’s way;
                 A whole life long of tenderness
                   For the fancy of a day.

                 I gave you golden loyalty
                   And starry faith to wear.
                 You gave me pearls that were my tears,
                   And silver in my hair.

                 You gave me something less than good,
                   I gave the best I had.
                 But yes—the man I thought you were,
                   I love him still, my lad.




                               THE KNOCK


             Did you knock at the door, my Dear?
             Knock, and I fail to hear?

             Was I so eager to bind my hair,
             And fasten a flower to make me fair;
             Study a book that I might be wise,
             Or make you a song for a sweet surprise?
                       Mixing a cake,
                         Saying a prayer,
                       All for your sake,
                         All for your care—
             So busily happy I did not hear
             When you knocked, my Dear!

             Will you pass to another door,
             And knock at my own no more?

             Shall I listen and wait and long,
             No more laughter, no more song?
             But still with the faded rose in my hair,
             Still on my lips the tremulous prayer;
                       Till the fire goes out
                         To a single spark.
                       Ending the doubt;
                         And in empty dark,
             Shall I sit and hear
             The knock, knock, knock of my heart? My Dear!




                      AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN


                   Walled quiet from the din.
                     So near, of worldly strife;
                   A cloistered peace within,
                     A life apart from life.
                   Shrines bowered in roses sweet,
                     And in a hidden dell
                   Worn by accustomed feet,
                     A holy well.

                   Along the ancient wall
                     Fruit basking in the sun;
                   Flowers radiant and tall—
                     A coquette every one.
                   Bees busy on the stalks,
                     Birds mating in the weeds—
                   Here a pale Sister walks,
                     Telling her beads.

                   High walls to shut aside
                     The world’s dear bliss and care!
                   O Birds, your nestlings hide
                     In sanctuary there.
                   High walls to her, to me—
                     But ah! to wings, how low;
                   Blest little Birds, quite free
                     To come—and go!




                    A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY

                              FOR C. N. B.


        Who counts the foolish years?
          This Brittany of ours,
        With all her gathered hopes and fears,
        Her scroll of smiles and tears,
          Is young, amid her sweet, perennial flowers.
        About the lone, deserted shrines
          Carol melodious songsters of to-day;
        Weaving their modern spell
        Through Carnac’s mighty lines
          The sun-burned children play,
        Knowing, perchance, the ancient secret well.
          Above the buried Ys,
        Stout fishers in their rainbow shallops ply;
        Gazing into the azure depths they sigh,
          Dreaming of fair Dahut, and brighter realms than this,
            Longing to feel her kiss.
        But homely love is waiting them ashore;
        Soon they will sigh no more.
          Joy of the present, full of light and life,
          Faith of the future years, with promise rife—
        Belovèd of the sea,
        How young is Brittany!

        Who marks the months’ retreat?
          It is not fall when roses are abloom,
        When strawberries are sweet,
          And snowy, great magnolias breathe perfume.
        This bright September day,
        With radiant sky and balmy airs at play,
          Renewing joy in every living thing,
          Is Spring! Is Spring!

        And so with you, dear Mother! Heart of youth,
          Wise in your dreaming, soul of mystery,
        Tender in faith and truth.
          Lo, in your gentle hands you hold the key
        Of Spring eternal, of the spirit’s prime;
        You make a slave of time.
          With his malicious fears,
        And as this _spring_ day brightly
          Clasps like a gem the threaded years
        You wear so lightly,
          Who shall seek to sum them,
          Admiring still how sweetly you become them?

                           _Vitré
                           September 3, 1913_




                            THE BLAZED TRAIL


                 Just when the path is lost to me,
                   Bewildered wanderer in the maze,
                 Upon some unexpected tree
                   I spy the Woodman’s blaze;

                 A mystic rune of sight or sound,
                   A message quick from sense to soul,
                 That lifts the spirit from the ground
                   And speeds it to the goal.

                 A wind-flower nodding by an oak
                   Has given assurance from afar;
                 Once in the dark a fragrance spoke,
                   And once it was a star.

                 The silver fluting of a thrush;
                   The bursting of a sunken flame;
                 A sigh of wind, a sudden hush—
                   Out of the depths I came.

                 A burning challenge to despair
                   Flashed from an idly-open book;
                 A small dumb creature’s silent prayer,
                   A friend’s revealing look;

                 And all the doubtful horrors fade,
                   The weary heart leaps up again.
                 Through tangled thickets in the shade,
                   The Trail shows broad and plain.




                          BUT THERE ARE WINGS


           “How big it is, the Blueness everywhere!”
           Between two seas, her playtime scarce begun,
           Trembles the shy, bewildered little one.
           Above her roll the shoreless depths of air
           Reflected in her azure eyes; and there
           Close to her feet in thunderous fury run
           The crowding waters, peacock in the sun,
           That fling a salty threat upon her hair.

           “But there are wings!” They brood against the sky,
           A cloudy wonder; while upon the deep
           She sees them dip and flutter, far and near.
           “The same kind wings that shelter one asleep!”
           So, drawing reassurance in a sigh,
           She digs the treacherous sand without a fear.




                                 SAFE?


                   If I but set my casement high
                     Where none peer in at me,
                   I shall look only at the sky
                     And the fair top of the tree.

                   I shall forget the sorry things
                     The swallows do not tell;
                   I shall not see the wounded wings
                     Of the little bird that fell.

                   And if below there crawls a road,
                     Where dusty travelers go,
                   Groaning beneath a weary load—
                     Why, I shall never know.

                   I can pretend there is no sin,
                     No pain and misery,
                   If I gaze out where none look in
                     To read the heart of me.




                           THE UP-HILL STREET


                 There’s a lane through grassy meadows,
                   There’s a turnpike to the sea,
                 There’s a trail across the mountain
                   Which is very dear to me.
                 There’s a shady, quiet roadway
                   On the border of the town;
                 There are footpaths going blithely
                   Up the little hills and down.
                 And oh! I love the highroads
                   My happy feet have pressed.
                 But walk at evening, walk at morn,
                   There’s one I love the best.

                 It is a narrow city street
                   That clambers with a will
                 Between two ragged cliffs of brick
                   Upon a windy hill.
                 I see it from my window,
                   I watch it every day
                 Slope to the level sky-verge
                   Whereon it melts away;
                 While etched across the picture
                   Stands straight and strong and tall,
                 The oak tree that I planted
                   When I was very small.

                 Above, a narrow sky-way
                   The houses frame for me;
                 Beyond, across the city—
                   Though I can hardly see—
                 I know the blue bay opens,
                   With towering blocks between;
                 I feel, I smell, I hear it
                   When winds blow east and keen!
                 And I have dwelt here always;
                   A child I saw it climb,
                 The quaint, forgotten byway,
                   Unmarked by change or time.

                 How often have I trod it!
                   Each brick and stone I know!
                 Each little rise and hollow
                   Though hidden under snow.
                 And looking from my window
                   I almost think to see
                 A childish figure climbing—
                   The little shade of Me.
                 But as I watch her, smiling—
                   The child who once was I—
                 My Fancy climbs the little hill
                   And merges in the sky.




                               CITY SMOKE


              Oh, the smoke of the city!
              Pouring in columns black and thick;
                Swooping, a nightmare bird of prey,
              From a hideous eyrie of iron and brick,
                Obscuring the day;
              Sinister, greasy, noisome, vile,
                Spoiling the delicate, fouling the pure,
              Creeping like sorrowful sin or guile
                Through tiniest cranny and lock secure.
              The rosiest chamber reeks with its breath,
              And the dens already besmirched with death.
              It broods impartial, sullying all,
              Palace, tenement, hovel and hall;
              Beauty’s ruin and Nature’s ban,
              Price of the fierce, packed struggle of man.
              Grim smoke hovering without pity,
              Over the city.

              Oh, the smoke of the city!
              Rising and rolling a magical stream,
                Spreading and wavering higher and higher;
              Bright with the opaline colors of dream,
                A torrent of beauty, a cloud of desire.
              Delicate gossamer rags float free,
              Drifting into eternity,
              Washed with radiance, purged and clean,
                All-escaping, ethereal, new;
              Vision of poets sublime, serene,
                Etching the blue;
              Life transfigured by hope again,
              Prize of the dear, near loving of men.
              Glorified smoke, like a halo of pity,
              Over the city.




                             GREEN CROSSES


         At the back of the pompous houses,
         Above the beautiful river-way,
         A row of squalid barrels
         Blush at themselves in the morning light.
         From one grotesquely leaning,
         Dusty and scarred
         Amid the dead, forgotten slag and ashes,
         A fir-tree thrusts its live, protesting fingers—
         Crosses of green.
         About it still cling a few silver cobwebs,
         Rags of its brief splendor.
         It was the Christmas Tree
         That graced the cheerful drawing-room
         A little while;
         That blessed the comfortable house with its fragrance,
         And with its symbols of love,
         The small green crosses.

         A pinched, pale child with hungry eyes,
         Ragged and wolfish, but with wisps of glory
         Still haloing her hair,
         Comes with her bag of rubbish.
         Her eyes brighten;
         She sets down her heavy burden,
         She forgets the cold as she picks at the little tree,
         Plucks eagerly at the fragile cobwebs;
         They are so silvery few!
         But they do not go into the heavy sack.
         Her thin, blue fingers snap one of the green crosses;
         She twists the tinsel thread about it,
         And sticks it in her breast.
         Then she shoulders her bundle of trash,
         And stumbles away, smiling.

         The green crosses, alive in the dust!
         The Christmas Tree!
         The evergreen tree whose roots are cut—
         On the dump it will die!

         The Christmas Tree!
         What if this ornament of brief holidays,
         This plaything of a favored few,
         This strong, slow-murdered creature of pure woods,
         With its green crosses,
         Were really growing!
         If it were rooted in the hearts
         Of Christendom!
         How different a world would see this sunny morning!
         No war; no hate;
         No want nor selfishness;
         No ragged children, starved for tinsel joys,
         Furtively clutching at rejected beauty
         On a forgotten cross,
         The green cross of Love.




                           THE MYSTIC CIRCLE


         Eight lusty bell-ringers
         In the loft of the campanile;
         Eight quick-eyed, firm-muscled, clean-lipped lads,
         Forming a mystic circle,
         Poised a-tiptoe,
         Hands above heads,
         Waiting.
         Eight stout ropes mysteriously pending
         From the unrevealing, dusty rafters.
         The bells are poised for the peal,
         Though they remain unseen,
         Waiting.

         The magic word is spoken by the leader—
         “_She_’s off!” (The unmistakable English accent.)
         The treble bell gives signal first,
         The racing merry scales descend.
         The cue is flashed from eye to eye;
         The Bob-major double,
         An intricate combination of sequences,
         A miracle of mathematics resolved into sound;
         A psalm of joy!
         While the sturdy arms pull in ordered eagerness,
         And the bright eyes shine.

         The Bells!
         Their tongues are loosed.
         The charm of the mystic circle has made them animate,
         Has lifted the enchantment of silence
         And given sound to their joy.
         In the tower above the young men,
         (So near, unseen,)
         They shout till the rafters ring;
         A revel of frank, untrammeled spirits,
         Like innocent children with clear, full voices,
         Merry, unrestrained, irresponsible.
         A somersaulting group of eight,
         Praises God in mirth.
         Still farther above,
         High in the vault of the church,
         Revealed in ethereal, vibrating overtones,
         Like the whirring of great wings,
         The heavenly choir chanting Te Deum
         Join in the song;
         The Angels of the Bells,
         Tender intermediaries between earth and heaven,
         Breathing holy gladness, singing ineffable praise.

         Above, above again,
         Far above the pointed spire,
         Above the seething city and the sinning world,
         Above the singing in the hearts of men,
         The clamor of bells, the choiring of angels—
         Silence.
         The eternal harmony of all sound,
         The caught-up commingled praises of creation,
         Blended into quiet,
         The Silence that is God:
         God listening; God approving; God the Father of Joy,
         Blessing His angels and His bells,
         Blessing the ringers with rapt faces,
         Tense, devotional,
         Who consummate the ritual of sound
         In a religious office.

         Eight young men
         In a mystic circle,
         Whose center is the center of the universe,
         God.




                          SONG OF THE BOOKWORM


                 Who would long for wings to wander
                 Over sea or mountains yonder?
                 Who would hang on risky pinion,
                 And become the breezes’ minion,
                 When the spirit, birdlike, hovers,
                 Borne between two leathern covers?
                 These are wings a fay might sigh for,
                 Or a chubby cherub cry for!

                 So the dusty Bookworm quivers
                 Into life; the cocoon shivers,
                 Bursts into a world of glory,
                 Borne on tinted wings of story,
                 Poesy, romance or fairy—
                 Wings of book-leaves thin and airy;
                 Floats and flutters off, away,
                 To Avonside or far Cathay.

                 There is no land so strange, so far,
                 From pole to pole, from star to star,
                 But he may visit passage free,
                 No duty, fare or grudging fee.
                 Hey for Egypt! Ho for Arden!
                 Mowgli’s jungle, Omar’s garden!
                 None shall limit, none can stay,
                 When the Bookworm flits away!




                       THE BOOKS I OUGHT TO READ


         On dusty shelves in serried ranks they stand,
           Reproachful thousands, quaint, and grave and great.
         My guilty conscience hears their mute commands,
           Yet day by day—they wait.

         Their army grows more deadly every year;
           Their captain-names I cannot call to mind.
         A friend amid the order would, I fear,
           Be very hard to find.

         But to a corner shelf by most forgot,
           I steal, and to my conscience pay no heed,
         With boon companions dear. Yet these are not
           The books I ought to read!




                        JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE

                           FEBRUARY 12, 1916


              Wizard of youth! How many years,
                Since first we felt the story-spell,
              Your name has thrilled the childish ears
                That knew your magic well.

              Dear noble head of snowy hair,
                Face with the sunglow; keen, kind eyes;
              Presence erect and debonair,
                Heart generous and wise.

              No more our Poet walks the land!
                Your mellow voice no more is heard.
              Oh, for the warm clasp of your hand,
                The friendly, precious word!

              But in the hearts whose love you share,
                In countless friends you never met,
              In the world’s childhood everywhere
                Your life is singing yet.

              Your merry quips; your thought’s pure gold;
                Your knightly quest and champion cry;
              The songs you sang, the tales you told—
                Their echoes do not die.

              They make a part of what we are,
                Of all the best we think and do.
              The land you loved is better far
                Because her youth loved you!




                             THE JOY-VENDER


           Giovanni Carbone, lame and old,
           Has a struggling bunch of balloons to hold;
           Balloons like giant, luscious grapes,
           With shiny skins and the roundest shapes.
           They dodge and tug to get away,
           Like children, peevish at control.

           Early and late the patient soul
           Smiling and nodding keeps his stand,
           On a corner where the breezes play,
           And the child-parade goes by each day;
           For windmills whirl in his other hand.
           Petaled windmills of every hue
           Known to his native, opal land,
           Busily, dizzily whiz and whir,
           Making rosettes of rainbow blur,
           Too bewildering to be true.
           Giovanni guards the corner well;
           A kindly wizard, ready to sell
           For a tiny bit of sordid money
           A gaudy joy, when the day is sunny.
           Flimsy joys! Just pretty toys,
           Fragile and useless anywhere;
           Except to little girls and boys
           Empty and meaningless as air!

           How babies love the foolish things!
           Their chubby, mittened hands they reach,
           Pout rosy lips in lisping speech,
           Coaxing the wizard with wrinkled face
           To part with his treasure,
           The joys that have wings.
           He is willing enough, for a nickel or two—
           And what is a nickel to me or you?
           He grins and nods with an artist’s grace,
           Pleased with the little ones’ guileless pleasure.
           He airily pockets the proffered pence,
           Tethers his wares to the iron fence.
           With gentle fingers he ties the strings
           To proud small buttons; he thrusts a wand—
           A fairy wand—in a baby hand.
           “_Va bene!_”
                       Off to a Wonderland!

           Giovanni Carbone! No wonder you grin,
           With your burning eye set in parchment skin;
           Purveyor of dreams for the innocent;
           Maker of laughter rather than pain;
           Vender of perfect, rounded content.
           I envy you again and again
           Your job and your bit of wonder-money,
           And your breezy stand, when the day is sunny.




                              THE SPARROW


                  Little bird of dusty brown,
                  Why do you stay here in town,
                  In the noise and dirt and heat
                  Hopping in the ugly street?
                  Other songsters choose to go
                  Where the grass and clovers grow,
                  Where the dew is on the hill
                  And the shady woods are still;
                  Where the baby rivers skip,
                  And the cool green mosses drip.
                  There to-morrow I shall be!
                  Sparrow, do you envy me?

                  Saucy bird, alert and quick,
                  Lingering on stone and brick—
                  Little children linger too,
                  Who perhaps are fond of you;
                  Pale and pitiful to see,
                  Sick and sorry too, maybe.
                  They can dream, but never stray
                  Where the ferns and daisies play.
                  All the sultry summer through
                  They will hear no bird but you,
                  Cheap and common, sharp and shrill,
                  Chirping, chirping, chirping still,
                  Picking bugs and crumbs and things.
                  Yet—you have the gift of wings!
                  They can see you dart and fly
                  Free and high to tree and sky—
                  Only little comrade given
                  Who can bring them news of heaven!

                  Sparrow, though I run away,
                  Is that why you choose to stay?




                                 SYLVIA


                   Sylvia is always gay.
                   When she winged to earth one day,
                   Through the wonders of the sky,
                   She caught a star as she flew by,
                   Green and gold and amethyst,
                   In her tiny baby fist,
                   And hid it in her little breast
                   As a secret unconfessed.

                   Like a jeweled lantern she
                   Shines for all the world to see.
                   In her eyes the sparkle beams,
                   From her burnished hair it gleams;
                   Radiant all she does and says,
                   All her pretty, twinkling ways—
                   Just because she dared to leaven
                   Lifetime with a bit of heaven.
                   Sylvia! Without your spark,
                   Oh, the journey would be dark.




                               THE PLUME


             “Here is a gift,” the Brownie said,
             As something fell on the little maid’s head—
             “A golden feather with silver bars
             Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars;
             A beautiful plume to use as you will,
             Fortunate friend on top of the hill!
             Fasten it into your curly hair;
             Love will follow and find you fair.
             Put it into the Magi’s hands;
             They will pay you with gold and lands.
             Feather a shaft with the magic thing,
             And bring down Fame with a crippled wing.
             Other wonders the plume can do,
             But I wouldn’t bother, if I were you!”

             Now the queer little maid on top of the hill
             Clipped the plume to a scratchy quill—
             The golden feather with silver bars
             Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars!
             She wrote and wrote, all night, all day,
             The curious things it made her say—
             Wonder-tales and whimsical rhymes,
             Faraway deeds from faraway times,
             Told for the clamorous boys and girls,
             With bangs and braids, with clips and curls.
             The children laughed and clapped and cried—
             “Tell it again! Tell more beside!”
             Then the queer little maid was proud and glad,
             And this was the good of the gift she had—
             The magical plume of the Faraway Bird.

             But the Brownie sighed, for never a word
             To the busy house on the hilltop came
             Of flattering love, or wealth, or fame.




                            THE WOODSY ONES


           Hear them creeping, creeping, creeping,
               through the mosses and the brush,
             The Woodsy Ones whom I can never see!
           Now they snap a twig and falter,
               now they laugh and whisper “Hush!”
             As they dodge their little heads behind a tree.

           Hear them dancing, dancing, dancing,
               in the grass when I’m abed,
             And singing at my window in the moon!
           Oh, the fairy music bubbles
               in my dizzy little head,
             And I drift away to Nothing all too soon!




                            THE WEE KNITTER


             _Click! Click! Click!_
             Hark to the needles knitting fast
               Of the wee Knitter in the sun.
             Over the fairy finger-tips are cast
               Gossamer threads by an old witch-spider spun
             In her den at the heart of a flower
             In a moonlit hour.

             _Click! Click! Click!_
             The wee small Knitter is all in green,
               With thistledown hair,
             And petal-shoon on her silver toes
               That she swings in the air,
             From her perch on a tremulous rose,
             Knitting unseen.

             _Click! Click! Click!_
             The slender needles of the pine
               Flash spicy fragrance as they go,
               To and fro,
             In the sweet sunshine,
               Knitting a secret few can know,
             Of magical meshes none may spy
             With a mortal eye.

             _Click! Click! Click!_
             A fairy laugh rings clear and wild,
               As eagerly the needles knit,
               Knot by knot and bit by bit,
             A purse invisible to hold
             Not gold—
               But a bit of luck for a human child.

             Do you hear, do you hear, O Fortunate One,
             The wee small Knitter in the sun?
             _Click! Click! Click!_




                       A CHARM SAID UNDER AN OAK


                          _Deus Robur Meus._
                      Oak, with thy straightness,
                      Oak, with thy wholeness,
                      Oak, with thy brightness,
                        Hearten me! Aid me!
                      Rooted in passionate earth,
                      Crowned in ethereal blue,
                      Breathing ineffable love,
                        Shelter me! Shade me!

                      With thy sweet strength,
                      With thy cool peace,
                      With thy green joy,
                        Touch me and thrill me!
                      Spirit of patience,
                      Spirit of courage,
                      Spirit of wisdom,
                        Cover me! Fill me!

                      Balm-giving oak,
                      Force-giving oak,
                      Self-giving oak,
                        Inspire and elate me!
                      Lovely green tree of life,
                      Happy tall tree of hope,
                      Holy great tree of good,
                        Oh, consecrate me!
                          _Deus Robur Meus._




                               FAIRY RING


                I stepped within the fairy ring,
                  Where it was green, so green.
                Then I heard the trill of a fairy bell,
                  And the song of the Fairy Queen.

                The secret that she murmured me,
                  To the trill of the fairy bell,
                Was sweet, so sweet you’d not believe,
                  If I should try to tell.

                But step you too in the fairy ring,
                  And hold fast to my hand;
                Then we may hear a lovelier thing,
                  And both will understand.




                           DANGEROUS PASSING


                Who ventures to the Magic Wood?
                  Who dares the moonlit way,
                Full perilous in the silver flood,
                  Though safe enough by day?

                Who brushes through the mystic dew
                  To hear the flute of Pan,
                And spy upon our dancing crew?
                  Beware, O Maid, O Man!

                The Wee Folk lurk behind the trees
                  And ambush in the fern;
                Our mischief whispers in the breeze—
                  Ye Trespassers, return!

                Enchanted, each to each shall seem
                  Transfigured and divine;
                Your faces with strange beauty gleam,
                  Your lips hold maddening wine.

                You shall forget for what you seek;
                  Careless of all about,
                Hand clasped to hand and cheek to cheek,
                  Sport for the elfin rout.

                We tangle never to be free
                  The feet that tread too far.
                Beware the moonlight witchery,
                  The magic of a star!




                               THE DRYAD


          I was a Dryad cloistered in a tree,
            Nor knew it for a cell, so close and kind;
          Till some one’s careless fingers found the key
            And set me free to sun and sky and wind.

          Heigho! The outer world seemed very sweet,
            For all the sunlit mysteries were new,
          The tender little moss caressed my feet,
            I drank of flower-wine and crystal dew.

          I heard quaint stories from the birds and bees;
            My cheeks were of the sun’s warm kisses fain;
          I joined wild frolics with the reckless breeze,
            And mocked the mocking echoes back again.

          But when the evening fell and all the world
            Folded to rest without a thought of me,
          With fear a-shiver as the dark unfurled,
            I longed to shelter in the ancient tree.

          The sun has gone and now my heart is cold!
            My friend the breeze, grown weary with his play,
          Slumbers upon the flowers; while all the gold
            Has faded from the glory of the day.

          O good great Oak, close me within your bark!
            I droop and faint and cannot wander more.
          But though through all the world I search the dark,
            I cannot find my cloister’s wrinkled door.

          O good great Oak, let me not seek in vain
            A helpless Dryad, exiled from her tree!
          Ah, but to feel your clasping strength again
            Between the cruel, careless world and me!




                               FAIRY WINE


               You from east and I from west
                 Both stumbled into Fairyland;
               And there we wandered, blithe and blest,
                 Through elfin mazes, hand in hand.

               They poured a cup of magic brew
                 And laid enchantment on our eyes;
               I thought I read the heart of you,
                 You saw me in a fairy guise.

               Out of the wonder-hill we came;
                 We blinked and stammered, wild and wan.
               For you and I were just the same,
                 But lo! the witchery was gone!

               So, go your way and I’ll go mine,
                 You to the west, I to the east.
               But ah, how sweet the fairy wine
                 We sipped together at the feast!




                                  WEBS


                Oh, they spread out their silver webs
                  Upon the moonlit grass,
                Their wee bright webs of faërie,
                  To catch the Dreams that pass.

                The wistful dream that stole from me
                  And crept away to you,
                They tangled it in glistering knots
                  Of witchery and dew.

                And whisht! Your bashful little thought,
                  So innocent and bright,
                Got trapped in that same silver web
                  And kept with mine all night.

                Then ah! Whatever shall we do
                  Upon to-morrow day,
                Our dreams are snared together so
                  And cannot slip away?




                             THE FAIRY FORT


                As I went by the fairy fort
                  I heard a laughing wee voice say—
                “Whisht! Be these humans rale at all?
                  I’ll not believe it, nay!”

                “Aye, but ye see the crayturs plain?”
                  “But seein’ niver makes it true,
                No more that not to see be proof;
                  ’Tis what they think and do.

                “They just have faith in what they see,
                  And they be blind as midday owls—
                Except the little childher dear,
                  And some with childher sowls.

                “They chase unrale things all day long—
                  Money and aise and fame and power—
                With niver time to pipe and dream,
                  Or gossip with a flower.

                “Such stupid things they be, and quare!
                  I’ll not believe in them, not I!
                Come, let us pipe a rale, true lilt,
                  And lave the crayturs by.”

                As I went by the fairy fort
                  I heard a piping sweet and small;
                I wonder, are the Wee Folk real,
                  Or am I real at all?




                          PEACE—WITH A SWORD!

             “ENSE PETIT PLACIDAM SUB LIBERTATE QUIETEM”
                                 (_Motto of Massachusetts_)


         Peace! How we love her and the good she brings
           On broad, benignant wings!
         And we have clung to her, how close and long,
           While she has made us strong!
         Now we must guard her lest her power cease,
         And in the harried world be no more peace.
                 Even with a sword;
                 Help us, O Lord.

         For us no patient peace, the weary goal
           Of a war-sickened soul;
         No peace that battens on misfortune’s pain,
           Swollen with selfish gain,
         Bending slack knees before a calf of gold,
         With nerveless fingers impotent to hold
                 The freeman’s sword:
                 Not this, O Lord!

         No peace bought for us by the martyr dead
           Of countries reeking red;
         No peace flung to us from the tyrant’s hand,
           Sop to a servile land.
         Our Peace the State’s strong arm holds high and free,
         The “placid Peace she seeks in liberty,”
                 Yea, “with a sword.”
                 Help us, O Lord!

         O Massachusetts! In your golden prime,
           Not with the bribe of time
         You won her; subtle words and careful ways
           In perilous days.
         No! By your valor; by the patriot blood
         Of your brave sons poured in a generous flood.
                 Peace, with a sword!
                 Help us, O Lord.

         Fling out the banners that defied a king;
           The tattered colors bring
         That made a nation one from sea to sea,
           In godly liberty.
         Unsheathe the patriot sword in time of need,
         O Massachusetts, shouting in the lead—
                 “Peace, with a sword!
                 Help us, O Lord!”




                                THE CRY


           Hark! From the trampled gardens once so fair,
             From hateful trenches in the harried fields,
           From vineyards wasting in polluted air
             Their rich, ungarnered yields,
           There comes the piteous, instinctive cry
           Of soldiers in their lonely agony—
                     “Mother!” “Mère!”

           Alas! Those bonny yellow heads low-lying!
             Blue anguished eyes—like eyes beloved and near!
           Weak, fevered lips with painful effort sighing
             That word of all most dear—
           So like on every tongue, so understood,
           Sign of our common, outraged brotherhood—
                     “Mutter!” “Mither!”

           They cry to Her—the Pity of the race,
             The fostering Care from which they marched afar,
           The Sympathy forsaken, and the grace
             Of Love betrayed by war.
           In this their bitter hour the brave men cry
           To her who bore them, piteously to die—
                     “Madre!” “Mat!”

           And she at home, the pale, heart-broken mother—
             She who had nought to do with war and strife—
           Knows Cain and Abel, brother slaying brother!
             Sad Eve who gave them life
           Must watch and wait and weep and work, and hear
           Those kindred voices crying to her ear—
                     “Mutter!” “Maman!”

           Oh, hearken, human Love! unselfish, high,
             Impartial as the love of mothers good!
           Not vainly died the lads, if their last cry
             Prove us our brotherhood;
           If horror so abound for kindred slain,
           Man ends forever War, the crime of Cain.
                     “Mother!”




                               CRUSADERS


                   They who have seen the vision,
                     We who have dreamed the dream,
                   Are comrades of a mighty host,
                     Crusaders of the Gleam.

                   Some lads will fall in battle,
                     Some wave victorious swords;
                   Some knit the pitying web of love,
                     Or forge the glowing words.

                   Still, shoulder set to shoulder,
                     We tread the fields of fate,
                   Our hearts invincible to crush
                     Truculent ranks of Hate.

                   And comrade heartens comrade
                     Through voids of time and space,
                   Flashing the Sign upon his brow,
                     A light upon his face.




                              THE KNIGHTS


                Not dust! Not dust the chivalry,
                  The knightly heart of high romance
                Enshrined in ancient poetry.
                  Behold, the battle-fields of France!

                Gone plume and crest and jeweled sword,
                  Gone pomp and picturesque array.
                War is a grim and hideous word!
                  Yet heroes walk the world to-day.

                A Launcelot or Lion Heart?
                  A Roland or a Godfrey bold?
                Nay, simple lads who bear their part
                  As gallantly as knights of old.

                Our lithe brown legions swinging by,
                  Our bonny sailors proudly free;
                The dauntless champions of the sky,
                  The dragon-chasers on the sea!

                A thousand Sidneys pass the cup
                  Of blessedness on fields of blood;
                And countless Bayards offer up
                  Their joyous hope for others’ good.

                Never were hearts so nobly bold,
                  Nor bodies built so strongly fair.
                The tree of life has not grown old,
                  But blooms to-day beyond compare!

                No more we glory in the past
                  And yearn to see those kings of men.
                The peerless knights arise at last,
                  And epic deeds are done again!




                            FROM THE CANTEEN


                   Sailor, we shall miss you,
                     Swaggering up and down,
                   Bringing picaresque romance
                     To the mouldy town.

                   On your lips a whistle,
                     In your heart a dance,
                   A merry lass upon your arm,
                     Mischief in your glance.

                   Childish in your loneliness,
                     Boyish in your needs,
                   But a man in strong desire,
                     A man to do bold deeds.

                   Fearful tales you told us—
                     Some of them were true;
                   Furtive tears were often spilled
                     In the cups we poured for you.

                   How we yearned to help you;
                     Longed to understand
                   The riddle of your restless look,
                     The strange lines of your hand.

                   You brought us pain and vision,
                     Bright youth and gallant ways.
                   Sailor, we shall miss you
                     In the peaceful days!




                            CRIPPLED SOLDIER


               I may have used but half my strength,
                 And you but half your mind,
               To help the Cause for which he bled,
                 Leaving a limb behind.

               You may have stumbled in your task,
                 I may have limped and failed.
               But he leaped forth to give his hope,
                 Nor once looked back, nor quailed.

               We may be scarred with vain regret
                 For duties left undone,
               With stiffened limbs and slackened hearts,
                 When the great war is won.

               Then who will say that he is lame,
                 While we are safe and whole?
               Who bears dread wounds for others’ sake
                 Has the uncrippled soul.

               And life for him may now begin,
                 With a new hope at heart,
               While we, disfigured, face a peace
                 In which we won no part.




                          THE FLAG TRIUMPHANT


        Across my window blow the splendid folds
        Of the great flag hung out for Victory
        And Peace. They gleam through traceries of vine
        And struggling plants, cherished through four grim years
        For comfort, now in blossom. Everything
        I see between the flutterings of the flag;
        The unimportant doings in the street,
        The homely houses opposite, the folk
        Carelessly passing; and the flight of doves—
        Peace doves—along a narrow strip of sky.
        I see them glorified by red and white,
        Under a blessed hidden field of stars.

        And when I turn away to read or write,
        My eyes are dazzled still by vivid flashes,
        Caught from the floating colors. No escape
        From thoughts of death heroic, life triumphant!
        The room is full of red and white reflections.
        The very picture-glasses are aglow
        With patriotic fervor, not content
        To be mere shields for ancient, precious things—
        Precious for being ancient; they would share
        The pride of present effort. Even shy prisms
        Hung in old candelabra flush and pale
        Alternately, with tremulous, caught emotion.

        O Flag of sacrifice and chivalry,
        Never before so dear! Your holy red
        Dyed with the blood of hero-friends; your white
        Clear like their vision; and your starry field
        Steadfast with life devotion! Not again,
        I think, shall I look out upon the world
        But through the folds of your eternal glory.
        Flash your fair challenge still across my window,
        Flag of my Country!




                           THREE GOLDEN STARS

 (IN MEMORY OF THREE RADCLIFFE GIRLS WHO DIED IN SERVICE ABROAD; RUTH
    HOLDEN, ’11; LUCY N. FLETCHER, ’10; AND HELEN HOMANS)


           Lucy, Helen, Ruth! Sweet names they have,
             Our brave young soldiers, womanly and kind!
             Sweet as the glorious youth of heart and mind,
           The years of promise they so gladly gave.

           And they have wound the ribbon of their love
             About and through the nations sundered far,
             Drawing them close; each with a golden Star
           Setting her seal on bonds that time shall prove.

           For one, a Briton born and Island bred,
             Chose for America to serve, and bless
             Our wounded with her strength and steadfastness.
           She sleeps in France among her Yankee dead.

           One of New England, back to England gave
             The treasure of her wisdom and her skill,
             To use for hapless refugees, who still
           Are weeping by her lonely Russian grave.

           And one has won a hero’s _Croix de Guerre_,
             “_Morte pour La France_,” so honoring a debt.
             Our sister nation never will forget
           The foreign Saint who gave her soldiers care.

           Oh, greater love hath no man shown than they,
             The dear, bright spirits with the radiant eyes,
             Fearlessly venturing the great emprise,
           Cheerfully pacing down the dolorous way!

           So, never deem their golden web unspun,
             Blighted the hope, and lost the precious dower!
             For Three have died to speed the blessed hour
           When Truth and Love make all the nations one.




                         THE SPRING OF THE YEAR


          On fields of France the violets are fair,
            The skylarks sing above the broad champaign;
          But where are they who walked and listened there,
            The hero-lads our spring finds not again?
          They leave to us who did not share the fight,
          The earth’s expectancy of green delight.

          Nay! They have journeyed to a sweeter bourne,
            Where ghosts of all the garnered springs survive,
          With all earth-joys that never will return,
            And all the flowers that ever were alive;
          Where bird-songs that have echoed through the years
          Make harmony too sweet for mortal ears.

          Oh, what a radiant company are they!
            Forever one with all that’s newly fair;
          Out of the heat and burden of the day,
            The blight of fall and winter’s aged care.
          They are Youth’s Gladness, ever blossoming
          Beyond the wistful limit of our spring!




                           PRAYER FOR AMERICA


                 O Lord of justice and of right
                   Who made the generous Cause prevail,
                 Who helped our heroes win the fight,
                   Now let not their endeavor fail.
                 Facing new dangers that arise,
                 Oh, make us wise!

                 Draw out the best of each to serve
                   Unselfishly the common good,
                 Nor let the wider vision swerve
                   From the true goal of brotherhood.
                 To this, thy mighty-blended race,
                 Oh, give thy grace!

                 Give us great leaders we can trust
                   To strive for righteousness alone;
                 Cast small ambition in the dust,
                   With greed and malice overthrown.
                 Lord God, Preserver of the State,
                 Oh, make us great!




                          THE ROCK OF LIBERTY
                      A PILGRIM ODE, 1620–1920[1]

                                   ⁂




                               I. VISION


                           PRAYER OF SAILING

             Lord God of Hosts, Defender of the weak,
             With thine Almighty arm deliver us,
             Thy suffering people, exiled and forlorn,
             Pilgrims of faith, who dream a glorious dream!
             Beyond the deep, where no man knows the way,
             To savage shores beneath an alien sky,
             Guide us in hope to Liberty and Peace.
             Jehovah! Hearken to thy people’s cry!
             Oh, grant us freedom, Lord, within thy law,
             To toil or worship, live or die for Thee,
             In thy name building that which shall endure
             Beyond the little while we have to live.


                               THE VISION

             O rolling waste of unimagined ocean,
             Dividing continents and parting men!
             Yield to the fragile sails of destiny,
             Maimed by the will that conquers mighty force!
             Bow to the courage that endures to die,
             The faith that anchors to a solid Rock.
             O waves that do divide! The time will come
             When water shall unite the sundered lands.
             Then over sea, under the sea and through,
             Shall fare the galleons of brotherhood,
             Bearing the freight of liberty and love
             From a great nation, heir of our desire,
             To every corner of the peopled earth.


                             THE MAYFLOWER

                 O Pilgrims in a cockle frail
                   Upon a perilous quest,
                 Out of the old world making sail
                   Into the golden west;
                 Beyond the misty ocean veil
                   Awaits a Vision blest!

                 A simple little yeoman band,
                   None of the rich or great,
                 But stout of heart and strong of hand,
                   The pioneers of fate;
                 The patient builders of a land,
                   The founders of a State!

                 Your fragile bark adventuring
                   Upon a fearful sea,—
                 Awful the cargo that you bring;
                   The seeds of destiny,
                 Promise of future harvesting
                   In sheaves of liberty.


                            CHORUS OF WOMEN

               The peril of the frozen wave
                 Our faith cannot betray;
               Mothers and maidens, be ye brave,
                 And teach the babes to pray,—
               “Jehovah! Who art strong to save,
                 Guide to Thy chosen Bay!”

               Famine and cold and fever come
                 To meet us on the shore;
               Labor and want and sorrow, dumb
                 For joys we see no more.
               O Lord, give hope in a new home;
                 Strength for what lies before!

               Yea, though he slay with scourge forlorn,
                 We trust Jehovah’s will.
               Although the pitying rows of corn
                 Hide many a little hill
               Where lie our loved and newly-born;
                 Our God is with us still.


                             CHORUS OF MEN

                  No snarling danger in its den
                    Can make our courage quail;
                  No prowling savage of the fen
                    Will turn our color pale,
                  Nor treachery of brother men
                    Make our endeavor fail.

                  With freedom are our furrows filled,
                    To blossom in the spring.
                  To freedom run the roads we build:
                    “_Freedom!_” the gray walls sing.
                  For FREEDOM is the word we willed
                    Should through the ages ring!


                              II. STRUGGLE


                                 PSALM

          _The Lord is my strength; of whom shall I be afraid?
          He hath brought me forth into a place of Liberty.
          Oh what great and sore troubles hast Thou showed me,
          And yet dost Thou quicken me again,
          Yea, and shalt bring me up again out of the deep.
          Thou hast tried me as silver is tried.
          The Lord will give strength to His people.
          The Lord will bless His people with peace._


                              THE CAPTAIN

               We who have challenged fate
                 To buy the boon of peace,
               Shall we not watch and wait,
                 Nor from the vigil cease?
               Pray God for strength and trust his word,
               Guarding our treasure with a sword!

               We who have burned the past
                 Upon an altar fire,
               Will pay our lives at last
                 To win the soul’s desire.
               Give us our peace! Renew our faith,
               O Lord, to seek it unto death!


                               THE ELDER

             Come, let us build a temple to God,
             Here in the wilderness, made by our might,
             Set in our midst, the center of life.
             Smite the tall pines that fall with a roar!
             Hew the great logs and heave them in place
             Square is the meeting-house, simple and stern,
             Barren of beauty, honestly builded,
             A shield from the arrow that flieth by day,
             A haven from storm and peril of night.
             Slender the spire that points to the sky,
             First one of many to blaze out a path
             Through the wild jungle, lifting men’s eyes
             Out of the shadow into the light.
             Old men and maidens, young men and children,
             Enter His house with thanksgiving and praise!


                            PILGRIM MOTHERS

                  Patter, patter, in and out,
                    Go the women’s loyal feet.
                  Hither, thither, roundabout,
                    Late and early hear the beat;
                  To the crib, the well, the hay,
                    From the kitchen to the loom;
                  Treading out a people’s way,
                    From the cradle to the tomb.

                  Flutter, flutter, to and fro,
                    Busy hands fly out and in.
                  Flaxen threads are white as snow,—
                    Rough the little hands that spin;
                  Drawing out the thread of life,
                    Working early, winding late;
                  Gentle mother, noble wife,
                    Knitting firm a nation’s fate.


                            PILGRIM FATHERS

                  Lord of the harvest and the toil,
                  Prosper the laborer on thy soil.
                  Steady the shoulder to the plow,
                  And let there be no faltering now.
                  Our lot is in a goodly land;
                  Inspire the heart and steel the hand
                  To build a fabric grandly sure
                  In righteousness that shall endure!


                            THE CONGREGATION

                Sing to the Lord! Here there shall be
                No leading into captivity,
                And no complaining on our shore.
                But we will guard the lowly poor,
                The little children and the weak,
                And they shall find the prize they seek.

                O Liberty! The corner-stone
                Of a greater hope than men have known!


                            III. ACHIEVEMENT


                                  SONS

            We have felled the forest and pierced the hill;
            We have scoured the prairie and venture still,
            Turning the torrent to our behest,
            Sons of the Pilgrims, East and West.


                               DAUGHTERS

               We have followed our men to make a home;
               Wherever they fared we dared to come,
               From the mountain top to the river mouth,
               Daughters of Pilgrims, North and South.


                           THE NEW GENERATION

                We have builded well by the waterside,
                We have garnered a harvest far and wide,
                Setting our mark from sea to sea,
                Heirs of the Pilgrim liberty.


                               THE ALARUM

                    Daughters of men, arise!
                      Sons of the soil, awake!
                    What are the hopes ye prize
                      When Freedom is at stake?
                    Hark to a warning cry
                      Out of the sacred dust;
                    Dare all for Liberty,
                      Give all to keep the trust!

              “_Pray God for strength and trust his word,
              Guarding our treasure with a sword!_”

                    Arise, O glorious Land,
                      And make confusion cease!
                    The foes of Freedom stand
                      Across the path of peace.
                    In loyal might arrayed
                      Assail the host of shame.
                    Forward! Unafraid!
                      In God’s Almighty name!

              “_Give us our peace! Renew our faith,
              O Lord, to seek it unto death!_”

                    America! Be strong!
                      Heir of a noble race,
                    Bear the proud Flag along
                      Up to the highest place.
                    The road our fathers made
                      Is bright as living flame.
                    Forward! Unafraid!
                      In God’s Almighty name!


                          THE VISION FULFILLED

              O waves that did divide! The time has come
              When water shall unite the sundered lands!
              Now over sea, under the sea and through,
              Shall fare the galleons of brotherhood,
              Bearing the freight of liberty and love
              From the great Nation, heir of men’s desire,
              To every corner of the peopled earth.


                               THE UNION

          Lovely is this, the land of our abiding,
          From shore to shore across the leagues of freedom,
          From North to South in merciful abundance;
              Land of our heart, America!

          The little school, the farmstead, and the chapel,
          Type of the treasure that our fathers cherished,
          Followed the feet that tramped beyond the mountains,
              Making thy ways, America!

          Out of the East came men in mighty millions,
          Into the savage corners of the country,
          Scattering wide the seed of old tradition,
              Germ of thy power, America!

          From deep to deep, from gulf to frozen forest,
          The mountain and the plain have known their courage,
          The harbor and the town have seen their wisdom,
              Quickening thee, America!

          They chained the Titan, Steam, to be their servant;
          They made the thunderbolt to do their bidding,
          And gave thee Light to be thy living halo,
              Glorious one, America!

          The old world turned to thee in time of trouble,
          The people held their empty hands for succor;
          Thy bread and wine of love went forth to feed them,
              Strength of thy strength, America!

          Thy Liberty became the hope of nations;
          To Victory thy banner crossed the ocean,
          Borne by the gallant sons of Pilgrim honor,
              Shouting thy name—“_America!_”

          Yet are we humble, mindful of the fathers.
          Not unto us, but unto God the glory,
          Who gave them grace, and made us to inherit
              Their sacred trust,—America!


                                DOXOLOGY

                Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
                Praise Him, all creatures here below;
                Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
                Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
                          Amen.




                         =The Riverside Press=
                       CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
                               U . S . A

-----

Footnote 1:

  Copyright, 1920, by the Arthur P. Schmidt Company.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76783 ***