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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: In the Morning - -Author: Willis Boyd Allen - -Release Date: January 24, 2022 [eBook #67246] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, hekula03 and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MORNING *** - - - - - -=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE= - - - Footnotes have been placed at the end of their respective poem. - - - - -IN THE MORNING. - - - - - IN THE MORNING. - - BY - - WILLIS BOYD ALLEN. - - Den Abend lang währet das Weinen, - Aber des Morgens die Freude. - - LUTHER’S VERSION. - - Hear what the Morning says, and believe that. - - EMERSON. - - - NEW YORK: - - ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND CO. - 38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET. - - 1890. - - - - - _Copyright, 1890_, - BY WILLIS BOYD ALLEN. - - - University Press: - JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. - - - - -To my Mother. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE 9 - - - VITA NUOVA 11 - - NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND 15 - - DIAPASON 17 - - CHAMOUNIX 20 - - IN THE MORNING 22 - - MARIGOLD 25 - - “SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!” 27 - - TO M----, ON HER BIRTHDAY 29 - - “YOURS TRULY” 30 - - A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER 32 - - IN SOMNO VERITAS 36 - - THALATTA 38 - - UNKNOWN 39 - - MY CROSS 41 - - A VALENTINE 42 - - WHITE PINK 44 - - APRILLE 45 - - MAY 46 - - AUGUST 47 - - CARLO’S CHRISTMAS 48 - - THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW 50 - - TWO VISIONS 52 - - MY CREED 54 - - AGAIN? 55 - - PANSY 56 - - GOLDEN-ROD 57 - - TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY 58 - - TO A VERY SMALL PINE 59 - - MOSSES 61 - - THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS 63 - - CHRISTMAS SNOW 64 - - THE “CREATION” 65 - - THE HAPPY VALLEY 67 - - DOLLIE’S SPRING 71 - - THE THIRD DAY 73 - - THE SEVENTH DAY 73 - - FERN LIFE 75 - - Its Home 75 - - At School 76 - - Asleep 76 - - A Cradle-Song of the Night Wind 77 - - The Chime 77 - - The Hymn of the Northern Pines 78 - - At Last 79 - - PAUSES AND CLAUSES 80 - - TO M----, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS” 81 - - MEMORIAL POEM 83 - - DANDELION 90 - - MARJORIE 92 - - PRIMROSE 94 - - CONTENT 96 - - WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER 98 - - SEA-GIRLS 102 - - HOMEWARD 104 - - A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M---- 107 - - TRANSLATIONS 113 - - In the North-land 113 - - A Lovely Flower 113 - - Eagerly I cry 114 - - He who for the first Time 114 - - Little Maid 115 - - It was as if the Heavens 115 - - IN MORNING-LAND 117 - - SIC ITUR AD ASTRA 119 - - THE COMET, NOVEMBER, 1882 121 - - “HIS STAR” 122 - - “LICHT, MEHR LICHT!” 124 - - PSALM LXXX 126 - - UNTO THE PERFECT DAY 127 - - HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE 128 - - BLIND 130 - - REFUGE 133 - - GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO” 135 - - ON CHRISTMAS EVE 136 - - BY NIGHT 139 - - “STAR OF BETHLEHEM” 141 - - “BLESSED” 143 - - A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL 146 - - THE FOURTH WATCH 148 - - “WITH YOU ALWAY” 151 - - DECEMBER 31 152 - - IN MY ARM-CHAIR 154 - - - - -_AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE._ - - - _Two sorrie Thynges there be,-- - Ay, three: - A Neste from which ye Fledglings have been taken, - A Lamb forsaken, - A Petal from ye Wilde Rose rudely shaken._ - - _Of gladde Thynges there be more,-- - Ay, four: - A Larke above ye olde Neste blithely singing, - A Wilde Rose clinging - In safety to ye Rock, a Shepherde bringing - A Lamb, found, in his arms,--and Chrystemesse - Bells a-ringing._ - - - - - IN THE MORNING. - - - - - VITA NUOVA. - - - A desert, treeless, boundless, - The low sun round and red, - Air stifling, moveless, soundless-- - And I alone with my dead. - - Her head lay on my shoulder, - The crimson light ebbed fast; - Her face grew paler, colder-- - The face of my own dead Past. - - Then darkness, black and frightful, - Dropped from the eastern sky, - With never a star, but a night-full - Of horrors creeping by. - - I saw how fiercely glistened - Their mad eyes, two by two,-- - They screamed, and as I listened - They laughed like a demon crew. - - See how that huge hyena - Grows bolder than the rest-- - Slinks--snarls--in the arena, - For the corpse upon my breast! - - I laughed like the brutes around me, - I snarled on my stony bed, - I severed the ties that bound me - And gnashed upon the dead. - - The tawny-sided creatures, - Red claw and dripping fang, - The hideous, grinning features, - The awful mirth that rang,-- - All vanished. Starless, boundless, - The night stretched o’er my head. - In the gray dawn, soulless, soundless, - I sat alone with my dead. - - Then rustling forms drew nearer. - By the faint approaching day - The frightful things grew clearer,-- - Great, unclean birds of prey - And carrion beasts, that waited - Until, on the booty rare, - Their hunger foul should be sated - With my poor Past, lying there. - - Oh, I, too, sullen-hearted, - No word of anguish said; - Till bird and beast departed - I waited--dumb--by the dead. - - The white east flickered with fire, - A lark flew singing by, - The glad light mounted higher, - Up-spread o’er all the sky. - - My burden, fair and human, - Still rested on my hands, - When lo! a gracious Woman, - Swift walking o’er the sands, - Until she stood before me, - Breathed words of hope and cheer; - Her radiant eyes were o’er me, - Her presence warm and near, - - And at her voice--oh, wonder!-- - The dead herself awoke; - The birds no longer shunned her, - She smiled, and moved, and spoke, - Then, “FUTURE” named, to guide me - She softly sprang away; - The Woman stayed beside me-- - Sun rose--it was full day. - - - - -NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND. - - - A poet sat in his oaken chair, - The pen in his eager hand, - Awaiting the voice that should declare - His Lord’s divine command. - - The sad winds sobbed against the pane, - The tempest’s tramp he heard - As it scourged the night with a hissing rain-- - But the Poet wrote never a word. - - Then came a burst of martial mirth, - And mighty cannon roared - Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth-- - ’Twas not the voice of the Lord. - - In the Poet’s heart a memory rose - Of love’s first passionate thrill - That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows-- - But the pen was idle, still; - - When lo, a timid voice at the door, - And a child, with sweet delight, - Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er-- - The poem was written that night. - - - - -DIAPASON. - - - On the crags of a far-off mountain-top - At earliest dawn a snowflake fell; - The North Wind stooped and cried to her, “Stop! - There is room in my icy halls to dwell!” - The snowflake gleamed like a crystal clear, - Then wept herself to a single tear, - Paused, trembled, and slowly began to glide - Adown the slopes of the mountain-side. - - Desolate ledges, frost-riven and bare, - A tiny rivulet bore on their breast; - Cloud-gray mosses and lichens fair - Mutely besought her to slumber and rest. - The rivulet shone in the morning sun, - And touching them tenderly, one by one, - With dewy lips, like the mountain mist, - Each waiting face as she passed she kissed. - - Among the shadows of pine and fir - A stream danced merrily on her way; - A thrush from his hermitage sang to her: - “Why dost thou haste? Sweet messenger, stay!” - The noontide shadows were cool and deep, - The pathway stony, the hillside steep, - The bird still chanted with all his art-- - But the stream ran on, with his song in her heart. - - Through broadening meadow and corn-land bright, - Past smoke-palled city and flowery lea, - A river rolled on, in the fading light, - Majestic, serene, as she neared the sea. - The sins and uncleanness of many she bore - To the outstretched arms of the waiting shore, - Till moonlight followed the sunset glow - And her crimson waves were as white as snow. - - On the lonely ledges of Appledore - I listen again to the ocean’s song, - And lo! in its music I hear once more - The North Wind’s clarion, loud and long. - In that solemn refrain that never shall end - The murmurs of swaying fir-trees blend, - The brooklet’s merry ripple and rush, - The evening hymn of the hermit thrush, - The undertone of the mountain pine,-- - The deep sweet voice of a love divine. - - - - -CHAMOUNIX. - - - Within Thy holy temple have I strayed - E’en as a weary child, who from the heat - And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought - In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy aisle, - And trembling, awestruck, croucheth in his rags - Where high upreared a mighty pillar stands. - - Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence - Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth - Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head; - Deep rolls the organ peal of thunder down - The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float - Around the great white altar set on high. - - So lift my heart, O God, and purify - My thought, that when I walk once more - Amid the busy, anxious, struggling throng, - One cup of water from these springs of life, - One ray of sunlight from these golden days, - One jewel from the mountain’s spotless brow, - As tokens of Thy beauty, I may bear - To little ones who toil, and long for rest. - - - - -IN THE MORNING. - - - ’Twas morn, - And day was born. - Bright in the west the stars still burned, - But ever, as the great earth turned, - The eastern mountain-tops grew dark - Against the rosy heaven--and hark! - A single note from flute-toned thrush - Drops downward through the twilight hush; - Half praise, half prayer, I heard the song: - “Oh, sweet, sweet, - Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!” - - The sun - Touched one by one - The firs along the distant crest,-- - A silent host, with lance at rest; - Flashed all the world with jewels rare, - Quivered with joy the maiden-hair - Beside the brook that downward sprang - And rippling o’er its mosses, sang - With silvery laugh the same glad song: - “Oh, sweet, sweet, - Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!” - - When lo! - Swift, to and fro, - A sombre shadow crossed its path, - Deep thunders rolled in awful wrath, - The thrush beneath the fir-trees crept, - The maiden-hair bowed low and wept; - The heavens were black, the earth was gray - The hills all blanched in the spectral day,-- - The night-wind rose, and wailed this song: - “Oh, long, long, - Oh, joy is fleeting, life so long!” - - Behold, - A shaft of gold - Shot through the wrack of cloud and storm, - The heart of heaven beat quick and warm; - From bird and stream, with myriad tongue, - The glad day carolled, laughed, and sung. - ’Twas morning still! Her tear-drops bright - The maiden-hair raised to the light; - I heard, half prayer, half praise, the song: - “Oh, sweet, sweet, - Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!” - - - - -MARIGOLD. - - - Marigold, marigold, wi’ thy wee cup o’ gold, - What is it mak’s thee sae bonnie an’ gay? - Sunshine has drappit, an’ filled up my cup o’ gold - Fu’ to the brim wi’ the licht o’ the day. - - Marigold, marigold, surely ye canna hold - A’ the sweet sunshine ’at draps frae the sky! - Nay, I’ve a muckle o’ licht ’at I winna hold, - Saved up for you an’ for ithers to try. - - Marigold, marigold, stan’in’ there a’ sae bold, - What’s in thy een, ’at mak’s ’em sae bright? - I keep ’em wide open, stan’in’ here a’ sae bold, - Luikin’ at heaven frae mornin’ to nicht. - - Marigold, marigold, bairnie wi’ cup o’ gold, - What’s i’ thy hert, ’at mak’s thee sae strang? - Trust i’ the One ’at gave me my cup o’ gold - Lattin’ Him love me, a’ the day lang. - - - - -“SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!” - - - Eighteen years ago the sunshine - Laughed to find a baby face; - Laughed to see the blue eyes sober, - In that golden, glad October, - Softly kissed the wisps of hair, - Softly kissed, and lingered there, - Like an answer to a prayer, - Like a whispered benediction, - Token bright of heavenly grace. - - Standing on life’s sunlit threshold, - Gazing forth with eyes of blue - On the great round world before her, - On the kind skies brooding o’er her,-- - From the baby hair the light - Never has departed quite; - Still it lingers, pure and bright. - Yes, the little maid is waiting, - With a purpose grand and true; - - Waiting for whate’er the Father - Calls His child to do and bear; - Waiting, as a thirsty flower - Waits the morning dew and shower. - Summers come and summers go, - Sparrows flutter to and fro, - Autumn breezes murmur low; - “Seventeen, eighteen, Maidie’s waiting, - With the sunshine in her hair!” - - - - -TO M----, ON HER BIRTHDAY. - -WITH A CHESS-BOARD. - - - Your turn to move again, dear, - I’ the gude auld game ca’d Life; - It’s a warstle o’ joy an’ pain, dear, - A mixin’ o’ lauchter an’ strife. - - An’ I fain wad be yer knight, dear, - To serve ye the livelong day; - Ready in armor to fight, dear, - To live or to dee, as ye say. - - Near at han’ i’ the gloamin’ I’d bide, dear, - I’ saddle at gray o’ dawn-- - Na, na, I’m no worthy to ride, dear, - Lat me be the White Queen’s pawn! - - - - -“_YOURS TRULY._” - - - “Yours truly,” she signs the note; ah, me! - How little she dreams what that would be - To him who, trembling, reads the line,-- - What if, indeed, she were truly mine! - - What visions those two dear words can bring - To the lonely heart that is hungering - For a single touch of her dainty hand, - One swift, shy glance he could understand, - - And know that the formal greeting sent - But half concealed what the writer meant,-- - That she gave, throughout the eternities, - Her own sweet self, to be truly his! - - There, there!--that fire, how it smokes--what, tears? - I’ll answer her letter-- - - “Dear Friend, I’ve fears - Your kind invitation I can’t accept; still - I’ll come if it’s possible. - _Yours truly_, WILL.” - - - - -A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER. - - - The morning of Sabbath; a city at rest, - But waking serenely and donning its best, - For the warm March sun already is high. - Above, the arch of a white-blue sky; - Brown earth, with a touch of green, below; - Elm-boughs, uptost with a lift superb; - The melting ice and grimy snow - Playing meadow from curb to curb, - With small mud-rills in place of brooks, - And a sewer for sea! - - Ah, hold, my friend, - I grant how childish-foolish it looks, - But perhaps they’ve faith for the very end,-- - For streams and sewers, greatest and least, - Find ocean at last, in the misty East. - - The good people all are off to the churches, - While I, left here in the idlest of lurches, - Must seek a preacher to preach me a sermon, - Ordained with open-air dews of Hermon; - A discourse conservative, grave, edifying, - And--come, sir, no laughing! I really am trying - To find, if I can, the road steep and narrow; - Ah, here he comes, flying, a straw in his bill! - I’ll beg him take pulpit; now hear, if you will, - A sermon preached by a sparrow. - - “My text”--hear the bird!--“I take - From the street,”--that’s better,--“and make - Application as follows: - Down there where my comrades are basking, - There’s food to be had for the asking,-- - Understand me,--no shirking, - Our _asking_ means _working_,-- - Each swallows - The meal that’s laid on his plate, - Content with enough. There’s my mate, - Her feathers a-fluff in the sun. - That brownest, prettiest one-- - Your pardon! I ought to be preaching. - This, sir, is the gist of my teaching: - We sparrows take things as they come, - From four A. M. until six, - We work (using straw without bricks); - We stop now and then for a crumb - Thrown down by a child; full of cheer, - We twitter throughout the whole year, - Investing in no loans of trouble - Where the borrower always pays double.” - - But your text was the Street, my good bird. - This sounds like the Bible!-- - “I’ve heard - That life was the same, sir, in each; - And, though you want me to preach, - You’ll find that men, fowls, and book, - If you look, - Are all connected together,-- - In short, are birds of a feather; - And from a genuine sermon - You’ll learn, sir,--this I’m firm on,-- - The same Hand guides and governs all - Which holds us sparrows when we fall.” - - No more. Before I could even remind him - Of lack of an adequate exhortation, - Proper pauses, and peroration, - He was off, his straw streaming far behind him. - - His advice--well, certainly not very new, - Yet perhaps worth trying, I think--don’t you? - - - - -IN SOMNO VERITAS. - - - I dreamed that I sat in my chamber - And watched the dancing light - Of the blaze upon my hearthstone, - And the red brands, glowing bright. - - I listened to the rustle - Of the flames that rose and fell, - And I dreamed I heard a whisper, - A voice I knew full well. - - The room no more was lonely, - A Presence sweet was there, - A girlish figure, standing, - Beside my own arm-chair. - - I dreamed I spoke, and trembling - Lest she should prove to be - The creature of a vision, - I bade her sit by me. - - Her grave brown eyes she lifted, - Her dear hand placed in mine,-- - The air was sweet with incense - Of odorous birch and pine,-- - - And as we watched together - Those eager, dancing flames, - We talked of days forgotten, - And spoke our childish names. - - I dreamed that heaven seemed nearer, - The skies a lovelier blue, - Then--was it still a vision?-- - I dreamed my dream came true! - - - - -THALATTA. - - - Far over the billows unresting forever - She flits, my white bird of the sea, - Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never - A wing-beat nearer to me. - - With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her - She timidly gazes below; - Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover, - And little recks she of his woe. - - One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters, - One white plume floats downward to me; - Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters-- - Night--darkness--alone with the sea. - - - - -UNKNOWN. - - - There’s a star a-light in the gloaming, - A gleam in the skies above; - There’s a flower at rest on her bosom,-- - On the heart of her I love. - - What says the star of the twilight? - What is the song of the flower? - A cloud has covered the star-beam; - The blossom lived but an hour. - - Nay, ’tis the infinite heaven, - The depth beyond, that speak; - ’Tis the heart that throbs ’neath the blossom, - Not the lip nor the fair white cheek. - - The voice of the heavens is tender, - Its whisper is fond and low; - But the voice of the heart that is throbbing-- - Its message I cannot know. - - - - -MY CROSS. - - - Only a tiny cross; - She plucked it from a mountain fir, - And wreathing it in soft, gray moss, - Gave it in memory of her,-- - Yet--’tis a cross! - - Only a soft, gray cross; - But, half-concealed, full many a thorn - Lay waiting there, beneath the moss, - To pierce the bosom where ’tis worn, - This wee, sweet cross. - - Only a thorny cross, - Unconscious of the pain it gives; - Lifeless the fir, faded the moss, - Yet, while the hand that plucked them lives, - It is my cross. - - - - -A VALENTINE. - - - If but the furry catkin small - Could speak with gentle voice - And bid the sad, Rejoice! - A pussy-willow should be all - My valentine. - - If but the golden daffodil, - With many a cheerful word, - Could tell what it hath heard - By meadow, wood, or murmuring rill, - It should be mine. - - If but the valley-lilies pure - Could whisper in thine ear - A message thou wouldst hear, - Of One whose promises are sure, - Whose love divine, - - Such flowers my valentine should be. - Yet sought I none of those,-- - Only one crimson rose - To bear its Maker’s heart to thee,-- - Lo, it is thine! - - - - -WHITE PINK. - - - The maiden left a timid kiss - Upon the mossy stone; - Her lover true, the maiden knew, - Would seek and find his own. - - The lover never came again, - Nor guessed the woe he wrought; - Day after day neglected lay - The maiden’s kiss, unsought. - - At length, upspringing from the moss - Through kindly sun and shower, - Its petals fair unfolded there - This gentle, snow-white flower. - - - - -APRILLE. - - - Aprille, alacke! - With sunnie laugh her snow-white cloke flung backe, - And gailie cast aside; - Then cryed, - With little wilfulle gustes of raine, - Because she could not have her cloke againe. - - - - -MAY. - - - Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass - Heaven like dew on the waking earth lies: - Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets; - Best of it all I find in your eyes. - - - - -AUGUST. - - - August, the month of virgins, is at hand. - Shrill-voiced, the locust pipes a-field; - With flash of burnished shield - Hovers the dragon-fly athwart the stream; - Like sea-bird slumbering in mid-day dream - Floats one white cloud above the drowsy land. - August, the month of virgins, is at hand. - - Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy,-- - Scarce heeds the softly murmurous tide, - Fair sky, nor aught beside; - Gazing afar, half troubled, half content, - Awaits with folded hands a message sent - Across the gleaming, restless, longing sea,-- - Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy. - - - - -CARLO’S CHRISTMAS. - - - May I come to your side, dear Mistress? - I am only a dog, you see, - And the Christmas joy and gladness - Perhaps are not meant for me. - - Yet I think the Master would let me, - If I only begged to eat - The crumbs that fell from His table, - And to lie at His blessèd feet. - - I have heard the wonderful story - Of the sleeping flocks by night, - Of Bethlehem and the angels - And the one Star, shining bright; - - And I’ve longed, when I heard the story, - A shepherd-dog to be, - For then it might seem that Christmas - Was partly meant for me. - - But I only look up at the Master - With a life that is veiled and dumb, - Content to share with the sparrow - His love, and the falling crumb. - - May I lie at your feet, dear Mistress? - I am only a dog, you see, - But if I may serve you and love you, - Why, that is Christmas for me! - - - - -THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW. - - - In her palace porch a Princess-- - The sun was red and low-- - At her feet a subject kneeling-- - Sweet, far-off bells were pealing-- - He rose and turned to go. - “I give you my love!” quoth the Princess - To the subject, bending low. - - Ah, Goldenhair, what hast thou given!-- - The sun is round and red-- - As thou standest there in the portal, - A Princess’ love, to a mortal!-- - The bells toll for the dead-- - A kiss from the lips of the Princess, - But never a word she said. - - Still radiant stood the Princess-- - The bells no longer tolled-- - At her feet the subject kneeling-- - The far-off chimes were pealing - Their sweet notes as of old-- - “I give you my love!” quoth the Princess; - And the sun was a crown of gold. - - - - -TWO VISIONS. - - - A vision of Morn,--the dew’s on the grass, - The ocean’s aflame, and a sweet fisher-lass - On its bosom’s unrest is afloat; - The sunlight is fair on her shy, upturned face, - As she dips the bright oars with the daintiest grace, - And the prow of her snowy-white boat - Its way urges softly through each foaming crest, - Like sea-bird, wings fluttering, closing to rest; - In her eyes shines the light of the glad day, new-born,-- - The pure, gentle Spirit of Morn. - - A Vision of Night,--the silvery stars - Alight in the East, ere its golden bars - Have imprisoned the slumberous sun; - The sea hoarsely breathing, the wind all astir, - The sparrow crouched low in the boughs of the fir, - But she, the Beautiful One, - Is awake, oh, awake, with her glorious eyes - Star-lighted and deep as the shadowy skies, - O’er the mist of her draperies, fleecy and white, - The radiant Spirit of Night. - - - - -MY CREED. - - - What is my creed, you ask, dear? - I look in your grave brown eyes - And believe--in your womanly sweetness, - Your purity, clear as the skies. - - I’ve faith--in your true, brave heart, dear, - Your life, with its joys and tears; - And far beyond storm-mist and sunshine, - Beyond weary days and long years, - - I hope--in a Love that is waiting - With infinite tenderness there - To comfort us both, you and me, dear, - For the burden He gives us to bear. - - - - -AGAIN? - - - Side by side, from their misty home, - Fell two bright drops of rain; - The storm-wind hurled them far apart, - Never to meet again. - - Hand in hand stood two dear friends, - Hearts wrung with sudden pain; - The storm-wind hurled them far apart,-- - Never to meet again? - - - - -PANSY. - - - Little flower with golden heart, - Strange, sweet mystery thou art. - Who can tell the thoughts that lie - In the depths of thy dark eye! - Dost thou dream of other lands, - Waving palm-groves, burning sands, - Days of languor, twilights tender, - Glorious nights of Orient splendor? - Shy, sweet type of lovers’ bliss, - Art thou an immortal kiss - By some fair sultana breathed, - To all faithful love bequeathed - By the tiny-sandalled bride, - Velvet-lipped, and starry-eyed? - - - - -GOLDEN-ROD. - - - O’er the dusty roadside bending - With its wondrous weight of gold, - Can it be the rod enchanted - Midas used in days of old? - - Hush! perchance it is a princess - In the sunlight nodding there, - Spell-bound by the wicked fairy,-- - Sleepy little Golden-Hair! - - Nay, it is Belshazzar’s banquet, - Where the drowsy monarch sups - With his swarm of courtiers, drinking - From the sacred, golden cups. - - See, I pluck his tiny kingdom-- - Long ago it was decreed-- - And divide it, dear, between us, - You the Persian, I the Mede. - - - - -TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY. - -WITH A ROSE. - - - Margaret, pearl of dainty pearls, - Fairest of dimpled daisies, - My rose its velvet sail unfurls - To bear thee love and praises. - It drifts from port, no longer mine-- - Bring back, wee boat, my Valentine! - - - - -TO A VERY SMALL PINE. - - - What song is in thy heart, - Thou puny tree? - Weak pinelet that thou art,-- - Trembling at every shock, - Thy feebleness doth mock - Thy high degree. - - When rage o’er sea and land - The tempests wild, - How canst thou e’er withstand - Their might, or baffle them - With that frail, quivering stem, - Poor forest child? - - Nay, wherefore scoff at thy - Dimensions small? - For, folded close, I spy - A tiny bud, scarce seen - Within its cradle green; - And after all, - - In ages yet to come - Thy stately form, - No longer dwarfed and dumb, - But chanting to the breeze - Sublime, sweet melodies, - Shall breast the storm! - - Beneath thine outstretched arms - Shall children rest; - While, safe from all alarms, - Within thy shadows deep - Wild birds their tryst shall keep - And weave their nest. - - May such a lot be his - Who tends thee now! - With heavenly harmonies - Serene amid his foes, - Outstretching as he grows - In root and bough. - - - - -MOSSES. - - - Children of lowly birth, - Pitifully weak; - Humblest creatures of the wood, - To your peaceful brotherhood - Sweet the promise that was given - Like the dew from heaven: - “Blessed are the meek, - They shall inherit the earth.” - - Thus are the words fulfilled: - Over all the earth - Mosses find a home secure. - On the desolate mountain crest, - Avalanche-ploughed and tempest-tilled, - The quiet mosses rest; - On shadowy banks of streamlets pure, - Kissed by the cataract’s shifting spray, - For the bird’s small foot a soft highway; - For the weary and sore distressed - In hopeless quest - Of a fabulous golden fleece, - Little sermons of peace. - Blessed children of lowly birth-- - Thus they inherit the earth. - - - - -THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS. - - - Down the rocky slopes and passes - Of the everlasting hills - Murmur low the crystal waters - Of a thousand tiny rills; - - Bearing from a lofty glacier - To the valley, far below, - Health and strength for every creature,-- - ’Tis for them “He giveth snow.” - - On thy streamlet’s brink the wild deer - Prints with timid foot the moss; - To thy side the sparrow nestles,-- - Mountain of the Holy Cross! - - Pure and white amid the heavens - God hath set His glorious sign: - Symbol of a world’s deliverance, - Promise of a life divine. - - - - -CHRISTMAS SNOW. - - - What so merry as snow? - Gleefully robing the grave old town - In garb fantastic of ermine and down; - Whispering at the window pane, - Then spreading its wee, white wings again - Till, alighting at last with noiseless feet, - On tiptoe in the muffled street - It dances to and fro. - - What so pure as snow? - Flakes like the thoughts of a little child, - Undefiling and undefiled; - Wonderful, starry mysteries - Falling softly out of the skies, - Decking with white the bare, brown earth - In memory of the holy birth - At Bethlehem, long ago. - - - - -THE “CREATION.” - - - Winter is past. The changing, softened sky, - The robin’s cheery note, the sea-bird’s cry, - The willow pussies peeping from their nest; - The modest sparrow, with his dappled breast, - Flitting beneath the lilacs by the wall; - The budding tree, the tender grass, with all - Its tiny hands uplifted to the sun, - Who reaches down and clasps them, one by one; - The mayflower sleeping on her snowy bed, - And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!” - Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully - As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!” - The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath, - And leaping swiftly down its rocky path, - Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool, - Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool; - The floating clouds, the fragrant earth, the sea, - With its low whispers of eternity,-- - All join in one grand harmony of praise - To Him, Creator, Lord, Ancient of Days. - - - - -THE HAPPY VALLEY. - - - Far away there sleeps a valley, - Cradled by the mighty hills, - Lulled to rest by sweetest music,-- - Whispering winds and laughing rills. - - Naught it knows of stormy passion, - Pestilence, or war’s alarms; - O’er it graze the peaceful cloud-flocks, - And the everlasting arms - - Of the mountains, underneath it, - Fold it closely to their breast, - While at nightfall, on its bosom, - Golden moonbeams softly rest. - - * * * * * - - Seasons come and seasons go,-- - Summer heats and winter’s snow, - Spring’s surprises, autumn’s peace, - Indian-summer’s golden fleece, - Purple-bordered, crimson-clasped, - By a hand already grasped - That hath costlier treasures brought - Than the wandering Argonaut. - - * * * * * - - A solemn hush is in the air. - Happy voices die away; - Dark-robed fir-trees murmur, Pray!-- - Pray for Summer, young and fair. - Crosses wave, - Souls to save, - Chant a requiem o’er her grave. - - Dead! the weeping autumn wind - Shrouded her in fallen leaves; - Dead! amid her golden sheaves,-- - Pray--ye that are left behind! - Crosses wave, - Souls to save, - Chant a requiem o’er her grave. - - Pray ye, pray! for Summer lies - Dead, upon the icy ground; - Heap for her a snow-white mound, - While the winter wind replies: - Crosses wave, - Souls to save, - Chant a requiem o’er her grave. - - * * * * * - - Sweetly, through the low, sad murmur - Of the fir-trees’ requiem, - Flows a song of hope and gladness, - Strong, triumphant over them. - - Summer is not dead, but sleepeth! - Soon the maiden shall arise, - And the world again be gladdened - With the sunshine of her eyes. - - Then the valley, too, shall waken - From the pale trance of her night; - Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead, - Radiant in the morning light. - - Years may come and go, but ever - Shall the valley rest among - Mountain mists and golden moonbeams; - While the hills, with myriad tongue, - - Lullabys shall croon above it, - Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime, - Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander, - Storms chant harmonies sublime. - - And for those who love the valley - Peace and rest are waiting there, - With the seasons onward moving, - Each more gladsome, each more fair. - - - - -DOLLIE’S SPRING. - - - Deep within a mountain forest - Breezes soft are whispering - Through the dark-robed firs and hemlocks, - Over Dollie’s Spring. - - Swiftly glides the tiny streamlet, - While its laughing waters sing - Sweetest song in all the woodland, - “I--am--Dollie’s--Spring!” - - In the dim wood’s noontide shadow - Nod the ferns, and glistening - With a thousand diamond dew-drops, - Bend o’er Dollie’s Spring. - - Shyly on its mossy border - Blue-eyed Dollie, lingering, - Views the sweet face in the crystal - Depths of Dollie’s Spring. - - Years shall come and go, and surely - To the little maiden bring - Trials sore and joys uncounted, - While, by Dollie’s Spring, - - Still the firs shall lift their crosses - Heavenward, softly murmuring - Prayers for her, where’er she wander,-- - Far from Dollie’s Spring. - - - - -THE THIRD DAY. - -LINES SENT WITH A FOSSIL FROND. - - - Many thousand years ago - God looked down and bade me grow; - Why it was, I never knew-- - Now I see it was for you! - - - - -THE SEVENTH DAY. - -SENT WITH A CLUSTER OF MAIDEN-HAIR FERNS. - - - Doubtless you are much surprised - That we are not fossilized, - Geologic, or antique,-- - Only little ferns and meek. - Yet we grew at His command, - Touched by that same loving Hand - Which the day from night divided, - Planets on their courses guided, - Set on high the firmament, - Alps from Alps asunder rent, - All the earth with life invested; - And He made us while He--“_rested_.” - - - - -FERN LIFE. - - -I. ITS HOME. - - Within a shadowy ravine - Far hidden from the sun, - A fern its wee, soft fronds of green - Unfolded, one by one. - - From morn till eve no twittering flock - Nor insect hovered nigh: - Its cradle was the lichened rock, - The storm its lullaby. - - By night above the dark abyss - The stars their vigils kept, - And white-winged mists stooped low to kiss - The baby, while it slept. - - -II. AT SCHOOL. - - Weeks passed away; the tiny fern - Frond after frond unfurled, - And waited patiently to learn - Its mission in the world. - - By fir-trees draped in mosses gray - The willing fern was taught, - And once each day a single ray - Its sunny greeting brought. - - -III. ASLEEP. - - Her cradle songs the North Wind sung - And whispered far and wide, - Until a thousand harebells swung - Along the mountain side. - - She sung of far-off twilight land, - Moss-muffled forests dim, - And, to her mountain organ grand, - The aged pine-trees’ hymn. - - -IV. A CRADLE-SONG OF THE NIGHT WIND. - - The pines have gathered upon the hill - To watch for the old-new moon; - I hear their murmuring--“Hush, be still! - ’Tis coming--coming soon!” - - The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife - Who broods below on her nest: - “Of all the world and of all my life - ’Tis you I love the best!” - - But the baby moon is wide awake, - And its eyes are shining bright; - The pines in their arms this moon must take - And rock him to sleep to-night. - - -V. THE CHIME. - - Softly swinging to and fro, - Harebells tinkle, sweet and low! - All the world is fast asleep, - Birds and folks and woolly sheep; - Far above us towers the mountain; - Far below, an unseen fountain - From its rocky cradle deep, - Like a child, laughs in its sleep. - All our faces shyly hidden, - As the fir-trees oft have bidden, - Softly bending, sweet notes blending, - Moonbeams climbing, - Wee bells chiming, - Harebells tinkle, star-gleams twinkle, - To and fro, - To and fro, - Sweet--sweet and low. - - -VI. THE HYMN OF THE NORTHERN PINES. - - Sure--sure--sure-- - Are the promises He hath spoken, - His word hath never been broken. - Pure--pure--pure-- - Are the thoughts and the hearts of His chosen, - As crystals the North Wind hath frozen. - Strong--strong--strong-- - Underneath are the arms everlasting; - On them our cares we are casting. - Long--long--long-- - Have we sung of the life He doth give us-- - His mercy and love shall outlive us. - - -VII. AT LAST. - - Far from its mountain home the fern - Has found a resting-place; - A maiden has begun to learn - To love its winsome face. - - But when at night the north winds smite - Against the frosty pane, - The fern is listening with delight - To hear their voice again. - - For in their solemn murmuring - The pine-trees chant once more, - The harebells chime, the thrushes sing, - The mountain torrents roar; - - Again the dark-robed fir-trees stand - About its mossy bed, - And hold aloft with trembling hand - Their crosses o’er its head. - - - - -PAUSES AND CLAUSES. - -TO MY LITTLE NIECE, KITTIE. - -[With a Maltese Kitten.] - - - Kittie Mabel, will you take - This gift, for the giver’s sake? - Verse and song and roundelay - Will be yours this merry day; - Mine are all unfit to send, - Tattered rhymes, too poor to mend. - - But, although I haven’t any - Songs, my thoughts are swift and many. - All are flying straight to you, - And your heart, so sweet and true, - I am sure, dear, won’t decline - This small, furry Valentine. - - - - -TO M----, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS.” - - - A Boston girl prefers a set of volumes that are uniform, - In Syriac, Chaldaic, Sanskrit, Arabic, or Cuneiform, - For these will test her paleontological ability, - And not insult her culture by superfluous facility. - She loves a scientific pedant, or, to use a synonyme, - A specimen, with printed name and label fair to pin on him. - Alas! I fear she will despise a book without a mystery, - That never once alludes to Art, or Mediæval History; - But as she is compelled each day to recognize and meet her kin, - I trust she will accept at least this tale of Mrs. Peterkin. - - - - -MEMORIAL POEM. - -READ AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE BOSTON LATIN SCHOOL ASSOCIATION, -APRIL 29, 1886. - - - A Latin-School poem? ’Twere easy to write - On a theme so suggestive an epic at sight, - An ode, full of fire, or, if that wouldn’t do, - An Eclogue, or even a Georgic or two, - With allusions to classical roots, and Greek ponies - Hard ridden and worn--I confess that my own is. - A poet could scarce fail of making a hit, - Inspired by the presence of beauty and wit! - - Alas, for the days of our ancestors bold, - When the wassail was drunk, brave stories were told, - While the mirth of the feasters grew louder and higher, - And the bard struck the quivering chords of the lyre, - Without an apology, blush, or evasion, - Or stammering reference to--“this occasion,” - As raising his voice o’er the tumult and din, - He recounted in song all the fights they’d been in. - - Let bygones be bygones, the past be the past; - We live in the world of to-day, and at last - Society calls for less noise, more decorum, - Remarks less akin to the street than the forum; - Nay, mounting in civilization still higher, - The bard soon must go--perhaps even the lyre! - And if things should be ever at sixes and sevens, - There lies an appeal to his Honor Judge Devens.[1] - - And what, do you ask, is this tirade about? - Why not, as in Hunting the Snark, “leave that out”? - Ah, can I forget why we schoolmates are here? - How often we laugh when we’d fain hide a tear! - The ripples are bright on the waves of mid-ocean; - Eyes dance and smiles play over depths of emotion; - Oh, dear Alma Mater, be patient to-night, - Our hearts, misconstrued, thou canst translate aright! - - How memory pictures bright scenes to us all!-- - The old, shaky building, the school-room, the hall, - The way the grim doctor read Greek verbs and Latin, - The desk where he wrote and the chair that he sat in, - His upraised forefingers and forehead portentous, - The terror we felt when we found that he meant us; - Eyes gleaming below that great frontlet of hair,-- - Ah, could we have known of what really was there, - And fathomed that grand heart, so gentle and true, - Beneath the stern front that bent o’er me and you! - - Those lessons--how useless and tiresome they seemed, - While we “mulled” over Cæsar, drew pictures, and dreamed; - How Xenophon’s mighty Anabasis came - To cloud our young lives, till we hated his name, - The characters playing strange pranks on the pages, - While still we droned on, “He--advanced--thirteen--stages.” - We wished the Ten Thousand had all broken loose - Before they began on their endless σταθμοῦς; - We preferred that they wouldn’t get on quite so fast; - We wished that their leader had not ἀναβάσ-ed; - But Xenophon brought them all safe to the sea, - He got out of the woods, and, at last, so did we. - - Did you march on the Common? How proud were we then - To be reckoned in newspapers “two hundred men”! - How the uniforms shone as we wheeled o’er the grass-- - No koh-i-noor gleams like those buttons of brass! - Our scabbards and sashes were artfully dangled, - And if they at times in our ankles got tangled, - The terror to others was full compensation - For dangers attending our perambulation. - - Was it fun? There are those within reach of my words - Who remember when ploughshares were cleft into swords; - When hushed was the voice of youth’s laughter and mirth, - As the flag, broken-winged, fluttered, bleeding, to earth. - Are there men who will cherish their country’s last breath? - Are there three hundred thousand who love--to the death? - Hark!--the answering cry to that agonized call-- - And the Latin-School boys are the foremost of all! - - We have proved we’ve a banner, a country, a God, - By thousands of arguments--under the sod! - Who knows if the dear boys who fell in the fight - May not hold their reunion, as we do, to-night? - From the morning-land fair, and a rest never ending, - Their voices, well-loved, with our own still are blending; - Hark!--can we not hear the sweet echoes to-day, - As from camp grounds afar comes the soft reveillé? - - Oh, soldiers, still serving in ranks like their own, - But a little more quiet, more dignified, grown, - Still fighting from morning till set of the sun, - Each day new defeats or fresh victories won, - Pressing onward, undaunted still, shoulder to shoulder, - With our hearts growing young as our muskets grow older, - Let us take for our motto, emblazoned in light, - That stern old command of _Forward--Guide Right!_ - - - FOOTNOTE: - - [1] Presiding at the Dinner. - - - - -DANDELION. - - - A dandelion in a meadow grew - Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow; - Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew, - He was a right contented little fellow. - - Each morn his golden head he lifted straight, - To catch the first sweet breath of coming day; - Each evening closed his sleepy eyes, to wait - Until the long, cool night had passed away. - - One afternoon, in sad, unquiet mood, - I paused beside this tiny, bright-faced flower, - And begged that he would tell me, if he could, - The secret of his joy through sun and shower. - - He looked at me with open eyes, and said: - “I know the sun is somewhere shining clear, - And when I cannot see him overhead, - I try to be a little sun, right here!” - - - - -MARJORIE. - - - “Oh, dear,” said Farmer Brown, one day, - “I never saw such weather! - The rain will spoil my meadow hay - And all my crops together.” - His little daughter climbed his knee; - “I guess the sun will shine,” said she. - - “But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown, - “Should bring a dry September, - With vines and stalks all wilted down, - And fields scorched to an ember--” - “Why, then, ’twill rain,” said Marjorie, - The little girl upon his knee. - - “Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall, - “Now, what’s the use of living? - No plan of mine succeeds at all--” - “Why, next month comes Thanksgiving! - And then, of course,” said Marjorie, - “We’re all as happy as can be.” - - “Well, what should I be thankful for?” - Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble - This summer has grown more and more, - My losses have been double, - I’ve nothing left--” “Why, you’ve got me!” - Said Marjorie, upon his knee. - - - - -PRIMROSE. - - - In the meadow, cool and sweet, - Where the cowslips bathe their feet, - On the banks of Scottish burns, - Down among the nodding ferns, - Where the shadows come and go, - Cheerful Primrose loves to grow. - - Little flower she is, and meek; - And if she could only speak, - I am sure her words would be - Whispered very timidly. - Skylark, hush your joyous singing, - Bonnie harebells, cease your ringing, - Listen, listen, drowsy bee,-- - Is the Primrose calling thee? - - Tiny rootlets white and brown, - Leaves as soft as cygnet’s down, - Fringèd petals, dainty pink, - Peeping o’er the burnie’s brink,-- - That is Primrose, sweet and true, - And I love her--do not you? - - - - -CONTENT. - - - “Little Herb Robert, what makes you so pink? - The daisy is taller and whiter.” - “The sun came along, and, what do you think? - It kissed me, and so I grew brighter.” - - “Grasshopper, why are you merry to-day?” - “I always am glad, if you please, sir, - Because I can hop on the clover and hay, - Nor have to fly up in the trees, sir.” - - “Sea-weed, poor creature! you’re left high and dry, - The tide has gone out; you are dying!” - “Ah, no, I am sure ’twill come back by and by. - I shall live, never fear; I’ll keep trying.” - - “Song-sparrow, how can you sing all the day?” - “Sweet food to my young I am bringing, - And when I am working for them, in this way, - Of course I can never help singing.” - - “Child, leave the hot, dusty roadside, and come.” - “I’d go, for I know that you love me; - But, please, I’d rather stay here, near my home, - For Papa’s in there, just above me.” - - - - -WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER. - -TO W. B. W. - - - Once more ’tis the night before Christmas; once more - The Christ-child is entering each open door; - The holly-bough glistens, the earth is all white, - In the jubilant heavens the Star is a-light. - May I sit by your hearthstone once more, as of old? - My story--a brief one--shall quickly be told. - - * * * * * - - We bring you no Sèvres nor Japanese Kaga, - But only an innocent kind of a dagger. - (Allow me a few editorial “we’s,” - The plural is handy in rhymes such as these.) - The blade is no marvel, ’tis not Muramasa-- - (“What’s that?” No one knows. Ask your daughter, from Vassar.) - Nay, we must admit, if perchance you should ask us, - ’Twas forged in the States, and not at Damascus. - Too slim for a trinket, too large for a charm, - Too small for a weapon, too dull to do harm; - Too blunt for a bodkin, of life to deplete us, - ’Twould not even serve for Hamlet’s _quietus._ - Cur igitur tibi gladiolum dabo-- - Quemadmodum hoc explicare parabo? - Sie können nicht ganz die Verwerrung verstehen, - Ich will zum Puncte deswegen nun gehen. - Ce poignard petit est une clef de mon cœur, - Que je donne quelquefois à mon ami, ma sœur, - A celui, enfin, qui reçoit, dans mes lettres, - Les mots le plus tendres que je puis y mettre. - κἀγὼ πρὸς ὑμᾶς τὴν κλεῖδα λαβεῖν - ἐθέλειν ἐλπίζω καί με νῦν φιλεῖν. - (If once on a jingle like this voi entrate, - You must finish, or--ogni speranza lasciate!) - I wish I knew Indian, but somehow nobody - Seems ever to learn more than “Passamaquoddy,” - Or “Mooselucmaguntic,” “Welokennebacook,” - “Oquossuc,” “Musketequid,” and “Quantibacook.” - To compose in that language you will not deny - Is difficult. If you don’t think so--just try. - - * * * * * - - ’Tis nonsense, dear friend, but I feel sure that you - Good-naturedly smile, and yet see ’tis true. - Unconscious as Lady Macbeth in her walking, - We give in our letters more _self_ than in talking. - Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down - On our wandering footsteps in country and town, - Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see, - And read in His wisdom more surely than we. - Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt, - Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script. - Thank God that the Reader and Father are one, - That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun, - Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand, - And the torn covers folded at last by His hand. - Hark! Christmas bells ring for the birth of the Son-- - Good-night! May He help us and bless us each one. - - - - -SEA-GIRLS. - - - A flutter of white - On Appledore’s shoulder,-- - The prettiest sight! - A flutter of white, - One by one they a-light - On the dark, jutting bowlder; - A flutter of white - On Appledore’s shoulder. - - Six girls in a flock - Where the white sea is breaking - Against the gray rock. - Six girls in a flock-- - Their gay voices mock - The din it is making; - Six girls in a flock - Where the white sea is breaking. - - Each flutters and clings - To the torn granite edges,-- - The merriest things! - Each flutters and clings. - Have they feathers and wings, - As they perch on the ledges? - Each flutters and clings - To the torn granite edges. - - - - -HOMEWARD. - -A TWILIGHT SONG OF THE WHEEL. - - - Away from the office and desk at last, - The business-haunted room, - The roar of a city, hurrying past, - The heat, the worry, the gloom, - To the glorious red of the sunset sky, - The sweet, cold wine of the air, - On the frozen road, my wheel and I, - A dusty, rusty pair! - - Push--Push-- - Two birds in a bush - Are laughing to see me hop; - On, with a bound - From the frozen ground, - With never a sway nor stop. - Over and over the pedals fly-- - “Come on!” to the twittering bird I cry, - As over and over the wheels fly past her; - Over and over, still faster and faster, - On through the ice-cold stream of air, - On where the road is frozen and bare. - - Roll--Roll--Roll--Roll-- - Silent and swift as a death-freed soul. - Glide--Glide-- - On the smooth, black tide - Of the ocean of night flowing in from the West, - Over and over, and on without rest, - Swifter and swifter, till over the crest - Of the hill, and down to the valley below, - Through the murk of the mist and the white of the snow-- - Now my steed falters, as, breathless and slow, - Up the steep hillside he labors and grinds, - Grinds--Grinds--Grinds--Grinds-- - Across and across he turns and winds, - Sand-clogged and rock-hindered, without hope or faith, - No longer a soul, but a sin-burdened wraith-- - Till, reaching the summit, he spurns the dark hill, - And onward he plunges, for good or for ill, - Over and onward, and onward and over, - He reels and he spins like a jolly old rover. - - Roll--Roll--Roll--Roll-- - Backward he flies to our one dear goal, - Where the whirling shall cease, and the rider shall rest, - And soft, trembling lips to my own shall be pressed. - Slow--Slow--Slow, - Slowly--more slowly--we go-- - What, darling, so far on the road to-night, - To welcome us both with your eyes’ sweet light! - The wheel no longer has need to roam-- - Be quiet, old fellow! we’re safe, safe at home. - - - - -A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M----. - -FROM THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND.[2] - - -I. - - Breathing, blowing, - The cool breeze is blowing, - High in the tree-tops, - Low in the grasses, - Softly it passes; - The daisies it kisses - And never one misses, - And laughs at the buttercups, - Breathing and blowing, - Its blessing bestowing - On all that it passes - Among the low grasses - And daisies and buttercups, - Never one misses, - But each one it kisses. - Softer and fainter it grows, - Faintly and softly it blows, - Breathing, sighing, - Dying, - Sweetly and softly it goes, - Goes--goes! - - -II. - - Hark to the wind from the mountain-tops blowing! - Raining, snowing, - Scattering ice-drops and crimson leaves blowing! - Teasing the burnies - With all their soft fernies, - Bending and waving - Among the green mosses; - Roaring and raving, - The long hair it tosses - Of each little maiden - Beside the brown burnies - With crimson leaves laden - All bound for the sea, - With wee boaties laden, - All crimson to see, - And high in the tree-tops - It rushes and roars; - It leaps from the hill-tops - And hurls with its might on the long, rocky shores - The floods of the sea, - All the time roaring and shouting and blowing, - Icy drops throwing, - Blowing, snowing, - It roars! - - -III. - - What shall the Soft Breeze do for thee? - What shall I do with my faint, sweet blowing, - Breathing, blowing, - My blessing bestowing? - I pray thee, Soft Breeze, - Do thou blow, for me! - Stir in the trees - And breathe in the grasses, - The soft, low grasses, - And when the tall buttercup, - Tall in the grasses, - Thy light foot passes, - Gather for me - A wee grain of gold from its treasures rare, - A ray of the sunlight it treasures there; - Then beg of the daisies a bit of their white, - Pure, pure white, - And two tiny petals, crimson tipped, - Because in God’s love they have just been dipped, - And bearing the sunlight, the whiteness and love, - Breathing, blowing, - Fair blessings bestowing, - Among the soft grasses - And tree-tops above, - High in the cloud-land’s silvery sheen, - Low in the winding valleys between, - Seek my wee girlie - Who’s just thirteen, - With hair so curly,-- - The curliest hair you ever have seen, - The brownest hair you ever have seen,-- - With eyes so blue, - Like skies so blue, - And hide thy gifts in her heart so true, - For to-day she’s just thirteen, - Thirteen. - - -IV. - - What shall the Fierce Wind do for thee? - What shall I do, with my terrible roaring, - Raving, roaring, - Icy drops pouring? - - I pray thee, Fierce Wind, - Do thou roar, for me! - Shatter the crags of the desolate mountain, - Scatter the drops of the trembling fountain, - Ride on the waves of the tossing sea, - Tossing and spouting, - Roaring and shouting; - Snatch a bright leaf from the burnie’s brink, - And a drop from the pool where the white lambs drink, - A wisp of hair from the maiden fern, - Bending over the laughing burn; - The health of the seas, - The life of the trees, - The beauty of fernies, - The faith of bright burnies, - Life and beauty and health and faith, - Whiteness and sunshine, love stronger than death, - These to the maidie that’s just thirteen - Shall all be given to-day, I ween,-- - Shall all be given, - In blessing from Heaven,-- - For now she’s just thirteen, - And her eyes are so blue, - Sweet skies so blue, - And her heart so true, - And to-day she’s just thirteen, - Thirteen. - - - FOOTNOTE: - - [2] Suggested by George MacDonald’s little book of that name. - - - - -TRANSLATIONS. - -SONGS FROM HEINE. - - - In the north-land standeth a pine-tree - Alone, on a hill-top bare. - It sleepeth beneath a mantle - Of snow and frost-work rare. - - It dreameth long of a palm-tree - Which, silent as a star, - On the burning desert mourneth - In Orient lands afar. - - * * * * * - - A LOVELY flower thou seemest, - So tender, sweet, and true; - And, as I gaze, steals o’er me - A sadness strange and new. - - Upon thy peaceful forehead - I’d lay my hands, in prayer - That God may ever keep thee - As tender, true, and fair. - - * * * * * - - Eagerly I cry, awaking, - “Cometh she to-day?” - Eventide--my sad heart, breaking, - Speaks the answer, Nay! - - In the night I know but sorrow - Till the dawn’s faint beam; - Mist-enwrapped, in each to-morrow, - Agony of dream. - - * * * * * - - He who for the first time loveth, - Godlike, worlds of bliss doth rule; - He who twice that joy essayeth, - Luckless wight--he is a fool. - - Loving where no love returneth, - Such a fool, alas!--am I; - Sun and moon and stars are laughing, - I laugh, too,--_and die_. - - Little maid, with lips so rosy, - With thy blue eyes, sweet and clear, - All my thoughts to thee are flying, - All my life is with thee, dear! - - Slowly pace the leaden-footed - Hours that mark the winter’s night; - Ah, that I were now beside thee, - Gazing, murmuring my delight! - - Kisses would I press, my darling, - On thy little hand to-night; - Nay--a tear should fall, unbidden, - On thy little hand so white. - - * * * * * - -(EICHENDORFF.) - - It was as if the heavens - Had kissed the earth to rest, - And she lay dreaming of them - With flowers upon her breast. - - The fields and murmuring woodland - Were bathed in fairest light, - So soft the breeze’s whisper, - So starry-clear the night! - - On outspread wings uplifted - My spirit fain would roam - Through cloudland realms unbounded, - To rest at last--at home. - - - - -IN MORNING-LAND. - - - In morning-land the radiant, rosy skies - Each moment gleam with some new-born surprise, - Or flush with dawning hope; the balmy air - Is laden with a thousand perfumes rare - And thrilled with chords of strange, sweet melodies. - - On that blest shore, which all around us lies, - Peace reigns supreme, and joyous carols rise - From every shaded copse and pleasaunce fair - In Morning-land. - - Knowst thou the land? Wherever friendly eyes - Beam faith and constancy; where true love flies, - Glad tidings of good-will and peace to bear; - Where service is divine, God everywhere,-- - There dawns the perfect day that never dies - In Morning-land. - - - - -SIC ITUR AD ASTRA. - - - I stood in a valley; above me - Uprose a mighty hill; - The air was vibrant with music - Of insect, bird, and rill. - - The flowers among the grasses - About my weary feet - Swung all their tiny censers, - Till perfume, heavy-sweet, - - Was shed abroad in the sunlight - And wafted to and fro, - While droning bees at the altar - Their _Aves_ chanted low. - - A soft breeze touched my forehead, - And whispered, “Peace, be still!” - But ever above me towered - That silent, awful hill, - - Whose peaks in mists were hidden, - Whose slopes were brown and bare; - And yet, as I gazed, I murmured, - “O God! If I were there!” - - For I knew that the peace of the valley - Was never meant for me; - And I longed for the mountain summit,-- - Its pure winds blowing free, - - Its life of strength and vigor, - Its thoughts of the good and true, - Its steadfast crags of granite - In the far-off, heavenly blue. - - I stand in the valley, and ever - I gaze at the mountain bare, - And I long for a hand to help me-- - O God! That I were there! - - - - -THE COMET; NOVEMBER, 1882. - - - Wondrous portent, set on high, - Moving through the silent sky, - Clothed in formless majesty,-- - - Who can read those words of light - On the star-lit wall of night? - “_Mene, Tekel_,” dost thou write? - - Nay, thou bright Star in the East, - O’er no haughty monarch’s feast, - Prophet nor Chaldæan priest, - - Doth thy gentle radiance shine; - Nobler resting-place is thine, - ’Tis a Baby’s brow divine. - - With the waning of the year - From afar thou dost appear, - Telling us that Christ is near. - - - - -“HIS STAR.” - - - Christmas Eve--and the mellow light - Of the Star in the East was aglow - O’er the Magi, hastening through the night, - In the desert, long ago. - - Christmas Eve--and the gentle light - Of the Star in the East was aglow - O’er the lambs, asleep with their shepherds by night, - On the hillside, long ago. - - Christmas Eve--and the golden light - Of the Star in the East was aglow - O’er a Baby’s brow, in the holy night, - In a manger, long ago. - - Christmas Eve--and the blessèd light - Of the Star in the East is aglow, - As it shone of old, through the sweet, still night, - O’er Bethlehem, long ago. - - - - -“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!” - - - Sob, cold wind of the sky, - For the rest that never shall come! - The stars have gathered on high, - The moon’s white lips are dumb, - And over her face like a shroud - Lies the wrack of the drifting cloud. - - Moan, dark sea of the night! - Fling up thine arms and implore - The heavens for light, sweet light,-- - One sparkle along the shore - From the sun that left thee to moan - In the horror of darkness--alone. - - Shudder, thou one human soul, - Forever alone in the night; - Whose billows unceasingly roll - In desolate seeking for light! - The moon’s white face is thine own, - Thine, thine the wind’s monotone. - Thyself art the night-- - O God, light, light! - - - - -PSALM LXXX. - - - “Turn us again, O God of Hosts, and cause - Thy face to shine.” - When fades the light of day, - And night in silence steals across the sky, - We know it is not that the glorious sun - Has left his steadfast throne amid the heavens, - But that our little earth has turned away - And hid its face till morning shall appear. - So may we, in our blackest night of doubt - And troubled thought, return once more to Thee, - Till Thou hast risen, O Sun of Righteousness, - And all the evil things of darkness born - Have fled before the shining of Thy face. - - - - -UNTO THE PERFECT DAY. - - - A morning-glory bud, entangled fast - Amid the meshes of its winding stem, - Strove vainly with the coils about it cast, - Until the gardener came and loosened them. - - A suffering human life entangled lay - Among the tightening coils of its own past; - The Gardener came, the fetters fell away, - The life unfolded to the sun at last. - - - - -HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE. - - - A mighty world is hushed to-night - In sweet expectancy; - O’er snowy field and wood the stainless light - Of the clear moon - Shines broad and free; - While peacefully the earth-- - A great white throne - Prepared for One who soon - Shall rise and claim it for His own-- - Awaits His birth. - - The hearts of all mankind are turned - Toward lowly Bethlehem; - For in the east the wondrous Star, that burned - In days of old, - Still beckons them. - Back o’er the centuries, - Storm-swept and bare, - It moves, until, behold! - It stands above the manger where - The Young Child lies. - - O Christmas chimes, right joyfully - Ring out the tidings glad - To stars and frosty air and listening sky,-- - “Good-will to men!” - Till all the sad, - The weary and oppressed, - Their gifts shall bring - To Him whose birth again - Sheds peace on earth, and, worshipping, - Shall be at rest. - - - - -BLIND. - - - Throughout the weary day an Eastern sun - Had poured his beams upon the whitened walls - Of Jericho, till e’en the drooping palms - Refused to comfort with their wonted shade - The passer-by. As in a furnace blast-- - The glaring pavement spread beneath, o’erhead - A brazen, cloudless sky--all living things - Had gasped, with parching lips, and feebly prayed - For night. - ’Twas eventide; the northern hills - Breathed forth a blessing on the multitude - That thronged incessant through the city gates. - Softly the mist crept forth, and o’er their heads - Her dewy wings unfolded. In the west - The molten brass of noontide turned to gold, - And shone like some fair missal’s page, with hymns - And promises illumined. - One there was - Among the restless souls beneath its glow, - For whom the heavenly message was not writ; - For whom no sunset gleamed, nor morning dawned. - Oft had he listened to the merry shout - And laughter of the children at their sports, - But ne’er had looked upon their sparkling eyes. - Alone, he walked in darkness through a life - Of nights, with never hope of day. But hark! - Upon his ear there falls a gentle voice, - Whose tones of strange and heavenly sweetness thrill - His very heart. “’Tis Jesus, ’tis the Christ - Of Nazareth!” The woes of heavy years, - The quick-born hope, the old-time, dull despair, - The agony of help so near at hand, - Yet passing, blend in one wild, bitter cry: - “Jesus, thou Son of David, I am blind! - Have mercy on me!”--and the Saviour hears. - Blind Bartimeus by the road-side waits - In anguish mute and trembling, when, O joy! - The bringer of glad tidings is at hand: - “Be of good comfort, rise, he calleth thee!” - - O weary, heavy-laden one, whose eyes - Have long been sightless to behold the truth,-- - Perchance in darkness walking even now, - And longing with an aching heart for light,-- - The Master’s message echoes sweetly still: - “Be of good comfort, rise, He calleth thee.” - And humbly kneeling at His feet, the words - Of healing, spoken in the olden time - To him who prayed for help, thou too shalt hear: - “Receive thy sight, thy faith hath made thee - whole.” - - - - -REFUGE. - - - How bad I am, O Lord, Thou knowest, - Deserving naught that Thou bestowest, - But wandering each day - Astray. - - Thy gifts are perfect, never ceasing, - The debt against me still increasing, - And yet I turn to flee - From Thee! - - Oft when my path is dark and narrow - There flutters down some tiny sparrow - To tell me of that love - Above. - - When daylight comes, I’m e’er forgetting - The message sweet; my sins besetting - Return, my soul to stain - Again. - - And so I cling to Thee, my Saviour, - Despairing by my own behavior - To cleanse myself from sin - Within. - - My cares I yield--for me Thou carest; - I take my cross--its weight Thou sharest - Henceforth my will be Thine, - Not mine. - - - - -GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO.” - - - O thorn-crowned head, the sins of all the world - Have pierced thy brow; - O gentle face, the woes of all the world - Thou bearest now! - - O patient eyes, to heaven in meekness turned, - Meekness divine, - Within your suffering depths what wondrous light - Of love doth shine! - - O faltering, parted lips, with anguish wrung, - Your words still live - And plead for us,--“They know not what they do-- - Father, forgive!” - - - - -ON CHRISTMAS EVE. - - - The day’s loud footfalls die away, - And stealing forth from her retreat - Like a hooded nun, the twilight gray - Glides softly down the busy street. - With healing touch her gentle hand - Rests on the city’s fevered brow; - Its throbbing pulse is quiet now, - And peace descends on the weary land. - Since morn the dull December sky - Has wept and moaned incessantly; - The tall, gaunt forms of shivering trees - Have groaned and rattled their bony arms, - Till, startled by the restless breeze, - The withered sprites of summer leaves - Have gathered to whisper their vague alarms, - Now whirling aloft to the dripping eaves, - Now wavering slow to earth again, - Borne down by the pitiless, hopeless rain. - Upon my hearth the ruddy light - Dances and plays at the fire-dogs’ feet - Chasing the shadows out of sight; - Around the walls it follows them fast, - Hunts them into a corner at last, - Up the chimney, out into the night. - The blaze laughs loud with a music sweet, - My heart grows warm in its cheery glow, - And a thousand fancies come and go. - The perfumed breath of the birchen brand, - Rich with forest spices rare, - Bears heavenward many a hope and prayer - That only One can understand. - Oh that my life were sweet and pure - As the incense of this burning wood! - Oh that my faith were strong and sure - As the flame that ever strives toward God! - I hear the sound of the sleet and rain - Brushing against my window-pane; - The voice of the wind is sad and low, - The shadows return, and to and fro - They flit and hover uneasily, - Until at last they rest on me. - Heap high the sturdy fire-dogs’ backs - With boughs of hemlock, birch, and pine. - The crisp bark curls, and smokes, and cracks; - It comes at last, the spark divine, - And bursting forth in broad, free laughter, - The glorious blaze comes hurrying after, - Springs up the chimney with a roar, - Chasing the shadows away once more, - Shining far out upon the floor, - And sweeping away on its gladsome tide - The fears and doubts, o’er which I sighed, - To the depths of the sea, to the depths of the sea,-- - The cares and sins that have haunted me! - - I thank thee for thy help, sweet hour, - For thou hast helped me true and well; - I thank thee for the gentle spell - Beneath which thou dost wield thy power, - And when the twilight seeks at morn - Her convent walls within the west, - My soul shall know its truest rest, - And bless the day when Christ was born. - - - - -BY NIGHT. - - - O’er Judah’s dark hill-tops the starlight is shining; - In silence the silvery light - Falls soft on the white, sleeping lambs and their shepherds, - By night. - - Sleep on, trustful flocks, while shepherds are watching; - Fear not, for soon shall be born - The dear Lamb of God, in a Bethlehem manger, - This morn. - - Keep watch, faithful shepherds, through gathering shadows, - Though the hillside be lonely and drear; - For lo, in the darkness the Shepherd of shepherds - Is near! - - Sing on, ye bright angels, repeat the glad tidings,-- - Joy, peace, and good-will on the earth; - Proclaim to the weary, the sad, and the suffering, - His birth. - - Shine, radiant Star in the East, till thy glory - O’er Wise Men and manger is poured, - For Mary’s dear babe is the blessèd Christ Jesus, - Our Lord. - - - - -“STAR OF BETHLEHEM.” - - - Gentle-Faced child-flower-- - One of the least-- - Dost thou remember - The Star in the East, - Bethlehem’s hill-tops - Flushing with morn, - When in a manger - The dear Christ was born? - - Lambs on the hillside - Peacefully slept; - Shepherds, abiding near, - Faithful watch kept. - Bright in the heavens - Shone a new star, - Guiding o’er deserts - Wise Men from afar. - - White Flower of Bethlehem, - Lo, it is morn! - Shine on the manger - Where Jesus was born. - We, too, shall find Him, - Though humblest and least, - Led by thy radiance, - Bright Star in the East. - - - - -“BLESSED.” - - - “Blessed are they that mourn.” - The gentle tones, - A moment faltering, then strong and sweet, - Ring out upon the morning air. The throng - Wait silently, lest by a whispered sigh - Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard - From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace. - “Blessed”--the widow, shuddering, draws more close - Her sombre draperies, and bows her head - In agony of dumb and hopeless grief. - - --“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob - Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday - They buried all most dear to him on earth, - And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears - Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands, - And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice. - - “Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts - Among the eager, silent multitude - Cry out in bitter anguish that His words - Are vain and mocking! - - Lo, the Saviour turns - With infinite compassion in His eye, - And stretching forth His hands as though to give - The blessing He has promised, speaks again: - “They shall be comforted!” - - The morning sun - Breaks forth in triumph from the heavy clouds - That hid His face. The waves of Galilee, - Gleaming far distant in the misty east, - Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full - Of waking glory. But of all who feel - The gladness and the freshness of the morn, - Those only who have passed through deepest gloom - Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace - His words have given,--and they are comforted! - - - - -A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL. - - - The shepherds were keeping their watch by night, - In the field with their flock abiding; - And soft on the fleece of the lambs fell the light - Of a new-risen star, - From deserts afar - The wise ones to Bethlehem guiding. - - What startles the watchers? A rustle of wings, - And a radiant figure above them. - The lambs are afraid, and the white, woolly things, - With tremulous bleat, - Nestle close to the feet - Of the faithful shepherds who love them. - - “Fear not!” comes the message, exultant and strong, - “Good tidings of joy I am bringing!” - And lo! with the song of a heavenly throng, - “Peace on earth! For this morn - A Saviour is born!” - The hillsides of Judah are ringing. - - The bright ones are gone; over thicket and stone - The starlight of Christmas is falling; - But the lambs, without even an angel, alone - In the great silent night, - With sudden affright, - For their lost shepherds vainly are calling. - - They knew not a tenderer Shepherd was near, - His flocks to deliver from danger, - And comfort all desolate lambs in their fear,-- - For peacefully lay, - On that first Christmas day, - Lord Christ, in a Bethlehem manger. - - - - -THE FOURTH WATCH. - - - Midnight upon Gennesaret; the restless waves, - Like jewels on the troubled bosom of the sea, - Flash forth in rays of silvery light, or hide within - Her dark and flowing tresses. Soft, as in a dream, - The night-winds sigh and whisper o’er the little ship, - While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee - Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests - A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow. - Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all - The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass, - Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude - Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life - Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray, - Alone. - The night is dark, the Master is not come; - The sea arises, and on every side the waves - Gigantic, black, and topped with lurid crests of foam, - Leap madly through the gloom. Labors the little ship, - Hurled to and fro and beaten back upon her course. - With slow and stubborn stroke the rowers wearily - Are straining at the heavy oars. But hark! above - The sullen roar of wind and sea, a well-loved voice, - Vibrant and sweet with chords of heavenly music, speaks, - And they were sore afraid; but He saith unto them, - “Be of good cheer, ’tis I, be not afraid.” - And lo, - The tempest ceased! and when they had received their Lord, - The ship had come unto the haven they desired. - - - - -“WITH YOU ALWAY.” - - - Why seek ye for Jehovah - Mid Sinai’s awful smoke? - The burning bush now shelters - A sparrow’s humble folk; - The curve of God’s sweet heaven - Is the curve of the leaf of oak; - The Voice that stilled the tempest - To little children spoke,-- - The bread of life eternal - Is the bread He blessed and broke. - - - - -DECEMBER 31. - - - Another year! - What is the story by the twelve-month told? - What treasure doth its memory enfold,-- - Base coin, or gold? - Sternly hath it hard lessons taught, - Hath it new cares, new joys, new burdens brought? - Few smiles, and many a tear? - - Another year! - What good and perfect gifts have gently come-- - Knowing not whence, we have been blind and dumb! - We ate the crumb - Without the sparrow’s faith, but still, - Father of Lights, Thou shinest on, and will, - Thy frightened birds to cheer. - - Another year! - The sunlight pours its blessings as of old, - Into the lap of each dear day,--its gold, - Its wealth untold. - As lessons new and sweet we gain, - Still hoping to the highest to attain, - We trust, and never fear. - - Another year! - But to the brave and true, lo, time is not! - A thousand years are as a day, forgot - The hardest lot, - To those who walk beside their God, - Loving the path His patient feet have trod, - Knowing that He is near. - - - - -IN MY ARM-CHAIR. - - - Flickers the ruddy firelight on the wall; - Now here, now there, the shadows restlessly - Dance in and out among the gleaming bars - That prison many a glimpse of sea and sky - Upon the pictured canvas. Brightly falls - The cheerful light upon familiar forms - Of volumes clothed in sober garb and gay, - Whose very names, in golden characters, - Invite to solace sweet, and peace of mind. - Footfalls incessant in the rainy street - Mingle their dreary cadence with the roll - And rhythmic echo of the iron wheel, - Half muffled by the storm’s dull monotone. - Within, the gentle presence of the flame, - With its soft rustle ever and anon, - Serves but to take away the very pain - Of silence absolute. - It is the hour - For contemplation meet. The air is thronged - With thoughts innumerable, fancies light, - That flit about on airy wing, or play - Among the fireborn shadows on the wall; - Till, touched by the Promethean glow, they take - A seeming form substantial, animate. - From out their thin octavo cells pour forth - The shapes ethereal of poet, sage, - Philosopher, and man of God, whose words - Make wisdom beautiful, and beauty wise. - Silent they rise before me, one by one, - E’en as the fabled genius, close involved - Within the tiny casket, gained at last - His proper self, and towered high above - His liberator. But of other mien - Are these strange forms around my hearth to-night. - With aspect grave, yet kind, they gaze on me - As old companions might on one they loved, - Who loved them in return. I know each one, - And recognize the habit of his life. - Old Gilbert White--whose flowing locks, and dress - Of quaint antiquity, precise and neat, - Recall his quiet walks in Selborne wood-- - Has paused with curious, meditative eye, - Before an owl upon my mantle shelf, - And rapidly, in shadowy script, records - The sapient bird’s presentment. - Near at hand, - A man of kindly countenance and mild, - Impressed with lines of pure and noble thought, - Bends low in prayer; ere long resumes his pen, - And adds one more sweet hymn to those that bear - George Herbert’s name. Anon appears a face - More gentle than the rest, it seems, with eyes - Of deep and tender yearning. Silently - The figure turns aside, and by the hearth - Remains aloof, with dreamy gaze intent - Upon the glowing coals. What fantasies - Are imaged there, reflected from his mind, - And striving for the elixir of his touch - And wondrous pen, that give eternal life - To such as they! Lo, built of candent fire - The Old Manse drops its Mosses at his feet; - Italia’s strange physician whispers now - Of potent herb and flower. The Puritan, - His wonted sternness softened, deigns to tell - Of old-time guilt--the Scarlet Letter’s brand-- - Till, glancing up, he shudders at the approach - Of stricken Hester, with her demon child. - - So wanes the night. In quick succession move - Shades of the mighty dead before my eyes. - Again is played the Comedy Divine, - And gloomily the awful form of him - Whose mind such Titan offspring bore, attends - The movement of each scene. The cowl and robe, - Close at his side, betray that zealous monk - Whose life was Imitation of the Christ. - Amid the still increasing throng, behold - Sage Izaak Walton, creel and rod in hand; - But while I gaze upon his visage mild, - Expectant half to hear his counsel how - The wily carp to ensnare, the fiery bridge - O’er which my fancy boldly trod, and found - Her way to realms unreal, topples down - With mimic crash, and lies a ruined mass - Upon the hearth. Yet by its waning glow - I see the hurried parting of my guests, - Retreating each within his narrow cell; - As when beneath a monastery roof - The low, sweet chant of vespers dies away,-- - The last faint echoes lingering still within - The moonlit cloisters,--silently the forms - Of holy men glide to and fro among - The shadows, till the hush of night descends - With brooding wings, and gathers all to rest. - - -THE END. - - - - -=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE= - - - Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. - - Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been - corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within - the text and consultation of external sources. - - Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the - text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. - - Some words with hyphens, or without them, have been silently - adjusted to be more consistent. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE MORNING *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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