* * * * *

So strange to-night—those voices there, Where all so quiet was before; They say the face has not a care Nor sorrow in it any more— His latest scrawl:—"Forgive me—You Who prayed, 'they know not what they do!'" My tears wilt never let me see This man that rooms next door to me!



THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT.

O the waiting in the watches of the night! In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and affright; The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight: The ever weary memory that ever weary goes Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows— The ever weary eyelids gasping ever for repose— In the dreary, weary watches of the night!

Dark—stifling dark—the watches of the night! With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes white With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight!— What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought that may not be redressed— Of tears we did not brush away—of lips we left unpressed, And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty unguessed! Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night!

What solace in the watches of the night?— What frailest staff of hope to stay—what faintest shaft of light? Do we dream and dare believe it, that by never weight of right Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn at last— Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for the past, In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom that flees aghast— Shall we survive the watches of the night?

One leads us through the watches of the night— By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His might;— With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow disappears, Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master hears, And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of tears In the waning of the watches of the night.



HIS VIGIL.

Close the book and dim the light, I shall read no more to-night. No—I am not sleepy, dear— Do not go: sit by me here In the darkness and the deep Silence of the watch I keep. Something in your presence so Soothes me—as in long ago I first felt your hand—as now— In the darkness touch my brow; I've no other wish than you Thus should fold mine eyelids to, Saying nought of sigh or tear— Just as God were sitting here.



THE PLAINT HUMAN

Season of snows, and season of flowers, Seasons of loss and gain!— Since grief and joy must alike be ours, Why do we still complain?

Ever our failing, from sun to sun, O my intolerent brother:— We want just a little too little of one, And much too much of the other.



BY ANY OTHER NAME.

First the teacher called the roll, Clos't to the beginnin', "Addeliney Bowersox!" Set the school a-grinnin'. Wintertime, and stingin'-cold When the session took up— Cold as we all looked at her, Though she couldn't look up!

Total stranger to us, too— Country-folks ain't allus Nigh so shameful unpolite As some people call us!— But the honest facts is, then, Addeliney Bower- Sox's feelin's was so hurt She cried half an hour!

My dest was acrost from her 'n: Set and watched her tryin' To p'tend she didn't keer, And a kind o' dryin' Up her tears with smiles—-tel I Thought, "Well, 'Addeliney Bowersox' is plain, but she's Purty as a piney!"

It's be'n many of a year Sence that most oncommon Cur'ous name o' Bowersox Struck me so abomin- Nubble and outlandish-like!— I changed it to Adde- Liney Daubenspeck—and that Nearly killed her Daddy!



TO AN IMPORTUNATE GHOST.

Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost! Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin Impalpable transparency of grin; And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin, And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast That I am helpless to combat thee! Well, Have at thee, then! Yet if a doom most dire Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst!—Revile Me not, Miasmic Mist!—Rank Air! retire! One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll Inhale thee, O thou wraith despicable!



THE QUARREL.

They faced each other: Topaz-brown And lambent burnt her eyes and shot Sharp flame at his of amethyst.— "I hate you! Go, and be forgot As death forgets!" their glitter hissed (So seemed it) in their hatred. Ho! Dared any mortal front her so?— Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down— Tense nostril, mouth—no muscle slack,— And black—the suffocating black— The stifling blackness of her frown!

Ah! but the lifted face of her! And the twitched lip and tilted head! Yet he did neither wince nor stir,— Only—his hands clenched; and, instead Of words, he answered with a stare That stammered not in aught it said, As might his voice if trusted there.

And what—what spake his steady gaze?— Was there a look that harshly fell To scoff her?—or a syllable Of anger?—or the bitter phrase That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, Or curdles blood as poison drips? What made their breasts to heave and swell As billows under bows of ships In broken seas on stormy days? We may not know—nor they indeed— What mercy found them in their need.

A sudden sunlight smote the gloom; And round about them swept a breeze, With faint breaths as of clover-bloom; A bird was heard, through drone of bees,— Then, far and clear and eerily, A child's voice from an orchard-tree— Then laughter, sweet as the perfume Of lilacs, could the hearing see. And he—O Love! he fed thy name On bruised kisses, while her dim Deep eyes, with all their inner flame, Like drowning gems were turned on him.



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

I.

As one in sorrow looks upon The dead face of a loyal friend, By the dim light of New Year's dawn I saw the Old Year end.

Upon the pallid features lay The dear old smile—so warm and bright Ere thus its cheer had died away In ashes of delight.

The hands that I had learned to love With strength of passion half divine, Were folded now, all heedless of The emptiness of mine.

The eyes that once had shed their bright Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, And ever lidded from the light That made them beautiful.

II.

The chimes of bells were in the air, And sounds of mirth in hall and street, With pealing laughter everywhere And throb of dancing feet:

The mirth and the convivial din Of revelers in wanton glee, With tunes of harp and violin In tangled harmony.

But with a sense of nameless dread, I turned me, from the merry face Of this newcomer, to my dead; And, kneeling there a space,

I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:— By this dear face so fixed and cold, O Lord, let not this New Year be As happy as the old!



THE HEREAFTER.

Hereafter! O we need not waste Our smiles or tears, whatever befall: No happiness but holds a taste Of something sweeter, after all;— No depth of agony but feels Some fragment of abiding trust,— Whatever death unlocks or seals, The mute beyond is just.



JOHN BROWN.

Writ in between the lines of his life-deed We trace the sacred service of a heart Answering the Divine command, in every part Bearing on human weal: His love did feed The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart Of other wounds than rankled at the dart In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed. He served the lowliest first—nay, them alone— The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne.— For these doomed there it was he went to death. God! how the merest man loves one like that!



A CUP OF TEA.

I have sipped, with drooping lashes, Dreamy draughts of Verzenay; I have flourished brandy-smashes In the wildest sort of way; I have joked with "Tom and Jerry" Till wee hours ayont the twal'— But I've found my tea the very Safest tipple of them all!

'Tis a mystical potation That exceeds in warmth of glow And divine exhilaration All the drugs of long ago— All of old magicians' potions— Of Medea's filtered spells— Or of fabled isles and oceans Where the Lotos-eater dwells!

Though I've reveled o'er late lunches With blase dramatic stars, And absorbed their wit and punches And the fumes of their cigars— Drank in the latest story, With a cock-tail either end,— I have drained a deeper glory In a cup of tea, my friend.

Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa, Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey— No odds the name it knows—ah! Fill a cup of it for me! And, as I clink my china Against your goblet's brim, My tea in steam shall twine a Fragrant laurel round its rim.



JUDITH.

O her eyes are amber-fine— Dark and deep as wells of wine, While her smile is like the noon Splendor of a day of June. If she sorrow—lo! her face It is like a flowery space In bright meadows, overlaid With light clouds and lulled with shade If she laugh—it is the trill Of the wayward whippoorwill Over upland pastures, heard Echoed by the mocking-bird In dim thickets dense with bloom And blurred cloyings of perfume. If she sigh—a zephyr swells Over odorous asphodels And wan lilies in lush plots Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. Then, the soft touch of her hand— Takes all breath to understand What to liken it thereto!— Never roseleaf rinsed with dew Might slip soother-suave than slips Her slow palm, the while her lips Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss Sweet as heated honey is.



THE ARTEMUS OF MICHIGAN.

Grand Haven is in Michigan, and in possession, too, Of as many rare attractions as our party ever knew:— The fine hotel, the landlord, and the lordly bill of fare, And the dainty-neat completeness of the pretty waiters there; The touch on the piano in the parlor, and the trill Of the exquisite soprano, in our fancy singing still; Our cozy room, its comfort, and our thousand grateful tho'ts, And at our door the gentle face Of H. Y. Potts!

His artless observations, and his drollery of style, Bewildered with that sorrowful serenity of smile— The eye's elusive twinkle, and the twitching of the lid, Like he didn't go to say it and was sorry that he did. O Artemus of Michigan! so worthy of the name, Our manager indorses it, and Bill Nye does the same— You tickled our affection in so many tender spots That even Recollection laughs At H. Y. Potts!

And hark ye! O Grand Haven! count your rare attractions o'er— The commerce of your ships at sea, and ships along the shore; Your railroads, and your industries, and interests untold, Your Opera House—our lecture, and the gate-receipts in gold!— Ay, Banner Town of Michigan! count all your treasures through— Your crowds of summer tourists, and your Sanitarium, too; Your lake, your beach, your drives, your breezy groves and grassy plots, But head the list of all of these With H. Y. Potts!



THE HOODOO.

Owned a pair o' skates onc't.—Traded Fer 'em,—stropped 'em on and waded Up and down the crick, a-waitin' Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'. Mildest winter I remember— More like Spring- than Winter-weather!— Did n't frost tel bout December- Git up airly ketch a' feather Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder— Sunshine swinge it like a cinder!

Well—I waited—and kep' waitin'! Couldn't see my money's w'oth in Them-air skates and was no skatin', Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin'! So, one day—along in airly Spring—I swopped 'em off—and barely Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet, And crick—tail-race—all together, Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it!



THE RIVALS; OR THE SHOWMAN'S RUSE

A TRAGI-COMEDY, IN ONE ACT.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

BILLY MILLER ) The Rivals JOHNNY WILLIAMS )

TOMMY WELLS Conspirator

TIME—Noon: SCENE—Country Town—Rear-view of the Miller Mansion, showing Barn, with practical loft-window opening on alley-way, with colored-crayon poster beneath, announcing:—"BILLY MILLER'S Big Show and Monstur Circus and Equareum! A shour-bath fer Each and All fer 20 pins. This Afternoon! Don't fer git the date!" Enter TOMMY WELLS and JOHNNY WILLIAMS, who gaze awhile at poster, TOMMY secretly smiling and winking at BILLY MILLER, concealed at loft-window above.

TOMMY (to JOHNNY). Guess 'at Billy haint got back,— Can't see nothin' through the crack—- Can't hear nothin' neither—No! . . . Thinks he's got the dandy show, Don't he?

JOHNNY (scornfully)— 'Course' but what I care?— He haint got no show in there!— What's he got in there but that Old hen, cooped up with a cat An' a turkle, an' that thing 'At he calls his "circus-ring?" "What a circus-ring!" I'd quit! Bet mine's twic't as big as it!

TOMMY— Yes, but you got no machine Wat you bathe with, painted green, With a string to work it, guess!

JOHNNY (contemptuously)— Folks don't bathe in circuses!— Ladies comes to mine, you bet! I' got seats where girls can set; An' a dressin'-room, an' all, Fixed up in my pony's stall— Yes, an' I' got carpet, too, Fer the tumblers, and a blue Center-pole!

TOMMY— Well, Billy, he's Got a tight-rope an' trapeze, An' a hoop 'at he jumps through Head-first!

JOHNNY— Well, what's that to do— Lightin' on a pile o' hay? Haint no actin' thataway!

TOMMY— Don't care what you say, he draws Bigger crowds than you do, 'cause Sense he started up, I know All the fellers says his show Is the best-un!

JOHNNY— Yes, an' he Better not tell things on me! His old circus haint no good!— 'Cause he's got the neighborhood Down on me he thinks 'at I'm Goin' to stand it all the time; Thinks ist 'cause my Pa don't 'low Me to fight, he's got me now. An' can say I lie, an' call Me ist anything at all! Billy Miller thinks I am 'Feared to say 'at he says "dam"— Yes, and worser ones! and I'm Goin' to tell his folks sometime!— An' ef he don't shet his head I'll tell worse 'an that he said When he fighted Willie King— An' got licked like ever'thing!— Billy Miller better shin Down his Daddy's lane agin, Like a cowardy-calf, an' climb In fer home another time! Better—

[Here BILLY leaps down from the loft upon his unsuspecting victim; and two minutes, later, JOHNNY, with the half of a straw hat, a bleeding nose, and a straight rent across one trouser-knee, makes his inglorious—exit.]



WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE WIGGINSES.

Wintertime, er Summertime, Of late years I notice I'm, Kindo'-like, more subjec' to What the weather is. Now, you Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose, Thinks its bully when it snows; But the chap 'at chops and hauls Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls, And snapps tuggs and swingletrees, And then has to walk er freeze, Haint so much "stuck on" the snow As stuck in it—Bless ye, no!— When its packed, and sleighin's good, And church in the neighborhood, Them 'at's got their girls, I guess, Takes 'em, likely, more er less, Tell the plain facts o' the case, No men-folks about our place On'y me and Pap—and he 'Lows 'at young folks' company Allus made him sick! So I Jes don't want, and jes don't try! Chinkypin, the dad-burn town, 'S too fur off to loaf aroun' Either day er night—and no Law compellin' me to go!— 'Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day, Er big-doin's thataway— Then, to tell the p'inted fac', I've went more so's to come back By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where Minors has got licker there— That's pervidin' we could show 'em Old folks sent fer it from home! Visit roun' the neighbors some, When the boys wants me to come.— Coon-hunt with 'em; er set traps Fer mussrats; er jes, perhaps, Lay in roun' the stove, you know, And parch corn, and let her snow! Mostly, nights like these, you'll be (Ef you' got a writ fer me) Ap' to skeer me up, I guess, In about the Wigginses. Nothin' roun' our place to keep Me at home—with Pap asleep 'Fore it's dark; and Mother in Mango pickles to her chin; And the girls, all still as death, Piecin' quilts.—Sence I drawed breath Twenty year' ago, and heerd Some girls whispern' so's it 'peared Like they had a row o' pins In their mouth—right there begins My first rickollections, built On that-air blame old piece-quilt!

Summertime, it's jes the same— 'Cause I've noticed,—and I claim, As I said afore, I'm more Subjec' to the weather, shore, 'Proachin' my majority, Than I ever ust to be! Callin' back last Summer, say,— Don't seem hardly past away— With night closin' in, and all S' lonesome-like in the dew-fail: Bats—ad-drat their ugly muggs!— Flickern' by; and lightnin'-bugs Huckstern' roun' the airly night Little sickly gasps o' light;— Whip-poor-wills, like all possessed, Moanin' out their mournfullest;— Frogs and katydids and things Jes clubs in and sings and sings Their ding-dangdest!—Stock's all fed, And Pap's washed his feet fer bed;— Mother and the girls all down At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'— No wunder 'at I git blue, And lite out—and so would you! I caint stay aroun' no place Whur they haint no livin' face:— 'Crost the fields and thue the gaps Of the hills they's friends, perhaps, Waitin' somers, 'at kin be Kindo' comfertin' to me!

Neighbors all 'is plenty good, Scattered thue this neighberhood; Yit, of all, I like to jes Drap in on the Wigginses.— Old man, and old lady too, 'Pear-like, makes so much o' you—, Least, they've allus pampered me Like one of the fambily.— The boys, too, 's all thataway— Want you jes to come and stay;— Price, and Chape, and Mandaville, Poke, Chasteen, and "Catfish Bill"— Poke's the runt of all the rest, But he's jes the beatinest Little schemer, fer fourteen, Anybody ever seen!— "Like his namesake," old man claims, "Jeems K. Poke, the first o' names! Full o' tricks and jokes—and you Never know what Poke's go' do!" Genius, too, that-air boy is, With them awk'ard hands o' his: Gits this blame pokeberry-juice, Er some stuff, fer ink—and goose- Quill pen-p'ints: And then he'll draw Dogdest pictures yevver saw! Er make deers and eagles good As a writin'-teacher could! Then they's two twin boys they've riz Of old Coonrod Wigginses 'At's deceast—and glad of it, 'Cause his widder's livin' yit!

Course the boys is mostly jes' Why I go to Wigginses.—- Though Melviney, sometimes, she Gits her slate and algebry And jes' sets there ciphern' thue Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do!— Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair Forreds tel, 'pear-like, her hair Jes' spills in her lap—and then She jes' dips it up again With her hands, as white, I swan, As the apern she's got on!

Talk o' hospitality!— Go to Wigginses with me— Overhet, or froze plum thue, You'll find welcome waitin' you:— Th'ow out yer tobacker 'fore You set foot acrost that floor,— "Got to eat whatever's set— Got to drink whatever's wet!" Old man's sentimuns—them's his—- And means jes the best they is! Then he lights his pipe; and she, The old lady, presen'ly She lights her'n; and Chape and Poke. I haint got none, ner don't smoke,— (In the crick afore their door— Sorto so's 'at I'd be shore— Drownded mine one night and says "I won't smoke at Wigginses!") Price he's mostly talkin' 'bout Politics, and "thieves turned out"— What he's go' to be, ef he Ever "gits there"—and "we'll see!"— Poke he 'lows they's blame few men Go' to hold their breath tel then! Then Melviney smiles, as she Goes on with her algebry, And the clouds clear, and the room's Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms! (That Melviney, she' got some Most surprisin' ways, I gum!— Don't 'pear like she ever says Nothin', yit you'll listen jes Like she was a-talkin', and Half-way seem to understand, But not quite,—Poke does, I know, 'Cause he good as told me so,— Poke's her favo-rite; and he— That is, confidentially— He's my favo-rite—and I Got my whurfore and my why!)

I haint never ben no hand Much at talkin', understand, But they's thoughts o' mine 'at's jes Jealous o' them Wigginses!— Gift o' talkin 's what they got, Whether they want to er not— F'r instunce, start the old man on Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone, 'Way back in the Forties, when Bears stold pigs right out the pen, Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm With a bee-hive on their arm!— And—sir, ping! the old man's gun Has plumped-over many a one, Firin' at him from afore That-air very cabin-door! Yes—and painters, prowlin' 'bout, Allus darkest nights.—Lay out Clost yer cattle.—Great, big red Eyes a-blazin' in their head, Glittern' 'long the timber-line— Shine out some, and then un-shine, And shine back—Then, stiddy! whizz! 'N there yer Mr. Painter is With a hole bored spang between Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen, Say, on blooded racin'-stock, Ef you want to hear him talk; Er tobacker—how to raise, Store, and k-yore it, so's she pays: The old lady—and she'll cote Scriptur' tel she'll git yer vote!

Prove to you 'at wrong is right, Jes as plain as black is white: Prove when you're asleep in bed You're a-standin' on yer head, And yer train 'at's goin' West, 'S goin' East its level best; And when bees dies, it's their wings Wears out—and a thousand things! And the boys is "chips," you know; "Off the old block"—So I go To the Wigginses, 'cause—jes 'Cause I like the Wigginses— Even ef Melviney she Hardly 'pears to notice me!

Rid to Chinkypin this week— Yisterd'y.—No snow to speak Of, and didn't have no sleigh Anyhow; so, as I say, I rid in—and froze one ear And both heels—and I don't keer!— "Mother and the girls kin jes Bother 'bout their Chris'mases Next time fer theirse'vs, I jack!" Thinks-says-I, a-startin' back,— Whole durn meal-bag full of things Wrapped in paper-sacks, and strings Liable to snap their holt Jes at any little jolt! That in front o' me, and wind With nicks in it, 'at jes skinned Me alive!—I'm here to say Nine mile' hossback thataway Would a-walked my log! But, as Somepin' allus comes to pass, As I topped old Guthrie's hill. Saw a buggy, front the 'Still, P'inted home'ards, and a thin Little chap jes climbin' in. Six more minutes I were there On the groun's'—And course it were— It were little Poke—and he Nearly fainted to see me!— "You ben in to Chinky, too?" "Yes; and go' ride back with you," I-says-I. He he'pped me find Room fer my things in behind— Stript my hoss's reins down, and Put his mitt' on the right hand So's to lead—"Pile in!" says he, "But you 've struck pore company!" Noticed he was pale—looked sick, Kindo-like, and had a quick Way o' flickin' them-air eyes 0' his roun' 'at didn't size Up right with his usual style— s' I, "You well?" He tried to smile, But his chin shuck and tears come.— "I've run 'Viney 'way from home!"

Don't know jes what all occurred Next ten seconds—Nary word, But my heart jes drapt, stobbed thue, And whirlt over and come to.— Wrenched a big quart bottle from That fool-boy!—and cut my thumb On his little fiste-teeth—helt Him snug in one arm, and felt That-air little heart o' his Churn the blood o' Wigginses Into that old bead 'at spun Roun' her, spilt at Lexington! His k'niptions, like enough, He'pped us both,—though it was rough— Rough on him, and rougher on Me when last his nerve was gone, And he laid there still, his face Fishin' fer some hidin'-place Jes a leetle lower down In my breast than he 'd yit foun'!

Last I kindo' soothed him, so's He could talk.—And what you s'pose Them-air revelations of Poke's was? . . . He'd ben writin' love- Letters to Melviney, and Givin her to understand They was from "a young man who Loved her," and—"the violet's blue 'N sugar's sweet"—and Lord knows what! Tel, 'peared-like, Melviney got S' interested in "the young Man," Poke he says, 'at she brung A' answer onc't fer him to take, Statin' "she'd die fer his sake," And writ fifty xs "fer Love-kisses fer him from her!" I was standin' in the road By the buggy, all I knowed When Poke got that fer.—"That's why," Poke says, "I 'fessed up the lie— Had to—'cause I see," says he, "'Viney was in airnest—she Cried, too, when I told her.—Then She swore me, and smiled again, And got Pap and Mother to Let me hitch and drive her thue Into Chinkypin, to be At Aunt 'Rindy's Chris'mas-tree— That's to-night." Says I, "Poke—durn Your lyin' soul!—'s that beau o' hern— That—she—loves—Does he live in That hellhole o' Chinkypin?" "No," says Poke, "er 'Viney would Went some other neighborhood." "Who is the blame whelp?" says I. "Promised 'Viney, hope I'd die Ef I ever told!" says Poke, Pittiful and jes heart-broke— "'Sides that's why she left the place,— 'She caint look him in the face Now no more on earth!' she says.—" And the child broke down and jes Sobbed! Says I, "Poke, I p'tend T' be your friend, and your Pap's friend, And your Mother's friend, and all The boys' friend, little, large and small— The whole fambily's friend—and you Know that means Melviney, too.— Now—you hush yer troublin!'—I'm Go' to he'p friends ever' time— On'y in this case, you got To he'p me—and, like as not I kin he'p Melviney then, And we'll have her home again. And now, Poke, with your consent, I'm go' go to that-air gent She's in love with, and confer With him on his views o' her.— Blast him! give the man some show.— Who is he?—I'm go' to know!" Somepin' struck the little chap Funny, 'peared-like.—Give a slap On his leg—laughed thue the dew In his eyes, and says: "It's you!"

Yes, and—'cordin' to the last Love-letters of ours 'at passed Thue his hands—we was to be Married Chris'mas.—"Gee-mun-nee! Poke," says I, "it's suddent—yit We kin make it! You're to git Up tomorry, say, 'bout three— Tell your folks you're go' with me:— We'll hitch up, and jes drive in 'N take the town o' Chinkypin!"



GO, WINTER!

Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again The twitter of the bluebird and the wren; Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine Of Summer's sun—not thine.—

Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love And all the heartening fervencies thereof, It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin Pathetic yearnings in.

So get thee from us! We are cold, God wot, Even as thou art.—We remember not How blithe we hailed thy coming.—That was O Too long—too long ago!

Get from us utterly! Ho! Summer then Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been, And thy last icy footprint melt and mold In her first marigold.



ELIZABETH.

May 1, 1891.

I.

Elizabeth! Elizabeth! The first May-morning whispereth Thy gentle name in every breeze That lispeth through the young-leaved trees, New raimented in white and green Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen;— And, as in odorous chorus, all The orchard-blossoms sweetly call Even as a singing voice that saith Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

II.

Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair, In deep, cool shadows of thy hair, Thy face maintaineth its repose.— Is it, O sister of the rose, So better, sweeter, blooming thus Than in this briery world with us?— Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath Of biting winter harrieth With sleeted rains and blighting snows All fairest blooms—Elizabeth!

III.

Nay, then!—So reign, Elizabeth, Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death! Put forth the scepter of thy love In every star-tipped blossom of The grassy dais of thy throne! Sadder are we, thus left alone, But gladder they that thrill to see Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee. Bereaved are we by life—not death— Elizabeth! Elizabeth!



SLEEP.

Orphaned, I cry to thee: Sweet sleep! O kneel and be A mother unto me! Calm thou my childish fears: Fold—fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly, And dry my tears.

Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed And faint with languor,—slide Thy dim face down beside Mine own, and let me rest And nestle in thy heart, and there abide, A favored guest.

Good night to every care, And shadow of despair! Good night to all things where Within is no delight!— Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there, I sob: Good night—good night!



DAN PAINE.

Old friend of mine, whose chiming name Has been the burthen of a rhyme Within my heart since first I came To know thee in thy mellow prime; With warm emotions in my breast That can but coldly be expressed, And hopes and wishes wild and vain, I reach my hand to thee, Dan Paine.

In fancy, as I sit alone In gloomy fellowship with care, I hear again thy cheery tone, And wheel for thee an easy chair; And from my hand the pencil falls— My book upon the carpet sprawls, As eager soul and heart and brain, Leap up to welcome thee, Dan Paine.

A something gentle in thy mein, A something tender in thy voice, Has made my trouble so serene, I can but weep, from very choice. And even then my tears, I guess, Hold more of sweet than bitterness, And more of gleaming shine than rain, Because of thy bright smile, Dan Paine.

The wrinkles that the years have spun And tangled round thy tawny face, Are kinked with laughter, every one, And fashioned in a mirthful grace. And though the twinkle of thine eyes Is keen as frost when Summer dies, It can not long as frost remain While thy warm soul shines out, Dan Paine.

And so I drain a health to thee;— May merry Joy and jolly Mirth Like children clamber on thy knee, And ride thee round the happy earth! And when, at last, the hand of Fate Shall lift the latch of Canaan's gate, And usher me in thy domain, Smile on me just as now, Dan Paine.



OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM

I have jest about decided It 'ud keep a town-boy hoppin' Fer to work all winter, choppin' Fer a' old fire-place, like I did! Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!— Blame backbone o' winter, 'peared-like, Wouldn't break!—and I wuz skeerd-like Clean on into Febuary! Nothin' ever made we madder Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' On a' extra fore-stick, sayin' "Groun'hog's out and seed his shadder!"



AT UTTER LOAF.

I.

An afternoon as ripe with heat As might the golden pippin be With mellowness if at my feet It dropped now from the apple-tree My hammock swings in lazily.

II.

The boughs about me spread a shade That shields me from the sun, but weaves With breezy shuttles through the leaves Blue rifts of skies, to gleam and fade Upon the eyes that only see Just of themselves, all drowsily.

III.

Above me drifts the fallen skein Of some tired spider, looped and blown, As fragile as a strand of rain, Across the air, and upward thrown By breaths of hayfields newly mown— So glimmering it is and fine, I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine.

IV.

Far-off and faint as voices pent In mines, and heard from underground, Come murmurs as of discontent, And clamorings of sullen sound The city sends me, as, I guess, To vex me, though they do but bless Me in my drowsy fastnesses.

V.

I have no care. I only know My hammock hides and holds me here In lands of shade a prisoner: While lazily the breezes blow Light leaves of sunshine over me, And back and forth and to and fro I swing, enwrapped in some hushed glee, Smiling at all things drowsily.



A LOUNGER.

He leant against a lamp-post, lost In some mysterious reverie: His head was bowed; his arms were crossed; He yawned, and glanced evasively: Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put Them back again, and scratched his side— Shifted his weight from foot to foot, And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed.

Grotesque of form and face and dress, And picturesque in every way— A figure that from day to day Drooped with a limper laziness; A figure such as artists lean, In pictures where distress is seen, Against low hovels where we guess No happiness has ever been.



A SONG OF LONG AGO.

A song of Long Ago: Sing it lightly—sing it low— Sing it softly—like the lisping of the lips we used to know When our baby-laughter spilled From the glad hearts ever filled With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

Let the fragrant summer-breeze, And the leaves of locust-trees, And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees, All palpitate with glee, Till the happy harmony Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

Let the eyes of fancy turn Where the tumbled pippins burn Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,— There let the old path wind In and out and on behind The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

Blend in the song the moan Of the dove that grieves alone, And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone; And the low of cows that call Through the pasture-bars when all The landscape fades away at evenfall.

Then, far away and clear, Through the dusky atmosphere, Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear: O sad and sweet and low As the memory may know Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!



THE CHANT OF THE CROSS-BEARING CHILD.

I bear dis cross dis many a mile. O de cross-bearin' chile— De cross-bearin' chile!

I bear dis cross 'long many a road Wha' de pink ain't bloom' an' de grass done mowed. O de cross-bearin' chile— De cross-bearin' chile!

Hits on my conscience all dese days Fo' ter bear de cross ut de good Lord lays On my po' soul, an' ter lif my praise. O de cross-bearin' chile— De cross-bearin' chile!

I 's nigh-'bout weak ez I mos' kin be, Yit de Marstah call an' He say,—"You 's free Fo' ter 'cept dis cross, an' ter cringe yo' knee To no n'er man in de worl' but me!" O de cross-bearin' chile— De cross-bearin' chile!

Says you guess wrong, ef I let you guess— Says you 'spec' mo', an'-a you git less:— Says you go eas', says you go wes', An' whense you fine de road ut you like bes' You betteh take ch'ice er any er de res'! O de cross-bearin' chile— De cross-bearin' chile!

He build my feet, an' He fix de signs Dat de shoe hit pinch an' de shoe hit bines Ef I on'y w'ah eights an-a wanter w'ah nines; I hone fo' de rain, an' de sun hit shines, An' whilse I hunt de sun, hits de rain I fines.— O-a trim my lamp, an-a gyrd my lines! O de cross-bearin' chile— De cross-bearin' chile!

I wade de wet, an' I walk de dry: I done tromp long, an' I done clim high; An' I pilgrim on ter de jasper sky, An' I taken de resk fo' ter cas' my eye Wha' de Gate swing wide an' de Lord draw nigh, An' de Trump hit blow, an' I hear de cry,— "You lay dat cross down by an' by!— O de Cross-bearin' Chile— Do Cross-bearin' Chile!"



THANKSGIVING.

Let us be thankful—not only because Since last our universal thanks were told We have grown greater in the world's applause, And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old—

But thankful for all things that come as alms From out the open hand of Providence:— The winter clouds and storms—-the summer calms— The sleepless dread—the drowse of indolence.

Let us be thankful—thankful for the prayers Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, That they might fall upon us unawares, And bless us, as in greater need, we prayed.

Let us be thankful for the loyal hand That love held out in welcome to our own, When love and only love could understand The need of touches we had never known.

Let us be thankful for the longing eyes That gave their secret to us as they wept, Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise, Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept.

And let us, too, be thankful that the tears Of sorrow have not all been drained away, That through them still, for all the coming years, We may look on the dead face of To-day.



AUTUMN.

As a harvester, at dusk, Faring down some woody trail Leading homeward through the musk Of may-apple and pawpaw, Hazel-bush, and spice and haw,— So comes Autumn, swart and hale, Drooped of frame and slow of stride. But withal an air of pride Looming up in stature far Higher than his shoulders are; Weary both in arm and limb, Yet the wholesome heart of him Sheer at rest and satisfied.

Greet him as with glee of drums And glad cymbals, as he comes! Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine. He the Emperor—the King— Royal lord of everything Sagging Plenty's granary floors And out-bulging all her doors; He the god of corn and wine, Honey, milk, and fruit and oil— Lord of feast, as lord of toil— Jocund host of yours and mine!

Ho! the revel of his laugh!— Half is sound of winds, and half Roar of ruddy blazes drawn Up the throats of chimneys wide, Circling which, from side to side, Faces—lit as by the Dawn, With her highest tintings on Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin— Smile at some old fairy-tale Of enchanted lovers, in Silken gown and coat of mail, With a retinue of elves Merry as their very selves, Trooping ever, hand in hand, Down the dales of Wonderland.

Then the glory of his song!— Lifting up his dreamy eyes— Singing haze across the skies; Singing clouds that trail along Towering tops of trees that seize Tufts of them to stanch the breeze; Singing slanted strands of rain In between the sky and earth, For the lyre to mate the mirth And the might of his refrain: Singing southward-flying birds Down to us, and afterwards Singing them to flight again; Singing blushes to the cheeks Of the leaves upon the trees— Singing on and changing these Into pallor, slowly wrought, Till the little, moaning creeks Bear them to their last farewell, As Elaine, the lovable, Was borne down to Lancelot.— Singing drip of tears, and then Drying them with smiles again.

Singing apple, peach and grape, Into roundest, plumpest shape, Rosy ripeness to the face Of the pippin; and the grace Of the dainty stamin-tip To the huge bulk of the pear, Pendant in the green caress Of the leaves, and glowing through With the tawny laziness Of the gold that Ophir knew,— Haply, too, within its rind Such a cleft as bees may find, Bungling on it half aware. And wherein to see them sip Fancy lifts an oozy lip, And the singer's falter there.

Sweet as swallows swimming through Eddyings of dusk and dew, Singing happy scenes of home Back to sight of eager eyes That have longed for them to come, Till their coming is surprise Uttered only by the rush Of quick tears and prayerful hush; Singing on, in clearer key, Hearty palms of you and me Into grasps that tingle still Rapturous, and ever will! Singing twank and twang of strings— Trill of flute and clarinet In a melody that rings Like the tunes we used to play, And our dreams are playing yet! Singing lovers, long astray, Each to each, and, sweeter things— Singing in their marriage-day, And a banquet holding all These delights for festival.



THE TWINS.

One 's the pictur' of his Pa, And the other of her Ma— Jes the bossest pair o' babies 'at a mortal ever saw! And we love 'em as the bees Loves the blossoms of the trees, A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze!

One's got her Mammy's eyes— Soft and blue as Apurl-skies— With the same sort of a smile, like—Yes, and mouth about her size,— Dimples, too, in cheek and chin, 'At my lips jes wallers in, A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin.

And the other—Well, they say That he's got his Daddy's way O' bein' ruther soberfied, er ruther extry gay,— That he either cries his best, Er he laughs his howlin'est— Like all he lacked was buttons and a vest!

Look at her!—and look at him!— Talk about yer "Cheru-bim!" Roll 'em up in dreams together, rosy arm and chubby limb! O we love 'em as the bees Loves the blossoms of the trees, A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze!



BEDOUIN.

O love is like an untamed steed!— So hot of heart and wild of speed, And with fierce freedom so in love, The desert is not vast enough, With all its leagues of glimmering sands, To pasture it! Ah, that my hands Were more than human in their strength, That my deft lariat at length Might safely noose this splendid thing That so defies all conquering! Ho! but to see it whirl and reel— The sands spurt forward—and to feel The quivering tension of the thong That throned me high, with shriek and song! To grapple tufts of tossing mane— To spurn it to its feet again, And then, sans saddle, rein or bit, To lash the mad life out of it!



TUGG MARTIN.

I.

Tugg Martin's tough.—No doubt o' that! And down there at The town he come from word's bin sent Advisin' this-here Settle-ment To kindo' humor Tugg, and not To git him hot— Jest pass his imperfections by, And he's as good as pie!

II.

They claim he's wanted back there.—Yit The officers they mostly quit Insistin' when They notice Tugg's so back'ard, and Sorto' gives 'em to understand He druther not!—A Deputy (The slickest one you ever see!) Tackled him last—"disguisin' then," As Tugg says, "as a gentlemen!"— You 'd ort o' hear Tugg tell it!—My! I thought I'd die!

III.

The way it wuz;—Tugg and the rest The boys wuz jest A-kindo' gittin' thawed out, down At "Guss's Place," fur-end o' town, One night, when, first we knowed, Some feller rode Up in a buggy at the door, And hollered fer some one to come And fetch him some Red-licker out—And whirped and swore That colt he drove wuz "Thompson's" shore!

IV.

Guss went out, and come in agin And filled a pint and tuck it out— Stayed quite a spell—then peeked back in, Half-hid-like where the light wuz dim, And jieuked his head At Tugg and said,— "Come out a minute—here's a gent Wants you to take a drink with him."

V.

Well—Tugg laid down his cards and went— In fact, we all Got up, you know, Startin' to go— When in reels Guss aginst the wall, As white as snow, Gaspin',—"He's tuck Tugg!—wher's my gun?" And-sir, outside we heerd The hoss snort and kick up his heels Like he wuz skeerd, And then the buggy-wheels Scrape—and then Tugg's voice hollerun',— "I'm bested!—Good-bye, fellers!" . . . 'Peared S' all-fired suddent, Nobody couldn't Jest git it fixed,—tel hoss and man, Buggy and Tugg, off through the dark Went like the devil beatin' tan- Bark!

VI.

What could we do? . . . We filed back to The bar: And Guss jest looked at us, And we looked back "The same as you," Still sayin' nothin'—And the sap It stood in every eye, And every hat and cap Went off, as we teched glasses solemnly, And Guss says-he: "Ef it's 'good-bye' with Tugg, fer shore,—I say God bless him!—Er ef they Aint railly no need to pray, I'm not reniggin!—board's the play, And here's God bless him, anyway!"

VII.

It must a-bin an hour er so We all set there, Talkin o' pore Old Tugg, you know, 'At never, wuz ketched up before— When—all slow-like—the door- Knob turned—and Tugg come shamblin' in, Hand-cuffed'—'at's what he wuz, I swear!— Yit smilin,' like he hadn't bin Away at all! And when we ast him where The Deputy wuz at,—"I don't know where," Tugg said,— "All I know is—he's dead."



LET US FORGET.

Let us forget. What matters it that we Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago, And talked of love, and let our voices low, And ruled for some brief sessions royally? What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? It has availed not anything, and so Let it go by that we may better know How poor a thing is lost to you and me. But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew From your drenched lids—and missed, with no regret, Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you; And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet With all this waste of tears, let us forget!



JOHN ALDEN AND PERCILLY.

We got up a Christmas-doin's Last Christmas Eve— Kindo' dimonstration 'At I railly believe Give more satisfaction— Take it up and down— Than ary intertainment Ever come to town!

Railly was a theater— That's what it was,— But, bein' in the church, you know, We had a "Santy Clause"— So 's to git the old folks To patternize, you see, And back the institootion up Kindo' morally.

Schoolteacher writ the thing— (Was a friend o' mine), Got it out o' Longfeller's Pome "Evangeline"— Er some'rs—'bout the Purituns—. Anyway, the part "John Alden" fell to me— And learnt it all by heart!

Claircy was "Percilly"— (Schoolteacher 'lowed Me and her could act them two Best of all the crowd)— Then—blame ef he didn't Git her Pap, i jing!— To take the part o' "Santy Clause," To wind up the thing.

Law! the fun o' practisun!— Was a week er two Me and Claircy didn't have Nothin' else to do!— Kep' us jes a-meetin' round, Kindo' here and there, Ever' night rehearsin'-like, And gaddin' ever'where!

Game was wo'th the candle, though!— Christmas Eve at last Rolled around.—And 'tendance jes Couldn't been surpassed!— Neighbors from the country Come from Clay and Rush— Yes, and 'crost the county-line Clean from Puckerbrush!

Meetin'-house jes trimbled As "Old Santy" went Round amongst the childern, With their pepperment And sassafrac and wintergreen Candy, and "a ball O' popcorn," the preacher 'nounced, "Free fer each and all!"

Schoolteacher suddently Whispered in my ear,— "Guess I got you:—Christmas-gift!— Christmas is here!" I give him a gold pen, And case to hold the thing,— And Claircy whispered "Christmas-gift!" And I give her a ring.

"And now," says I, "jes watch me— Christmas-gift," says I, "I'm a-goin' to git one— 'Santy's' comin' by!"— Then I rech and grabbed him: And, as you'll infer, 'Course I got the old man's, And he gimme her!



REACH YOUR HAND TO ME.

Reach your hand to me, my friend, With its heartiest caress— Sometime there will come an end To its present faithfulness— Sometime I may ask in vain For the touch of it again, When between us land or sea Holds it ever back from me.

Sometime I may need it so, Groping somewhere in the night, It will seem to me as though Just a touch, however light, Would make all the darkness day, And along some sunny way Lead me through an April-shower Of my tears to this fair hour.

O the present is too sweet To go on forever thus! Round the corner of the street Who can say what waits for us?— Meeting—greeting, night and day, Faring each the self-same way— Still somewhere the path must end.— Reach your hand to me, my friend!



THE ROSE.

It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving frees With a passion all in vain,— For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo— Till quenched was the flame of love in him, And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dew-drops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose— Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine— The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me!

But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?"

* * * * *

I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.



MY FRIEND.

"He is my friend," I said,— "Be patient!" Overhead The skies were drear and dim; And lo! the thought of him Smited on my heart—and then The sun shone out again!

"He is my friend!" The words Brought summer and the birds; And all my winter-time Thawed into running rhyme And rippled into song, Warm, tender, brave, and strong.

And so it sings to-day.— So may it sing alway! Though waving grasses grow Between, and lilies blow Their trills of perfume clear As laughter to the ear, Let each mute measure end With "Still he is thy friend."



SUSPENSE.

A woman's figure, on a ground of night Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there As in vague hope some alien lance of light Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight— The salt and bitter blood of her despair— Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair And grip toward God with anguish infinite. And O the carven mouth, with all its great Intensity of longing frozen fast In such a smile as well may designate The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last, Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate Throbs Love's eternal lie—"Lo, I can wait!"



THE PASSING OF A HEART.

O touch me with your hands— For pity's sake! My brow throbs ever on with such an ache As only your cool touch may take away; And so, I pray You, touch me with your hands!

Touch—touch me with your hands.— Smooth back the hair You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair That I did dream its gold would wear alway, And lo, to-day— O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands, And let them press My weary eyelids with the old caress, And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, That Death may say: He touched her with his hands.

BY HER WHITE BED.

By her white bed I muse a little space: She fell asleep—not very long ago,— And yet the grass was here and not the snow— The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and—her face!— Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow; The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place In thicker twilight for the roses' scent. Then night.—She slept—in such tranquility, I walk atiptoe still, nor dare to weep, Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content— That though God stood to wake her for me, she Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord! Let him so sleep."



WE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING.

"Rain and rain! and rain and rain!" Yesterday we muttered Grimly as the grim refrain That the thunders uttered: All the heavens under cloud— All the sunshine sleeping; All the grasses limply bowed With their weight of weeping.

Sigh and sigh! and sigh and sigh! Never end of sighing; Rain and rain for our reply— Hopes half-drowned and dying; Peering through the window-pane, Naught but endless raining— Endless sighing, and, as vain, Endlessly complaining.

Shine and shine! and shine and shine! Ah! to-day the splendor!— All this glory yours and mine— God! but God is tender! We to sigh instead of sing, Yesterday, in sorrow, While the Lord was fashioning This for our To-morrow!



THE BLOSSOMS ON THE TREES.

Blossoms crimson, white, or blue, Purple, pink, and every hue, From sunny skies, to tintings drowned In dusky drops of dew, I praise you all, wherever found, And love you through and through;— But, Blossoms On The Trees, With your breath upon the breeze, There's nothing all the world around As half as sweet as you!

Could the rhymer only wring All the sweetness to the lees Of all the kisses clustering In juicy Used-to-bes, To dip his rhymes therein and sing The blossoms on the trees,— "O Blossoms on the Trees," He would twitter, trill and coo, "However sweet, such songs as these Are not as sweet as you:— For you are blooming melodies The eyes may listen to!"



A DISCOURAGING MODEL.

Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under there Where the shadows are lost in her hair.

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint!

And that lace at her throat—and the fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, The flakes of their touches—first fluttering at The bow—then the roses—the hair—and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.

O what artist on earth with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, Nor the gold of her smile—O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair?



LAST NIGHT—AND THIS.

Last night—how deep the darkness was! And well I knew its depths, because I waded it from shore to shore, Thinking to reach the light no more.

She would not even touch my hand.— The winds rose and the cedars fanned The moon out, and the stars fled back In heaven and hid—and all was black!

But ah! To-night a summons came, Signed with a teardrop for a name,— For as I wondering kissed it, lo, A line beneath it told me so.

And now—the moon hangs over me A disk of dazzling brilliancy, And every star-tip stabs my sight With splintered glitterings of light!



SEPTEMBER DARK.

I.

The air falls chill; The whip-poor-will Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense; And lo, the katydids commence.

II.

Through shadowy rifts Of woodland, lifts The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, While left and right The fireflies' light Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

III.

O Cloudland, gray And level, lay Thy mists across the face of Day! At foot and head, Above the dead, O Dews, weep on uncomforted!



A GLIMPSE OF PAN.

I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here, And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer O'er the grasses, green and sweet.

And I peered through a vista of leaning trees, Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept To the face of a river, that answered these With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept And kissed them, with quavering ecstacies, And gurgled and laughed and wept.

And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear I saw Pan lying,—his limbs in the dew And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere, Over, across, and around him blew Filmy dragonflies hither and there, And little white butterflies, two and two, In eddies of odorous air.



OUT OF NAZARETH.

"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes." Thus heard one who shared the tent, In the far-off Orient, Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz— Nobler never loved the stars Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim Dawn his courser neighed to him!

He said: "Let the sands be swarmed With such thieves as I, and thou Shalt at morning rise, unharmed, Light as eyelash to the brow Of thy camel, amber-eyed, Ever munching either side, Striding still, with nestled knees, Through the midnight's oases.

"Who can rob thee an thou hast More than this that thou hast cast At my feet—this dust of gold? Simply this and that, all told! Hast thou not a treasure of Such a thing as men call love?

"Can the dusky band I lead Rob thee of thy daily need Of a whiter soul, or steal What thy lordly prayers reveal? Who could be enriched of thee By such hoard of poverty As thy niggard hand pretends To dole me—thy worst of friends? Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless One indeed who blesses thee; Robbing thee, I dispossess But myself.—Pray thou for me!"

He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes.



THE WANDERING JEW.

The stars are failing, and the sky Is like a field of faded flowers; The winds on weary wings go by; The moon hides, and the temptest lowers; And still through every clime and age I wander on a pilgrimage That all men know an idle quest, For that the goal I seek is—REST!

I hear the voice of summer streams, And, following, I find the brink Of cooling springs, with childish dreams Returning as I bend to drink— But suddenly, with startled eyes, My face looks on its grim disguise Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, I hasten on, nor taste of rest.

I come upon a merry group Of children in the dusky wood, Who answer back the owlet's whoop, That laughs as it had understood; And I would pause a little space, But that each happy blossom-face Is like to one His hands have blessed Who sent me forth in search of rest.

Sometimes I fain would stay my feet In shady lanes, where huddled kine Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, And lift their patient eyes to mine; But I, for thoughts that ever then Go back to Bethlehem again, Must needs fare on my weary quest, And weep for very need of rest.

Is there no end? I plead in vain: Lost worlds nor living answer me. Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign Have I not passed eternity? Have I not drank the fetid breath Of every fevered phase of death, And come unscathed through every pest And scourge and plague that promised rest?

Have I not seen the stars go out That shed their light o'er Galilee, And mighty kingdoms tossed about And crumbled clod-like in the sea? Dead ashes of dead ages blow And cover me like drifting snow, And time laughs on as 'twere a jest That I have any need of rest.



LONGFELLOW.

The winds have talked with him confidingly; The trees have whispered to him; and the night Hath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody: The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight— Her legends fair—her darkest mystery. His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.— Nor shall he cease to sing—in every lay Of Nature's voice he sings—and will alway.



JOHN MCKEEN.

John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish glee Of rhyming riddle, or story found In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound Old book of the Used-to-be!

John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!— To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone Out on election days!

John, ah, John! did it prove your worth To yield you the office you still maintain? To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth Of all the happier things on earth To the hunger of heart and brain?

Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded span Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,— Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man?

The blinds of your mansion are battened to; Your faded wife is a close recluse; And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do Dutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose!—

But O for the old-home voices, blent With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes!



THEIR SWEET SORROW.

They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say.— He holds her hand an instant, wholly Distressed—and she unclasps it slowly.

He bends his gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks—"Quick! Act! Speak up!" A tension circles both her slender Wrists—and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own.— Then, blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly—and "Never! Never!"

Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh,— While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.



SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S.

Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, And cooked 'em on our stove one day When our hired girl she said I may.

Honey's the goodest thing—Oo-ooh! And blackberry-pies is goodest, too! But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet!

Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,—an' She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!— An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face— An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'!

I ruther go to the Circus-show; But, 'cause my parunts told me so, I ruther go to the Sund'y School, 'Cause there I learn the goldun rule.

Say, Pa,—what is the goldun rule 'At's allus at the Sund'y School?



MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME.

They called him Mr. What's-his-name: From where he was, or why he came, Or when, or what he found to do, Nobody in the city knew.

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone In a low hovel of his own; There cooked his meals and made his bed, Careless of all his neighbors said.

His neighbors, too, said many things Expressive of grave wonderings, Since none of them had ever been Within his doors, or peered therein.

In fact, grown watchful, they became Assured that Mr. What's-his-name Was up to something wrong—indeed, Small doubt of it, we all agreed.

At night were heard strange noises there, When honest people everywhere Had long retired; and his light Was often seen to burn all night.

He left his house but seldom—then Would always hurry back again, As though he feared some stranger's knock, Finding him gone, might burst the lock.

Beside, he carried, every day, At the one hour he went away, A basket, with the contents hid Beneath its woven willow lid.

And so we grew to greatly blame This wary Mr. What's-his-name, And look on him with such distrust His actions seemed to sanction just.

But when he died—he died one day— Dropped in the street while on his way To that old wretched hut of his— You'll think it strange—perhaps it is—

But when we lifted him, and past The threshold of his home at last, No man of all the crowd but stepped With reverence,—Aye, quailed and wept!

What was it? Just a shriek of pain I pray to never hear again— A withered woman, old and bowed, That fell and crawled and cried aloud—

And kissed the dead man's matted hair— Lifted his face and kissed him there— Called to him, as she clutched his hand, In words no one could understand.

Insane? Yes.—Well, we, searching, found An unsigned letter, in a round Free hand, within the dead man's breast: "Look to my mother—I'm at rest.

You'll find my money safely hid Under the lining of the lid Of my work-basket. It is hers, And God will bless her ministers!"

And some day—though he died unknown— If through the City by the Throne I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame, I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name.



WHEN AGE COMES ON.

When Age comes on!— "The deepening dusk is where the dawn Once glittered splendid, and the dew In honey-drips, from red rose-lips Was kissed away by me and you.— And now across the frosty lawn Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on— And Age comes on! And biting wild-winds whistle through Our tattered hopes—and Age comes on!

When Age comes on!— O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, Flow back in summer-floods, and fling Here at our feet our childhood sweet, And all the songs we used to sing! . . . Old loves, old friends—all dead and gone— Our old faith lost—and Age comes on— And Age comes on! Poor hearts! have we not anything But longings left when Age comes on?



ENVOY.

Just as of old! The world rolls on and on; The day dies into night—night into dawn— Dawn into dusk—through centuries untold.— Just as of old.

Time loiters not. The river ever flows, Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows; Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold: Just as of old.

Lo! where is the beginning, where the end Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend!— God answers with a silence of pure gold— Just as of old.