Nay, love, do not look so sad; It is over, the doubt and the pain; Hark! sweet, to the song of the fire, And the whisper of the rain.



STEPS WE CLIMB.

I.

Like idle clouds our lives move on, By change and chance as idly blown; Our hopes like netted sparrows fly, And vainly beat their wings and die. Fate conquers all with stony will, Oh, heart, be still—be still!

II.

No! change and chance are slaves that wait On Him who guides the clouds, not fate, But the High King rules seas and sun, He conquers, He, the Mighty One. So powerless, 'neath that changeless will, Oh, heart, be still—be still!

III.

As a young bird fallen from its nest Beats wildly the kind hand against That lifts it up, so tremblingly Our hearts lie in God's hand, as He Uplifts them by His loving will, Oh, heart, be still—be still!

IV.

Uplifts them to a perfect peace, A rest beyond all earthly ease, 'Neath the white shadow of the throne— Low nest forever overshone By tenderest love, our Lord's dear will; Oh, heart, be still—be still!



SQUIRE PERCY'S PRIDE.

The Squire was none of your common men Whose ancestors nobody knows, But visible was his lineage In the lines of his Roman nose, That turned in the true patrician curve— In the curl of his princely lips, In his slightly insolent eyelids, In his pointed finger-tips.

Very erect and grand looked the Squire As he walked o'er his broad estate, For he felt that the earth was honored In bearing his honorable weight; Proudly he strolled through his wooded park Deer-haunted and gloomily grand, Or gazed from his pillared porticoes On his far-outlying land.

In a tiny whitewashed cottage, Half-covered with roses wild, His cheerful-faced old gardener dwelt Alone with his motherless child; The Squire owned the very floor he trod, The grass in his garden lot, The poor man had only this one little lamb Yet he envied the rich man not.

Poor was the gardener, yet rich withal In this priceless pearl of a girl, So perfect a form, so faultless a face Never brightened the halls of an Earl; Her eyes were two fathomless stars of light, And they shone on the Squire day by day, Till their warm and perilous splendor So melted his pride away,

That he fain would have taken this pretty pet lamb To dwell in his stately fold, To fetter it fast with a jeweled chain, And cage it with bars of gold; But this coy little lamb loved its freedom, Not so free was she, though, to be true, But, oh, the dainty and shy little lamb Well her master's voice she knew.

'Twas vain for the Squire the story to tell Of his riches and high descent, As it fell into one rosy shell of an ear Out of its mate it went; How one grim old ancestor into the land With William the Conqueror came, She thought, the sweet, of a conqueror She knew with that very name.

So in this tender conflict The great man was forced to yield To the handsome, sunburnt ploughman Who sowed and reaped in his field; For vainly he poured out his glittering gifts, Vainly he plead and besought, Her heart was a tender and soft little heart, But it was not a heart to be bought.

So strange a thing I warrant you Happens not every day, That the pride that had thriven for centuries One slight little maiden should slay; Why the proud Squire's Roman features Quivered and burned with shame, And the picture of his grim ancestor Blushed in its antique frame.

Were this a romance, an idle tale, The Squire would sicken and die, Slain by the pitiless cruelty, Of her dark and dazzling eye; And she in some shadowy convent Would bow her beautiful head, But the hand that should have told penitent beads Wore a plain gold ring instead.

And he, not twice had his oak trees bloomed Ere he wedded a lady grand, Whose tall and towering family tree, Had for ages darkened the land; 'Twas a famous genealogical tree, With no modernly thrifty shoots, But a tree with a sap of royalty Encrusting its mossy old roots.

This leaf he plucked from the outmost twig Was somewhat withered, 'tis true, Long years had flown since it lightly danced To the summer air and the dew; Not much of a dowry brought she, In beauty or vulgar pelf, But she had two or three ancestors More than the Squire himself.

'Twas much to muse o'er their musty names, And to think that his children's brains Should be moved by the sanguine current, That had flown through such ancient veins; But I think, sometimes, in his secret heart, The Squire breathed woeful sighs For the fresh sweet face of the little maid, With the dark and wonderful eyes.

But she, no bird ever sang such songs To its mate from contented nest, As this wee waiting wife, when the twilight Was treading the glorious west; As she looked through the clustering roses, For the manly form that would come Up through the cool green evening fields To this sweet little wife and home.

She could see the great stone mansion Towering over the oaks' dark green, And the lawn like emerald velvet, Fit for the feet of a queen; But round this brown-eyed princess, Did Love his ermine fold, Queen was she of a richer realm, She had dearer wealth than gold.



ROSES OF JUNE.

She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet, White royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

And one is clasped in her slender hand, and one on her bosom lies, And two rare blushing buds loop up her light brown hair, Ah, roses of June, you never looked on a face so white and fair, Such perfectly moulded lips, such sweet and heavenly eyes.

This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day From the lordly groves of her palace home afar, But not to stay; there's a light on her brow like the light of a star, And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.

She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of spring, And grew with its flowers, the fairest blossom of all, Till her friends ambitiously said she would grace the kingliest hall, And flattery breathed on her ear its passionate whispering.

A man of riches and taste saw the maiden's face, And thought her beauty would grace his stately southern home, So he took her there, with pictures from France, and statues from Rome, And marvellous works of art from many an ancient place.

He decked her in costly attire, and showed her beauty with pride As for sympathy and love, what need of these had she? He had placed her amidst the choicest treasures of land and sea, His marble Hebe never complained, and why should his bride?

He had polished the beautiful unknown gem and set it in gold, He had given her his name and his wealth, what more could she ask? When all other gifts were hers, it were surely an easy task Her pleading spirit's restless wings to fold.

The wise world called her blest, so heart be still, She had beauty, and splendor, and youth, and a husband calmly kind, And crowds of flattering friends her lofty mansion lined, And dark-browed slaves awaited her queenly will.

Why should she dream of the past, of the days of old, Of her childhood home, and more oft of the home of the dead, Of the grave where she went alone the night before she was wed, And knelt, with her pure cheek pressed to the marble cold?

It was not sin, she said, that those eyes of darkest blue Haunted her dreams more wildly from day to day, Since they looked on Heaven now, and she was so far away, She could love the dead and still be to the living true.

She could think of him, the one who loved her best, Of him who true had been if all the world deceived, Who felt all grief with her when she was grieved, And shared each joy that thrilled her girlish breast.

It was not sin that she heard that voice, gentle and deep, And the echo of a name—it was cut in marble now— So it was not sin, she said, as she breathed it low In the midnight hour when all but she were asleep.

But she wearier grew of pride and pomp, like a home sick child she pined, And paler grew her cheek, as worn with a wearing pain, She said the fresh free country air would seem so sweet again, So she went to her childhood home, as a pilgrim goes to a shrine,

And she looked down the orchard path and the meadow's clover bloom; She stood by the stone-walled well that had mirrored her face when a child, She saw where the robins built, and her roses clambered wild, And lingered lost in thought in each low and rustic room.

And she sat in the cottage door while the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face, and sweet As the roses wet with dew that grew so thick at her feet, White, royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

But at night, when silence and sleep on the lonely hamlet fell Like a spirit clad in white through the graveyard gate she passed, And the stars bent down to hear, "I have come to you, love, at last," While through the valley solemnly sounded the midnight bell.

And her southern birds will wait her coming in vain, Their starry eyes impatiently pierce the palm-trees' shade, And her roses droop in their bowers, alone they'll wither and fade. Roses of June you are gone, but we know you will blossom again.



MAGDALENA.

Who falsely called thee destroyer, still white Angel of Death? Oh not a destroyer here, but a kind restorer, thou, For the guilty look is gone, died out with her failing breath, And the sinless peace of a babe has come to lip and brow.

Drowned in the heaving tide with her life, is her burden of woe, The dreary weight of sin, the woeful, troublesome years, The cold pure touch of the water has washed the shame from her brow Leaving a calm immortal, that looks like the chrism of peace.

I fancy her smile was like this, as she pulled at her mother's gown Drawing her out with childish fingers to watch the red of the skies On the old brown doorstep of home, while the peaceful sun went down, With her mother's hand on her brow, and the glow of the west in her eyes.

"An outcast vile and lost," you say, yes, she went astray, Astray, when the crimson wine of life ran fresh and wild, With mother's tender hand no more on her brow, put away The grasses beneath, and she was alone and almost a child.

Like a kid decoyed to its death, the stealthy panther lures, Mocking the voice of its dam, thus he led the innocent child Through her tenderness down to ruin, he is a friend of yours, And admired by all; as you say, "men will be wild."

But I wonder if God, so far above on His great white throne The clanging tumult of trouble and doubt that mortals vex; When the murmur of a crime sweeps up from earth with woeful moan, If He pauses, ere He condemns, to ask the offender's sex.

And if so, whether the weaker or stronger He blames the most, The tempter or tempted a tithe of His tender compassion claims, Whether the selfish or too unselfish, those who through love or lust are lost, He in His infinite wisdom and mercy most condemns.

Frown not, I know her evil our womanly nature shuns, Turns from, with shuddering horror; but now so low is her head For God's sake, woman, remember your own little ones Lying safely at home in their snow-white sheltered bed.

Your own little girls, for them does the flame of your anger burn, "Such creatures will draw down innocence into guilt and woe." I think from eternity vast she will scarcely return To entice them to sin, you can safely forgive her now.

"You will not countenance wrong, but fiercely war for the right Even unto the bitter death." Very good, you should do so, But, my friend, if your own secret thought had blossomed to light In temptation, you might have been in this outcast's place, you know.

So let us be pitiful, grateful that God's strong hand Has held our own, and the tale of a woman's despair And penitent sin, He stooped and wrote in the perishing sand; We carve the record in stone, weak, sinful souls that we are.

In the arms of the kind all-mother, but close to the sorrowful wave, With its voice no longer moaning to her a despairing call, But a dirge deploring and deep; we will make her grave, With healing grasses above her, and God over all.



MY ANGEL.

Last night she came unto me, And kneeling by my side, Laid her head upon my bosom, My beautiful, my bride; My lost one, with her soft dark eyes, And waves of sunny hair. I smoothed the shining tresses, With tearful, fond caresses, And words of thankful prayer.

And then a thrill of doubt and pain, My jealous heart swept o'er; We were parted—she was dwelling Upon a far-off shore; Yet He who made my sad heart, knew I loved her more and more; My love more true and perfect grew, As each dark day passed o'er; But she whose heart had been my own, Who loved me tenderly, Whose last low words I knelt to hear, Were, "How can I leave thee?"

And "Death would seem as sweet as life, Could we together be." Now, though we two were parted By such a distance wide, By such a strange and viewless realm, By such a boundless tide, Her gentle face was radiant With a surpassing bliss; She was happier in that distant land, Than she ever was in this. And in some other tenderness, Some other love divine, She had found a peace and happiness, She never found in mine.

So with a tender chiding, I could not quite suppress, Though well my darling knew I would not make her pleasures less. "Are you happy, love?" I said, "Are you happy, love, without me?" Then she raised her gentle head, And twined her arms about me; Yet while my tears fell faster, Beneath her mute caress, Her face had all the glory Of a sainted soul at rest; And her voice was sweet as music, "I am happy—I am blest."

"Do you know how lonely-hearted I have been each weary day, Praying that each passing hour Would bear my life away, That we might be united Upon that distant shore?"

"Laurence, we are not parted, I am with your evermore."

"I cannot see you, darling, Your face I cannot see."

"Can you see the moon's white fingers, That leads the pleading sea? Can you see the fragrance lingering Where summer roses be? The soft winds tender clasping, The close-enwrapping air Enfolding you—Oh, Laurence, I am with you everywhere."

Then while her face grew brighter As with a heavenly glow, In tenderness unspeakable, She kissed my lips and brow; Then I lost her—then she left me, As at the set of day The snowy clouds float outward, And melt in light away. I heard low strains of melody No earthly choir could sing, A light breath floated past me, As from a gliding wing; And on my darkened spirit There fell so bright a gleam, I knew the blessed vision Was not in truth a dream; Though death had won from my embrace, My beautiful, my bride, I had won a richer treasure, An angel by my side.

The Father careth for us all In pity, and I know My love is not forever gone From him who loved her so; When a few more days have drifted Their shadows over me, When the golden gates are lifted, My angel I shall see; Her veiled face in its glory Upon my gaze will rise, And Heaven will shine upon me Through the sweetness of her eyes.



GRIEF.

What though the Eden morns were sweet with song Passing all sweetness that our thought can reach; Crushing its flowers noon's chariot moved along In brightness far transcending mortal speech; Yet in the twilight shades did God appear, Oh welcome shadows so that He draw near.

Prosperity is flushed with Papal ease And grants indulgences to pride of word, Robing our soul in pomp and vanities, Ah! no fit dwelling for our gentle Lord; Grief rends those draperies of pride and sin, And so our Lord will deign to enter in.

Then carefully we curb each thought of wrong, We walk more softly, with more reverent feet— As in His presence chamber, hush our tongue, And in the holy quiet, solemn, sweet, We feel His smile, we hear His voice so low, So we can bless Him that He gave us woe.

What cares the sailor in the sheltered cove For the past peril of the stormy sea; Dear from grief's storm the haven of His love, And so He bringeth us where we would be; We trust in Him, we lean upon His breast, Who shall make trouble when He giveth rest?



WILD OATS.

Oh gay young husbandmen would you be sure of a crop Upspringing rankly, an abundant and bountiful yield? Go forth in the morning, and sow on your life's broad field This pleasantly odorous seed, then smooth the ground on top, Or leave it rough, with the utmost undeceit, Never you fear, it will thriftily thrive and grow, Loading the harvest plain beneath your feet, With the ripened sheaves of shame, remorse, and woe.

You have but to sow the seed, no care will it want, For he who soweth tares while the husbandman sleeps Taketh unwearied pains, a vigilant guard he keeps Tirelessly watching, and tending each evil plant. These are his pleasure gardens, leased to him through time Where he walketh to and fro, chanting a demon song; Tending with ghastly fingers, the scarlet buds of wrong, And drinking greedily in the sweet perfume of crime.

And of all the seeds, the one that thriftiest thrives Is the color of ruby wine, when it flashes high— Who would think the tiny seed so fair to the eye Could cast such a deadly shade over countless lives, And branch out into murder in one springing shoot; Thrifty branches of sin, bristling with thorns of woe Shadowing graves where broken hearts lie low, And minds that were God-like lowered beneath the brute.



AUTUMN.

How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood, What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air; A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depth of the silent wood, And in my heart was crying the raven of despair, Thrilling my being through with its bitter, bitter cry— "It were better to die, it were better to die."

For she, my love, my fate, she sat by my side On a fallen oak, her cheek all flushed with a bashful shame, Telling me what her innocent heart had hid— "For was not I her brother, her dear brother, all but in name." I listened to her low words, but turned my face away— Away from her eyes' soft light, and the mocking light of the day.

"He was noble and proud," she said, "and had chosen her from all The haughty ladies, and great; she didn't deserve her lot." I knew her peer could never be found in palace or hall, And my white face told my thought, but she saw it not. She was crushing some scarlet leaves in her dainty fingers of snow, Her maiden joy crowning her face with a radiant glow.

"She had wanted me to know," and then a smile and a blush; Her smile was always just like a baby's smile, and the red Came to her cheek at a word or a glance—then there fell a hush. She was waiting some word from me, I knew, so I said, "May Heaven bless you both"—words spoken full quietly, And she, God bless her, never knew how much they cost to me.

How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood, What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air; A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depths of the silent wood, And in my heart was crying the raven of despair, Thrilling my being through with its desolate, desolate cry— "It were better to die, it were better to die."

The white dawn follows the darkness; out of the years' decay Shineth the golden fire that gildeth the autumn with light; From another's sin and loss, cometh this good to me, By another's fall am I raised to this blissful height. "Let me be humble," said my heart, as from her sweet lips fell, "Let a prayer for him arise, with the sound of our marriage bell."



THE FAIREST LAND.

'Twas a bleak dull moor that stretched before The low stone porch of the cottage door, And standing there was youth and maid, He for long journeying seemed arrayed, And the sunset flamed in the burnished west, And a proud throb beat in the young man's breast, As he whispered, "Sweet, will you come to me In that fairer land beyond the sea?"

"The wonderful western land; in dreams I have seen its prairies green, and gleams Of its shining waterfalls, valleys fair, And a voice in my dreams has called me there Where man is a man, and not a clod, And must bend the knee to none but God. A home will I make for thee and me In that fairer land beyond the sea."

"But the cruel seas where the fated ships Go down to their doom"—But he kissed the lips— The trembling lips, till they smiled again, And his bright hopes cheered her heart's dull pain, And she laid her head on his hopeful breast, And looked with him to the glowing west, And said, "I will come, I will come to thee To that fairer land beyond the seas."

And the crimson light changed to daffodil— To ashen gray, but they stood there still, And high o'er the west shone the evening star As still he pictured that home afar— "The peace and the bliss our own at last When this dreary parting all is past, When my heart's dear love, you come to me In that fairer land beyond the sea."

So he sailed; but saddest 'tis alway Not for those who go, but for those who stay; And her sweet eyes gathered a shadow dim As days went by with no news of him, And weeks and months, but at last it came, As the gray moor shone with the sunset flame Her quick eyes glanced the strange lines o'er, Then she fell like dead on the cottage floor.

'Twas a stranded ship on a rocky coast, One true heart brave, when hope was lost, How he toiled till all the shore had gained, And only a baby form remained On ship, how he breasted the surging tide With Death a-wrestling side by side, How he lifted the child to its mother's knee, As a great wave washed him out to sea.

And for days the maid in the cottage door Sat and looked o'er the dreary moor, Her cheeks grew white 'neath her blinding tears, And the sunset rays seemed cruel spears That pierced her heart; and ashen gray Turned the earth and sky, the night, the day; But at last a star shone high above— The tender star of the heavenly love.

For as her life ebbed day by day, The High Countrie, the Fair alway, Rose 'fore her eyes, the safe, sweet home, And she seemed to hear, "Love, will you come?" And so one eve when a bridge of gold Seemed spanning the last sea dim and cold, She went to him, for aye to be In the fairest land beyond the sea.



THE MESSENGER.

Is his form hidden by some cliff or crag, Or does he loiter on the shelving shore? We know not, though we know he waits for us, Somewhere upon the road that lies before.

And when he bids us we must follow him, Must leave our half-drawn nets, our houses, lands, And those we love the most, and best, ah they In vain will cling to us with pleading hands!

He will not wait for us to gird our robes, And be they white as saints, or soiled and dim, We can but gather them around our form, And take his icy hand and follow him.

Oh! will our palm cling to another palm Loath, loath to loose our hold of love's warm grasp. Or shall we free our hand from the hand of grief, And reach it gladly out to meet his clasp?

Sometimes I marvel when we two shall meet, When I shall hear that stealthy step, and see The unseen form that haunteth mortal dreams, The stern-browed face, the eyes of mystery.

Shall I be waiting for some wished-for wealth, Impatient, by the shore of a purple sea? But when the vessel's keel grates on the sand, Will HE lean down its side and call to me?

Shall I in thymy pastures cool and sweet See the lark soaring through the rosy air? Ah, then, will his dark face look down on me, 'Neath the white splendor of the morning star.

Shall I be resting from the noonday blaze, In the rich summer of a blossoming land, And idly glancing through the lotus leaves, Behold the shadow of his beckoning hand?

Or in some inland village, shaded deep, With silence brooding o'er the quiet place, Shall I look from some lattice crowned with flowers, In the calm twilight and behold his face?

Or shall I over such a lonely way, Beset with fears, my weary footsteps wend, So desolate, that I shall greet his face With joy as a desired and welcome friend?

Oh, little matters it when we shall meet, Upon the quiet shore, or on the sea, If he shall lead us to the golden gate, Dear Lord, if he shall lead us unto Thee.



SLEEP.

Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams.

Bring the exile to his home again, Let him catch the gleam of its low white wall; Let his wife cling to his neck and weep, And his children come at their father's call.

Give to the mother the child she lost, Laid from her heart to a clay-cold bed; Let its breath float over her tear-wet cheek, And her cold heart warm 'neath its bright young head.

Take the sinner's hand and lead him back To his sinless youth and his mother's knee; Let him kneel again 'neath her tender look, And murmur the prayer of his infancy.

Lead the aged into that wondrous clime, Home of their youth and land of their bliss; Let them forget in that beautiful world, The sin and the sorrow of this.

And gently lead my love, my own, Tenderly clasp her snow-white hand, Wrap her in garments of soft repose, And lead her into your mystic land.

Let your fairest handmaids bow at her feet, Her path o'er your loveliest roses be; And let all the flowers with their perfumed lips Whisper of me—of me.

Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams.



THE SONG OF THE SIREN.

Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea, The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before; I stand a fairy shape upon the shadow of a cliff Where the water's drowsy ripple laps the phantom of a shore, And, oh, so fair, so fair am I, I draw all hearts to me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

All the glory of my golden tresses gleams upon the air, How it falls about my snowy shoulders, round and bare and white; My lips are full of love as rounded grapes are full of wine, And my eyes are large and languid, and full of dewy light; Oh, I lure the idle landsmen many a league for love of me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

Sometimes they press so near that my breath is on their cheek, And their eager hands can almost touch the glowing bowl I bear, They can see the beaded froth, the ruby glitter of the wine, Then I slip from their embraces like a breath of summer air; Oh, I lightly, lightly glide away, they come no nigher me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

Sometimes I float along a-standing in a boat, Before the ships becalmed, where dusky sailors stand, And the helmsman drops his oar, and the lookout leaves his glass, So I beckon them, and lure them, with the whiteness of my hand; Oh, this the song I sing, well they listen unto me? For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

Would you from toil and labor flee, Oh float ye out on this wonderful sea, From islands of spice the zephyrs blow, Swaying the galleys to and fro; Silken sails and a balmy breeze Shall waft you unto a perfect ease.

Fold your hands and rest, and rest, The sun sails on from the east to the west, The days will come, and the days will go, What good can man for his labor show In passionless peace, come float with me Over the waves of this wonderful sea.

Would you forget, oh sorrowful soul, Come and drink of this golden bowl, With jewelled poppies about the rim, Drink of the wine that flushes its brim, And drown all your haunting memories there, Your woe and your weary care.

Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea, The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before; Oh, the mystic music ripples, how they break in rosy spray, But the crystal wave will mock them, they will reach it nevermore, For it glides away, I glide away, they come no nigher me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.



EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO.

I.

There's a tear in your eye, little Sybil, Gathering large and slow; Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil, What are you thinking of now?

Push back the velvet curtains That darken the lonely room, For shadows peer out of the crimson depths, And the statues gleam white in the gloom.

How the cannons' thunder rolls along, And shakes the lattice and wall, Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil, What if your father should fall?

The smoky clouds sweep up from the field And darken the earth and sea, "God save him! God save him!" Wherever he may be.

II.

Oh, pretty dark-eyed bird of the South, With your face so mournful and white There is many a little Northern girl That is breathing that prayer to-night.

There's a little girl on the hills of Maine Looking out through the fading light, She looks down the winding path, and says, "He will surely come to-night!"

The table is set, the lamp is trimmed, The fire has a ruddy glow That streams like a beacon down the path, To the dusky valley below.

There is smiling hope on the pretty face Pressed so close to the pane, And her eyes are like blue violets After a summer rain.

III.

How you tremble, little Sybil, At the cannons' dreadful sound, Did you see far away, the fallen steed, And its rider prone on the ground?

The dark brown locks so low in the dust, The scarf with a crimson stain— Oh, Sybil, poor little Sybil, He will not come back again.

IV.

Right gallantly and well he fought Hand to hand with as brave a foe, Their faces hid by the nodding plumes, And the dense clouds hanging low.

Did they think, these hot-blooded captains, That Death was so close by their side, When Howard has fallen, the bravest— Rung out on the air far and wide.

"Howard?" His foeman kneels by his side, And raises his head to his knee— Oh, God! that brothers should part in youth, And thus should their meeting be.

Unheard is the deafening battle roar, Unseen is that dying look; He hears but the sound of a childish laugh, And the song of a Northern brook.

He sees two white forms kneeling In the twilight sweet and dim, One low couch angel-guarded, By a mother's evening hymn.

V.

The Angel of Death came down with the night, Came down with the gathering gloom; God pity the little dark-eyed girl, Alone in the lonely room.

But still by his side his brother kneels, Chill horror has frozen his veins; He heeds not the glancing shower of shells, That with red fire glitters and rains.

And he heeds not the fiery cavalry charge, That sweeps like a billow on To death, oh, the bravest and saddest sight, That man ever gazed upon!

The last shot! What is one life To the battle's gory gain? But, alas, for the little blue-eyed maid Away on the hills of Maine!



AWEARY.

The clouds that vex the upper deep Stay not the white sail of the moon; And lips may moan, and hearts may weep, The sad old earth goes rolling on.

O'er smiling vale, and sighing lake, One shadow cold is overthrown; And souls may faint, and hearts may break, The sad old earth goes rolling on.



TOO LOW.

"My house is thatched with violet leaves And paved with daisies fine, Scarlet berries droop over its eaves, Tall grasses round it shine; With softest down I have lined my nest, Securely now will I sit and rest.

"When their wings break from their silvery shell, Touched by my tender care, Here shall my little ones safely dwell, Little ones soft and fair; Some summer morn they shall try their wings While their father sits by my side and sings."

Hard by, just over the streamlet's edge A great rock towered in might, High up, half hidden in moss and sedge, Were safe little nooks and bright; Ah well for the bird with her tender breast, Had she flown to the rock to build her nest!

Poor bird, she built her nest too low; Alas! for the bird, alas! That she chose that spot to her woe In the low dewy grass; For the reaper came with his gleaming blade. Alas for love in the violet shade!



AT LAST.

What though upon a wintry sea our life bark sails, What though we tremble 'neath its cruel gales, Its icy blast; We see a happy port lie far before, We see its shining waves, its sunny shore, Where we shall wander, and forget the troubled past, At last.

No storms approach that quiet shore, no night Falls on its silver streams, and valleys bright, And gardens vast; Within that pleasant land of perfect peace Our toil-worn feet shall stay, our wanderings cease; There shall we, resting, all forget the past, At last.

The sorrows we have hid in silent weariness, As birds above a wounded, bleeding breast, Their bright plumes cast; The griefs like mourners in a dark array, That haunt our footsteps here, will flee away, And leave us to forget the sorrowful past, At last.

Voices we loved sound from those far-off lands, And thrill our hearts; life's golden sands Are dropping fast; Soon shall we meet by the river of peace, and say, As the night flees before the eye of day, So faded from our eyes the mournful past, At last.



TWILIGHT.

Draped in shadows stands the mountain Against the eastern sky, Above it the fair summer moon Looks downward tenderly; And Venus in the glowing west, Opens her languid eye.

Now the winds breathe softer music, Half a song, and half a sigh; While twilight wraps her purple veil Around us silently, And our thoughts appear like pictures, Pictures shaded wondrously.

Quiet landscapes, sweet and lonely, Silvery sea, and shadowy glade, Forest lakes by man forsaken, Where the white fawn's steps are stayed; And contadinos straying 'Neath the Pantheon's solemn shade.

And we see the wave bridged over By the moonlight's mystic link, Desert wells by tall palms shaded, Where dusky camels drink; While dark-eyed Arab maidens Fill their pitchers at the brink.

And secluded convent chapels, Where veiled nuns kneel to pray, With a dim light streaming o'er them Through arches quaint and gray, While down the long and winding aisles Low music dies away.

There is a starry twilight Of the soul, as sadly fair, When our wild emotions are at rest, Like the pale nuns at prayer; And our griefs are hushed like sleepers, And put off the robes of care.



THE SEWING-GIRL.

I asked to see the dead man's face, As I gave the servant my well-filled basket; And she deigned to lead me, a wondrous grace, Where he lay asleep in his rosewood casket. I was only the sewing-girl, and he the heir to this princely palace. Flowers, white flowers, everywhere, In odorous cross, and anchor, and chalice. The smallest leaf might touch his hair; But I—my God! I must stand apart, With my hands pressed silently on my heart, I must not touch the least brown curl; For I was only the sewing-girl.

If his stately mother knew what I know, As she weeping stood by his side this morning, Would she clasp me in motherly love and woe— Or drive me out in the cold with scorning? If she knew that I loved him better than life, Better than death; since for him I gave My hopes of rest, that I faced life's strife, And renounced the quiet and restful grave, When his strong, true hand drew me back that day, When woe, and want, and the want of pity Drove me down where the cold waves lay Like wolves round the walls of this cruel city. "Not much?" would she say with her proud lip's curl— "Only the life of a sewing-girl?"

Now love for me in his heart did linger— I saw the lady, his promised bride, I saw his ring on her slender finger, As she weeping stood by his mother's side. That same ring shone, as he lifted me Dripping and cold from the sea-waves bitter. I had thought Heaven's light I next should see, But earth's sun shone in its ruby glitter; I had thought when I looked in the Lord's mild face, That He would forgive my rashness and sin, When He knew there was not a single place, Not a place so small that I could creep in. And I wanted a home, and I longed for love, And God and mother were both above. But he showed me my sin, and taught me to live, Above this life of tumult and whirl, Though I was only a sewing-girl.

What shall I do with the life he won, From death that day, in a hard-won battle? Shall I lay it down e'er the rising sun Looks down on the city's roar and rattle? Shall I lay it down e'er the midnight dim With horrible shadows is roofed and paved? No, I will make it so pure and sweet, That angels shall say with smiles to him, When we meet above on the golden street: "Behold the soul of her you saved." Maybe it shall add to his crown one pearl, Though only the soul of a sewing-girl.



HARRY THE FIRST.

In his arm-chair, warmly cushioned, In the quiet earned by labor, Life's reposeful Indian summer, Grandpa sits; and lets the paper Lie upon his knee unheeded. Shine his cheeks like winter apples, Gleams his smile like autumn sunshine, As he looks on little Harry, First-born of the house of Graham, Bravely cutting teeth in silence, Cutting teeth with looks heroic. Some deep thought seems moving Grandpa, Ponders he awhile in silence, Then he turns, and says to Grandma, "Nancy, do you think that ever There was such a child before?"

Grandma, with prim precision The seam-stitch impaleth deftly On her sharp and glittering needle, Then she turns and answers calmly, With a deep assurance—"Never Was there such a child before!"

Papa thinks so, but in manly Dignity controls his feelings; More than half a year a father, He must show a cool composure, He must stately be if ever. But his dark eyes plainly tell it, Tell it, as he sayeth proudly, "Papa's man is little Harry."

Mamma, maybe, does not speak it, But she prints the thought on velvet, Rosy-hued, with fondest kisses, When the pink, soft page is lying Folded closely to her bosom.

A little farther goes his auntie, Aged fourteen—age of fancy; She looks down the future ages With her wise, prophetic vision; Sees the babies pass before her, Babies of the twentieth century, All the long and dusty ages, To the thousand years of glory. Oh, the host of bright-eyed children, Thronging like the stars at midnight, Faces sweet and countless, as the Rose-leaves of a thousand summers. All the pretty heads so curly That shall hold a riper wisdom Than our youthful planet dreams of; All the ranks of dimple shoulders, That shall move Time's rolling chariot Nearer to the golden city; Vieweth these the blue-eyed prophet, Still the oracle says calmly, Speaks the seer with golden tresses— "No! there never was, nor will be Such a child as our Harry, Such a noble boy as Harry."

Summer brings a wealth of flowers, Flowers of every form and color, Orange, crimson, royal purple, All along the mountain passes, All along the pleasant valley, Low the emerald branches bendeth With their weight of summer glory.

But they do not waken in us Half the tender, blissful feeling, Half the pure and sweet emotion As the first spring-flower in April, With its lashes tinged with crimson, Partly raised from eyes half-timid, Fearful that the snow will drown it; How we love the dainty blossom, How we wear it in our bosom.

Just so with the tree ancestral, Many flowers may blossom on it, But the first wee bud that's grafted, To its heart, ah, how we love it; Others may be loved as fondly, But they are not loved so proudly, Loved so blindly, so entirely.

Yes, when first the heart's door opens To the touch of baby fingers, Quick the dimpled feet will bear them To the dearest place and warmest Plenty room enough for other Buds of beauty, buds of promise, In the heart's capacious chambers; But the first is firmly settled— Little Harry's firmly settled In the centre of affection; Later ones must settle round him.



THE CRIMINAL'S BETROTHED.

As on a waveless sea, a vessel strikes Upon a treacherous rock; Waking the sailors from their happy dreams By the swift, terrible shock.

Dreaming of shaded village streets, and home, Forgetting the cruel sea Till the shock came—so woke I, yet I know 'Twas Love, I loved, not he.

'Tis not the star the wave so wildly clasps, Only its form reflected in the stream; 'Tis not a broken heart I mourn, Only a broken dream.

I should have died when he was brought so low, Had it been him I loved, Died clinging to him, as to the blasted oak The ivy clings unmoved.

'Twas Love that looked on me with strange, sweet eyes Burning with marvellous flame; Love was the idol that I worshipped, though I gave to it his name.

I gave to Love his name, his glance, his brow, His low-toned voice, his smile, Oh, soul be patient; I can sever them But yet a little while—

Before I put away these outward forms Deceiving, sweet disguises, which Love wore Let my heart break into regretful tears Just once, and then no more.

Just once, as fond friends watch the fading sail Bearing away a guest of truest worth, They give this little time to grief, and then Return to their desolate hearth,

And build new fires, and gather dewy flowers, Let the pure air into the vacant room, So light, and bloom, and sweetness, all Shall penetrate its gloom.

I will be patient, in a little time Quiet, and full of rest, Gods's peace will come, and, like a soft-winged bird, Settle upon my breast.

Not always thus shall beat my restless heart Like a wild eagle 'gainst its prison-bars; In some calm twilight of the future time I will sit, calm-browed, underneath the stars.



GONE BEFORE.

Smooth the hair; Silken waves of sunny brown Lay upon the white brow down, Crowned with the blossoms rare; Lilies on a golden stream, Ne'er to float in summer air Wreathed with meadow daisies fair. Lay away the broken crown And your broken dream, With one shining tress of hair, Nevermore to need your care.



A WOMAN'S HEART.

My heart sings like a bird to-night That flies to its nest in the soft twilight, And sings in its brooding bliss; Ah! I so low, and he so high, What could he find to love? I cry, Did ever love stoop so low as this?

As a miser jealously counts his gold, I sit and dream of my wealth untold, From the curious world apart; Too sacred my joy for another eye, I treasure it tenderly, silently, And hide it away in my heart.

Dearer to me than the costliest crown That ever on queenly forehead shone Is the kiss he left on my brow; Would I change his smile for a royal gem? His love for a monarch's diadem? Change it? Ah, no, ah, no!

My heart sings like a bird to-night That flies away to its nest of light To brood o'er its living bliss; Ah! I so low, and he so high, What could he find to love? I cry, Did ever love stoop so low as this?



WARNING.

When enwrapped in rosy pleasure, Our careless pulses beat, With a rhythm sweet, sweet, To the music's merry measure.

When world waves rise around us, With soft transparent weight, Light in seeming, yet so great, The liquid chains have bound us.

Then softly downward falling, If we listen, we can hear, From a purer atmosphere, A warning and a calling.

'Tis not uttered to our ear, To our spirit it is spoken, In the wonderful, unbroken Heavenly speech that spirits hear.

Strange and solemn doth it roll Downward like a yearning cry, From that belfry far on high, Warning, calling to our soul.

Ever, ever, doth it roll, Our angel guards the tower, Ringing, ringing, every hour, Warning, calling to our soul.



GENIEVE TO HER LOVER.

I turn the key in this idle hour Of an ivory box, and looking, lo— See only dust—the dust of a flower; The waters will ebb, the waters will flow, And dreams will come, and dreams will go, Forever.

Oh, friend, if you and I should meet Beneath the boughs of the bending lime, Should you in the same low voice repeat The tender words of the old love rhyme, It could not bring back the same old time, Never.

When you laid this rose against my brow, I was quite unused to the ways of men, With my trusting heart; I am wiser now, So I smile, remembering my heart-throbs then, The dust of a rose cannot blossom again, Never.

The brow that you praised has colder grown, And hearts will change, I suppose they must, A rose to be lasting, should blossom in stone, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Dead are the rose, the love, and the trust, Forever.



THE WILD ROSE.

In a waste of yellow sand, on the brow of a dreary hill, A slight little slip of a rose struggled up to the light, The seed maybe was sown there by the south wind's idle will, But there it grew and blossomed, pale and white. Only one flower it bore, and that was frail and small, But I think it was brave to try to grow at all.

In groves of fair Cashmere, or sheltered garden of kings, Sweet with a thousand flowers, with birds of paradise Fanning her blushing cheeks with their glowing wings, Praising her deepening bloom with their great bright eyes, Life would have been a pleasure instead of a toil, To my pale little patient rose of the sandy soil.

Did she ever sadly think of her wasted life, Folding her wan weak hands so helpless and still; And the great oak by her sheltering glad bird life, And the thirsty meadows praising the running rill; She could hear the happy work-day song of the busy brook, While she, poor thing, could only stand and look.

Did the wee white rose ever think of her lonely life, That there were none to care if she tried to grow; None to care if the cloud that hung in the west Should burst, and scatter her pale leaves far and low? Did she ever wish that the heavy cloud would fall And hide her, so unblest, from the sight of all?

One sky bends o'er rich garden flowers, and those That dwell in barren soil, untended and unblest; And I think that God was pleased with the small white rose, That tried so patiently to live and do its best; That bravely kept its small leaves pure and fair On the waste of dreary sand, and the desert air.



OUR BIRD.

She lay asleep, and her face shone white As under a snowy veil, And the waxen hands clasped on her breast Were full of snowdrops pale; But a holy calm touched the baby lips, The brow, and the sleeping eyes, The look of an angel pitying us From the peace of Paradise.

And now though she lies 'neath the coffin-lid, We cannot think her dead; But we think of her as of some delicate bird To a milder country fled. 'Twas a long, dark flight for our gentle dove, Our bird so tender and fair; But we know she has reached the summer land And folded her white wings there.



THE TIME THAT IS TO BE.

I am thinking of fern forests that once did towering stand, Crowning all the barren mountains, shading all the dreary land.

Oh, the dreadful, quiet brooding, the solitude sublime, That reigned like shadowy spectres o'er the third great day of time.

In long, low lines the tideless seas on dull gray shores did break, No song of bird, no gleam of wing, o'er wood or reedy lake—

No flowers perfumed the pulseless air, no stars, no moon, no sun To tell in silver language, night was past, or day was done.

Only silence rising with the ghostly morning's misty light, Silence, silence, settling down upon the moonless, starless night.

And the ferns, and giant mosses, noiseless sentinels did stand, Looking o'er the tideless ocean, watching o'er the dreary land.

Ferns gave place to glowing olives, and clusters dropping wine, Mosses changed to oaken tissues, and cleft to fragrant pine.

Deft and noiseless fingers toiled, and wrought the great Creator's plan, Through countless ages moulding earth for the abode of man.

Till each imperial day was bound by sunset's crimson bars, The purple columns of the night crowned with the shining stars.

The ripe fruit seeks the sunlight through all the clustering leaves The earth is decked with golden maize, and costly yellow sheaves.

Countless silent centuries passed in fashioning good that doth appear, Shall we weary and grow hopeless, waiting for the Golden Year?

* * * * *

Thy kingdom come, in which Thy will is done, From myriad souls rises the yearning cry; Scatter palm-boughs—behold, a brighter sun Shall dawn in splendor, in a clearer sky; Upon the distant hills a glow we see, That tells us of the Time that is to be.

The desert then shall blossom like the rose, The almond flourish on the rocky slopes; Wisdom and beauty in rare union close, Making earth beautiful beyond our hopes. High in the dusky east a star we see, A herald of the Time that is to be.

The free-born soul shall not be captive then, Bound by decaying cords of narrow creeds, God's image shall more clearly shine in men, Divinely shaped by holy aims and deeds. Gleam, golden star, oh gleam o'er earth and sea, A herald of the Time that is to be.

Fetters are broken, so the fern-leaves fall, A richer growth is budding, wondrous fair, The flower of liberty shall bloom for all, And all shall breathe the healing of the air; The blessed air that wraps a people free, Within that glorious Time that is to be.

For what is slavery but woe and crime, And freedom is but liberty from these; Oh perfect hours, ye come, fair and sublime, Bearing the sweet form of the baby, Peace, Shine, golden star, oh shine o'er earth and sea, A herald of the Time that is to be.

THE END