WHAT THE OWL SAID TO ME.

The moon went under a ragged cloud, The owl cried out of the ruined wall, Slow and solemn, distinct and loud, His melancholy call: Tu-whit, tu-whit, tu-whoo! Like a creature in a shroud.

Across the night in a silver chain, While a lonesome wind arose and died, Slow stepped the ghostly feet of the rain; The owl from the wall replied: Tu-whit, tu-whoo, hoo-hoo' With a peal of goblin laughter, And silence fell thereafter.

Weird fingers of the wandering rain, Reaching out of the hollow dark, Paused and tapped at my window-pane,— A muffled voice cried, Hark! Tu-whit, tu-whit, tu-whoo! The moon is drowned in the dark, And the world belongs to me and you!



OUR VOLUNTEERS.

Where shall we write your names, ye brave! Where build for you a monument, Who lie in many a sylvan grave, Stretched half across the continent! Young, bright and brave, the very flower And choice of all we had to give, With you what glory ceased to live,— Or lives again in hearts of men. An inspiration and a power!

For when one sunny day in June, A sudden war-cry shook the land, As if from out clear skies at noon Had dropped the lightning's deadly brand— Ah then, while rang our British cheers, And pealed the bugle, rolled the drum, We saw the Nation rise like one! Swift formed the files,—a thousand miles Of them, our gallant Volunteers!

Deep clanged the bells, the drums did beat, And still from east and west they came; Echoed the street with martial feet, From north, from south, with hearts aflame: Ah, still the tires of freedom burn,— Be witness, Ridgway's silent shade, No foe shall dare our land invade, While hearts like those that met the foes, Still beat like theirs,—the undismayed, The brave, who never will return.

Our Country holds them in her heart, Shrined with her mountains and her rivers; And still for them her proud lip quivers, And tears to her great eyelids start: But they are tears of love and pride, And she shall tell to coming years The story of her Volunteers, For all their names are hers and fame's— The brave who live, the brave who died.



NIGHT,—A PHANTASY

Night! the horrible wizard Night! The dumb and terrible Night Hath drawn his circle of magic, round Over the sky, and over the ground, Without a sound. Ah me, what woeful phantoms rise, With ice-cold hands and pitiless eyes, As stars grow out of the summer skies, Tangible things to mortal sight, Under the hands of the wizard Night!

Night! the mystical prophet, Night! The haunted and awful Night! With the trail of his garment's shadowy fall, Soundless and black as a funeral pall, Now enters his dread laboratory. A wan, and faint, and wavering glory Shines from a veiled lamp somewhere hidden. Like a lily in a grave: And things unholy, and things forbidden,— Hands that have long been the earth-worm's prey, And shrouded faces out of the clay. Rise and fill the enchanted cave With a pale and deathly light,— The haunted and awful Night!

Night! the abhorred magician Night! The black astrologer Night! Night is the world!—I shiver with fright:— The air is full of evil things, The coil and glitter of snaky rings, And, the tremor of vast invisible wings, That are not heard but felt: They touch my hair, my hand, my cheek, They mope and mouth, but they never speak To utter their awful history. Oh, when will the darkness break and melt, Like blocks of ice on a golden reef, And little by little, as leaf by leaf, In light and color and form increased, The rose of morning blooms in the east,— The old yet ever new mystery! And I fall on my knees to worship the light That casts out the evil demon of Night, And hallows with blossoms, like prayers, the way Of another new day.



A MONODY

On the early and lamented death of George and Maggie Rosseaux, brother and sister, who died within one week of each other in the autumn of 1875. Young, beautiful and beloved, they were indeed lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided.

Pace slowly, black horses, step stately and solemn— One by one—two by two—stretches out the long column; Pass on with your burden, the sound of our tears Will not reach the deaf ears.

Beneath the black shadow of funeral arches, Stepping slow to the rhythm of funeral marches; Pass on down the street where their steps were so gay, And so light, yesterday.

Where it seems if we turn we shall clasp them and hold them, Our hands shall embrace—and our eyes shall behold them,— So near are the confines of hither, and yonder,— So world-wide asunder!

Oh, lovers and friends! ye were youth and glad weather, And beauty and strength, and all bright things together, With the smile on your lips, and the flower at your breast Have ye gone to your rest.

The dull lives of others move on, while the splendid Beginnings of yours are all broken and ended, The high hopes, the bright dreams, and youth's confident trust, Gone down to the dust.

Step slowly, black steeds, at the head of the column, Breathe softly, dead marches, so mournfully solemn; Ye bear from our sight what no morn shall restore Nevermore, nevermore.

Oh, beloved—oh, wept for!—beyond the dark river Are the lives incomplete, there made perfect forever? Oh, wave but a hand through the darkness, to tell It is well with ye—well.

Profound is the darkness—the silence unbroken— No glimmer of pale hatreds comes back as a token: Yet still in our hearts we have heard the words spoken:— "He hath overcome death—He hath passed through the grave— He is able to save."



MINNIE

"And Jesu called a little child unto him." MATT. xviii. 2.

Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are cold! Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould! Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair, And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair.

Cold and dark are the night dews around thy grassy bed, Instead of warm and loving arms beneath thy sunny head; Oh, my blossom, my darling, the long nights through, awake, I stretch my empty arms for thee,—my heart—my heart will break.

The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill, The soft October sun is bright, but the little hands are still; And the little feet that chased them as frolicksome and light, Have lain beneath them—can it be?—a whole day and a night.

The autumn winds will sigh and moan; the dreary, dreary rain Will drench thy lowly pillow, sweet, with tears like mine in vain; And weary, weary months drag on, and long years stretch before, Whilst thou to me, my beautiful, returnest nevermore.

Beyond our earthly vision—beyond the burial sod, Where the palm trees and the amaranths grow on the hills of God, Oh, golden gates, that stand within the holy, heavenly place, Open for me but a little, that I may behold her face.

Open for me but a little, that I may touch her hand, And hear her sing the hymn she loved about "The Promised Land." Oh, my blossom! Oh, my darling! though it be but in a dream, Speak to me,—I watch—I listen,—speak to me across the stream.

Kneeling—praying at the threshold—day and night, and night and day, When I rise with heavy eyelids—when I kneel at night to pray— Still I wait to catch the far-off music of they starry hymn, Till I hear the voice that called thee bid me rise and enter in.



THE GOLDEN WEDDING.

Inscribed to OUR FATHER AND MOTHER, and read on that Anniversary, FEBRUARY 15TH, 1876.

A half a century of time, The mingled pain and bliss That make the history of life Between that day and this; Two lives that in that morning light, Together were made one, Now standing where the shadows fall Athwart the setting sun.

How long it seems!—the devious way. And full of toil and pain,— Yet love and peace kept house with them, And love and peace remain. Though youth and strength and youthful friends Were left upon the road Long since, an honest man is still The noblest work of God.

No famous deeds, no acts achieved In battle or in state Make memorable this festal day, The day we celebrate: Divided from the common lot By neither tame nor pelf, Our hearts revere the man who loves His neighbour as himself.

The fragrance of the Christian's life, Though humble and unknown, Is a more precious heritage Than heirship to a throne. That lowly roof—what memories Of blessings cluster there, Around the hearthstone consecrate By fifty years of prayer!

The shaded lamp, the cheerful fire, Our Mother's patient look, The firelight on her silver hair, And on the Holy Book;— Where e'er our erring feet may stray, The welcome waits the same,— That light, that look will follow still, And soften and reclaim.

Type of the Fatherhood of God, Whose love has kept us still, In all the changeful scenes of life Secure from every ill, And brought our long-divided band, Not one of us astray, Around our Father's board to keep This Golden Wedding Day.

Oh ye beloved and revered! Our hearts make thankful prayer, That still around our household hearth There is no vacant chair. God grant that we may be of those Who sing the heavenly psalm, And sit together at the feast, The marriage of the Lamb!



VERSES WRITTEN IN MARY'S ALBUM.

In your beautiful book, dear Mary, With pages so white and fair, I pause ere I trace the first sentence, And thoughtfully breathe a prayer:—

That in the dew of the morning, Ere the shadows begin to fall, You may turn with a child's devotion To the Book that is best of all:—

And learn with the gentle Mary, At the Saviour's feet to stay, And to choose that better portion Which shall never be taken away.

Ah! lovely and thrice beloved, Sitting at Jesus' feet, In the shady walks of Bethany, And the summer twilight sweet,—

With the thrilling palms and the olives, Listening overhead, To that wonderful voice whose music Had power to waken the dead!

Even thus through life's grave-shadowed valleys, We may walk with that Heavenly Friend, With a child's loving faith in His promise To be with us unto the end.

So I ask for my Mary, not grandeur, Nor the wealth, nor the fame of the day, But that which the world cannot give her, The peace which it takes not away.



THE WOODS IN JUNE.

In the sleep-haunted gloom Born of the slumbrous twilight in these shades, These vast and venerable collonades, I welcome thee, dear June!

And while with head reclined, And limbs aweary with my woodland walk, I listen to the low melodious talk Of leaves and singing wind,

The merry roundelay Of the swart ploughman, sowing summer grain, And tinkling sheep-bell on the distant plain, And pastures far away,

Come with a soft refrain, Like a faint echo from the outer world, While Peace sits by me with her white wings furled, Within my green domain.

This is my palace, where Great trunks are amber pillars to support The blue roof of the vast and silent court, In clustered columns fair:

And underneath, the bloom Of water-lilies through the fragrant night Of these dim arches spreads a perfumed light, Even at highest noon.

Down dropping all day long, With a most musical cadence in the hall, A wandering stream lets its slow waters fall In twinkling rhythmic song.

Hither the vagrant bee, From the broad fields and sunshine all astray, Loiters the idle hours of noon away, In golden dreams like me.

And from my window frame, This oriel window opening on the sky, I see the white barques of the clouds drift by, With prows of rosy flame.

Fantastical and strange, Their purple sails go floating o'er the deep, Like shadows through the summer land of sleep, In never ending change.

The wild shy things which roam The woods, and live in bough and tree and grot, Flutter and chirp unscared, they fear me not, For I too am at home.

And feel my heart in tune With the great heart of Nature, and the voice Of all the glad bright creatures that rejoice In the green woods of June.



THE ISLE OF SLEEP.

In those dark mornings, deep in June, When brooding birds stir in the nest, And heavy dews slip down the leaves, And drop into the rose's breast, I woke and looked into the east, And saw no sign of coming day, The pale cold morning rolled in mist, Slept on the hill-tops far away.

My window looked into the dawn, The slumbering dawn that was so nigh, The shadow of the hills was drawn In waving lines against the sky. But warmer hues began to tip The edges of the mountain cloud And morning's rosy cheek and lip Glowed softly through her snow-pale shroud.

I turned and gazed into the west, The river murmured in my ear 'Gone night, and silence, dreams and rest, Another day of toil is here.'

I would I had a fairy boat, With every swift bright sail unfurled, To fly beyond the west, and float With night into the under world.

My head sank lower on my arm, My eyes re-closed in sleepy bliss, While fancy wove her subtle charm, My dream did shape itself to this:— Upon a shore whose sands of gold Sloped down into a silver sea, Her radiant pinions all unrolled, A fairy boat did wait for me.

And Night with all her splendours pale Did walk before me on the deep, The stars looked through her azure veil, And hand in hand with her went Sleep. Beyond the hills, into the night My boat went drifting like the wind, The stars paled round us, and the light Died on our pathway far behind.

And cloudy shapes with rippling hair That shaded eyes of dreamy calm, Formed and dissolved into the air Which laved my brow with waves of balm.

Dusk arms upreaching from the sea, And shadow-faces, seen and gone, Toward an isle did beckon me, Beyond the farthest gates of dawn.

We drew towards that lonely shore, With still and measured motion slow, I saw the hills lift evermore Their massive foreheads crowned with snow, And underneath, like moonlight fair, I saw a hundred fathoms deep, The crystal columns light as air That undergird the Isle of Sleep.

And spire and dome and architrave, And pictured window's rainbow gleams Upshone from out the charmed wave, Afloat upon a sea of dreams. The sea-moss wove her braided locks Along the beach in chains afar, And lilies smiled among the rocks, Peerless and perfect as a star.

A wood of asphodel below Uprose as still and sweet as death, And gliding shapes moved to and fro,— I watched them with suspended breath.

Lost loved ones met and clasped me here; I looked into their eyes serene, They spake to me, and I did hear As I were walking in a dream.

But even then a wind arose That swept the morning mists away, And showed, unfolding like a rose, The bright flower of the perfect day: And fading—faded like a cloud, The hands I clasped, like wreaths of smoke, While chanticleer crowed shrill and loud, And wan and 'wildered I awoke.



THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.

Under the orchard boughs, That drop red leaves like coals into the grass. The golden arrows of the sunset fall; And on the vine-hung wall Great purple clusters in delicious drowse, Beakers of chrysolite and amethyst, Yet by the sun unkissed, Lean down to all the wooing lips that pass, Brimful of red, red wine Sweet as brown peasants glean along the castled Rhine

All sights and sounds are of the Autumn weather; The urchin rock'ng in the trees Shakes silver laughter with the apples down,— And wading to the knees Among the stubble and the husks so brown, The oxen keeping every patient step together, Bring in the creaking wain, High-piled with yellow maize and sheaves of rustling grain.

While in the mill, with ceaseless whirr and drone, With moss and lichens to the roof o'ergrown An undertone to every other sound, The blind old horse goes round

Gathered along the farm-house eaves In noisy congress, see the swallows sit, Or whirling in mid air like autumn leaves, In airy wheels they flit. Bright rovers of all summer skies, I follow them with wistful eyes To-morrow's sunset they will be A thousand leagues by land and sea Beyond this wintry hemisphere Heaven gathers round their joyous wings The sunlight of perpetual springs, Soft airs and fragrant blossomings Through all the glad round year.

I hear as though I did not hear, Along the upland fields remote, The plough-boy's whistle, silver clear: For hark' the herds-man's graver note, Who hums beneath the orchard boughs, The ballad of that grand old man, Who marshalled freedom's battle van, And fell,—no laurel round his brows.

To-day the hero-martyr's grave Is shaken by the armed tread Of patriotic soldiers o'er his head Not by the footsteps of one slave!

So grows the work that he began, Wrought out in slow and toilsome ways, Yet ever building through the days, A grander heritage for man.

Oh! harvest years, foretold so long! Through seas of blood, through years of wrong, A people patient brave and strong, In camp and field, and battle clang, 'Mid cannon's roar and trumpet's peal, And shock of war, and clash of steel, For you each steadfast blade out-sprang! In you each loyal heart kept faith As strong as life, as stern as death; Though human lives like summer grain Were sown on every battle-plain; Blood of our bravest and our best, The red, red wine of life was pressed, And lost like summer rain. In dust and smoke of carnage whirled, Before those dying eyes still swam Those coming years so grand and calm, The golden Autumns of the world!

Through frost and snow and wintry rains, Speed, silent hours!—the Nation waits, While at her feet the slave in chains, Kneels, listening for the coming fates; And round him droops in soil and dust, The bright flag of her stripes and stars: Speed, Autumn hours!—we wait in trust No tale of traitor lips can dim, Till Liberty's white hand unbars The broad gates of the glad New Year, Unfurls our banner free and clear, And ushers Peace and Freedom in!

[Footnote: President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation took effect on the first day of the New Year, 1863.]



IN WAR TIME.

Into the west the day goes down, Smiling and fading into the night, Is it a cross, or is it a crown I have worn through all these hours of light!

Bending over my milk-white curds, In my dairy under the beech, Still the thought of my heart took words, And murmured itself in musical speech.

And all my pans of golden cream, Set in a silver shining row, Swam in my eyes like the shimmer and sheen Of arms and banners, and martial show.

The bee in his gold laced uniform, Drilled the ranks of clover blooms, And carried my very heart by storm, Mocking the roll of the distant drums.

But something choked my singing down, Deeper than any song expressed.— Is it a cross, or is it a crown On my brow invisibly pressed!

Out of the east the star-watch shines, Lighting their camp-fires in the gray; I count their white tents' lengthening lines, And think of those who are far away.

Where the yellow globes of the orange grow In the southern fields-that slope to the sun,— Oh say, have my brothers met the foe,— Has another Shiloh been lost or won?

For when the moonlight falls across The threshold of our cottage door. My heart is full of a sense of loss, As if they would return no more.

Last year when the April days were fair, And the harvest fields were ploughed and sown, Two stalwart boys took each his share, But now our father toils alone.

And often at our evening prayers, With an absence I can understand, I see him look at the vacant chairs, And wipe his brow with his wrinkled hand.

And therefore at the fireside nook, Kneeling sadly at night to pray, All the light of the holy book Seems to fall and point one way.

And therefore tending my milk-white curds, Still the song that my fancy hums, Catches the glitter of martial words, And sets itself to the beat of drums.



CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Break over the waiting hill-tops, White dawn of the Christmas morn! For the angels have sung through the midnight, That the wonderful Babe is born.

And still in the slumbering valleys, The night's black tents are up, And the young moon stands on the mountains, Clear and fair as a silver cup.

Under the cottage rafters, Silent and soft and deep, On the swart low brow of the toiler, Settles the dew of sleep.

And some that watch and waken, Are dreaming of eyes whose ray Was long ago quenched and hidden Under the shroud away.

Oh, sing thy jubilant anthem Over the frozen mould, And tell that wonderful story Again, that never grows old!

For under the year's broad shadow, Along the upward way, Our footsteps often falter, And oftea wander astray.

Weary and weak and erring, In sorrow and doubt and tears, Shine through the mist and the darkness Star of a thousand years!

Awhile from the dusty marches Of life let us find release, And pitch our tents in the shadow Of the white-walled City of Peace,

Let us hear through the blessed starlight. The angels of Bethlehem, Singing Glory to God in the highest, On earth good will to men.

White dawn of the Christmas morning, Through the snow-wreaths shining pale. Let the joy-bells ring through the valleys, Hail to thy coming—hail!



TE DEUM LAUDAMUS

Along the floors of heaven the music rolls, Fills the vast dome, and lifts our fainting souls: Praise God! Oh praise Him all created things, Praise Him, the Lord of lords, the King of kings

Slow pulses coursing darkly underground, Leap up in leaf and blossom at the sound, Shake out glad pennons in remotest ways, And with a thousand voices utter praise.

Along the southern hills the verdure creeps, And faint green foliage clothes the craggy steeps, Where in the sunshine lie reposing herds. Whose gladness has no need of spoken words.

In the deep woods there is a voice, which saith "The Lord is risen—there shall be no more death! Listen, Oh Man! and thy dull ears shall hear The Easter Anthem of the awakened year."

Past isles of emerald moss the brooklet flows Melodious, and rejoicing as it goes; Past drooping ferns, and through the mazy whir Of insect wings of gold and gossamer.

Praise God!—they whisper softly each to each; Waves have a voice, and trees and stones a speech; Day unto day the chant of birds and breeze, And man alone is dumb, nor hears, nor sees.



A NOVEMBER WOOD-WALK.

Dead leaves are deep in all our forest walks; Their brightest tints not all extinguished yet, Shine redly glimmering through the dewy wet; And whereso'er thy musing foot is set, The fragrant cool-wort lifts its emerald stalks.

How kindly nature wraps secure and warm, In the fallen mantle of her summer pride, These lovely tender things that peep and hide, Whom unawares thy curious eye hath spied, For the long night of winter's frost and storm.

Still keeps the deer-berry its vivid green, Set in its glowing calyx like a gem; While hung above, a marvellous diadem Of tawny gold, the bittersweet's gray stem, Strung with its globes of murky flame is seen.

The foot sinks ankle-deep in velvet moss, The shroud of some dead giant of his race; Dun gold and green and brown thick interlace, Their tiny exquisite leaves in cunning trace, Weaving their beaded filaments across.

Here mayest thou lie, and looking up, behold Far up the stately trees sway to and fro In the deep sunny air, with motion slow, And whispering to each other weird and low, The secrets of the haunted cloud-land old

Heaven seems not half so far as in the town,— Looking through smoke and dust and tears to gam Some heavenly comfort for thy human pain, Heaven seems far off, but here the dews and ram Come like a benediction from the Father down.

Nor will He who forgets not any weed That blooms its little life in forest shade, And dies when it hath cast its ripened seed, Forget the human creatures He has made, Frail as they are, and full of infinite need.

Now like a sheaf of golden arrows fall The last rays of the Indian Summer sun; And hark along the hollow hills they run, Invisible messengers, the battle-call Of coming storms, in pipings faint and small They bring:—the pageant of the year is done.



RESIGNATION.

If Thou who seest this heart of mine To earthly idols prone, Should'st all those clinging cords untwine, And take again Thy own,— Help me to lay my hands in thine, And say Thy will be done!

But Oh, when Thou dost claim the gift Which Thou did'st only lend, And leav'st my life of love bereft, And lonely to the end,— Oh Saviour! be Thyself but left, My best beloved Friend!

And still the chastening hand I bless, Which doth my steps uphold Along earth's thorny wilderness, Back to the Father's fold, Where I Thy face in righteousness Shall evermore behold.



EUTHANASIA

"O Life, O Beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet!" —Mrs. Browning.

Dread phantom, with pale finger on thy lips, Who dost unclose the awful doors for each, That ope but once, and are unclosed no more, Turn the key gently in the mystic ward, And silently unloose the silver cord; Lay thy chill seal of silence upon speech, And mutely beckon through the soundless door To endless night, and silence and eclipse.

Even now the soul unfettered may explore On its swift wing beyond the gates of morn, (Unravelled all the weary round of years) And stand, unfenced of time and crowding space, With love's fond instinct in that primal place, The distant northern isle where she was born; She sees the bay, the waves' deep voice she hears, And babbles of the forms that are no more.

They are the dead, long laid in foreign graves, One with his sword upon his loyal breast, And one in tropic lands beneath the palm; The sea rolls dark between those hemispheres, And all the long procession of the years, Since last those warm young hands she fondly pressed, And heard through mute farewells the funeral psalm, The "nevermore" of the dividing waves.

The record of a life is writ between; The new world's story supplements the old; The heathery hills, the rapture of the morn, The fishers' huts, the chieftain's castle gray, And the smooth crescent of the land-locked bay,— These, the long hunger of the heart outworn, New scenes replace, and the once strange and cold, Become like those kept in the memory green.

But thou hast found already that dread place, And thy lost loved ones in that unknown goal, Ere thou hast quite put off the scrip and shell, And gathered up thy feet into the bed, And closed thine eyes, the last prayers being said, Thy lips move dumbly, thy delaying soul Passes in salutation, not farewell, To join the heroes of thine ancient race.

Unoutlined shadow, angel of release, Whose cool hand stills the fever in the veins, And all the tumult of life's crowding cares— Ambition, envy, love and fear and hate, Hope's eager prophecies fulfilled too late, And fierce desires, and sorrows, and despairs— Thou wav'st thy mystic wand, and there remain Sleep and forgetfulness, and utter peace.

Why should we fear thy shadow at the door, Oh thou mysterious Death?—art thou not sweet To the worn pilgrim of life's toilsome day, Who com'st at evening time, and show'st instead Of pilgrim tent, and pilgrim pallet spread, The doors of that vast caravansera Where all the pilgrims of the ages meet, And rest together, and return no more?



BALLAD OF THE MAD LADYE.

The rowan tree grows by the tower foot, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, Can the dead feel joy or pain?) And the owls in the ivy blink and hoot, And the sea-waves bubble around its root, Where kelp and tangle and sea-shells be, When the bat in the dark flies silently. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)

The ladye sits in the turret alone, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The dead—can they complain?) And her long hair down to her knee has grown, And her hand is cold as a hand of stone, And wan as a band of flesh may be, While the bird in the bower sings merrily. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)

Sadly she leans by her casement side (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, Can the dead arise again?) And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide, But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide; The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free And the bird is mute in the rowan tree. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)

The moon shone in on the turret stair (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The dead are bound with a chain.) And touched her cheek and brightened her hair, And found naught else in the world so fair, So ghostly fair as the mad ladye, While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)

The weary days and the months crept on, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The words of the dead are vain) At last the summer was over and gone, And still she sat in her turret alone, Her white hands clasping about her knee, And the bird was mute in the rowan tree. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)

Wild was the sound of the wind and the sleet, (Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea. The dead—do they walk again?) Wilder the roar of the surf that beat; Whose was the form that it bore to her feet Swayed with the swell of the unquiet sea, While the raven croaked in the rowan tree. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)

Oh Lady, strange is the silent guest— (Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea, Can the dead feel sorrow or pain?) With the sea-drenched locks and the pulseless breast And the close-shut lips which thine have pressed And the wide sad eyes that heed not thee, While the raven croaks in the rowan tree. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)

The tower is dark, and the doors are wide, (Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea, The dead are at peace again.) Into the harbour the fisher boats ride, But two went out with the ebbing tide, Without sail, without oar, full fast and free, And the raven croaks in the rowan tree. (Hark to the wind and the rain.)



THE COMING OF THE KING.

"O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy atones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones. And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children." Isaiah, liv. 11-13.

As the sand of the desert is smitten By hoof-beats that strike out a light, A flash by which dumb things are litten, The children of night; So Thou who of old did'st create us, Among the high gods the Most High, Strike us with Thy brightness, and let us Behold Thee, and die.

Grown old in blind anguish and travail, Thy world thou mad'st sinless and free Gropes on, with no power to unravel The clue back to Thee: Since his feet from Thy ways torn and bleeding The long march of ages began, And the gates of Thy sword-guarded Eden Were closed upon man.

Fates thicken, and prophecies darken, Grown up into blossom and fruit; And we lean in these last days to hearken The sound of Thy foot. Not now as a star-fallen stranger, By shepherds, and pilgrims adored, As couched among kine in a manger, An undeclared lord:

Not now in waste wilderness places, And mountains, and wind-shaken seas, Proclaiming to strange alien races The gospel of peace; Who rended'st the prey from the leopard, With sorrowful wounding and strife, The Priest—the Lamb slain—the Good Shepherd, The way and the life.

Not the face that wept over the city Nor that with its anguish of pain In the garden, nnlightened by pity Of angels or men; Nor the suffering form, unreplying. With the chrysm of death at its lips; Cross-uplifted, and nail-pierced, and dying In fateful eclipse:

But with all heaven's glory and splendour Through the gates of the morning come down, And with thrones and dominions to render Him sceptre and crown! With the Face beyond all men's thinking, Beholden of all men's eyes; And the earth in its gladness drinking The light of the skies.

With the rapture of angels, the singing Of radiant choirs unknown, And the shouting of glad hosts bringing Our King to His throne! O City of David, the Golden, That sittest in darkness so long, No longer in chains thou art holden, Break forth into song!

Arise, and upbuild thy waste places, Take helmet and buckler and sword, And gather from far-scattered races The tribes of the Lord! Thy Prince shall ride onward victorious; Full strong are his arrows and fleet; And high shall His throne he, and glorious The place of His feet!

Set thy lips to the trumpet, awaken The isles of the South and the North, As the trees of the forest are shaken When whirlwinds go forth: Like the waves of the sea, like the thunder Of armies, with jubilant voice, A multitude no man can number Shall sing and rejoice.

The kingdoms beyond the great river, The uttermost isles of the sea, And peoples and tribes shall deliver Thy children to thee. Once more shall thine ensign, the Lion Of Judah, be o'er thee unfurled; Once more shall thy gates be, O Zion, Set wide to the world!

With hands stretched in mute supplication, With longing, and weeping, and prayer, We have waited for this, thy salvation, In grief—not despair; Till thy Lord to His temple descended, Shall comfort thee, sorrowful one, And the days of thy mourning be ended, Thy triumph begun.

Till the mountains about thee assemble Lost lights of the sun-dawn, rose-red, White splendours, that point as they tremble The path for His tread: Through the hate of our foes, and their scorning And dumb in the darkness we wake, For the night is far spent—and the morning In glory shall break.



WITH A BUNCH OF SPRING FLOWERS.

(In an Album.)

In the spring-time, out of the dew, From my garden, sweet friend, I gather, A garland of verses, or rather A poem of blossoms for you.

There are pansies, purple and white, That hold in their velvet splendour, Sweet thoughts as fragrant and tender, And rarer than poets can write.

The Iris her pennon unfurls, My unspoken message to carry, A flower-poem writ by a fairy, And Buttercups rounder than pearls.

And Snowdrops starry and sweet, Turn toward thee their pale pure faces And Crocus, and Cowslips, and Daisies The song of the spring-time repeat.

So merry and full of cheer, With the warble of birds overflowing, The wind through the fresh grass blowing And the blackbirds whistle so dear.

These songs without words are true, All sung in the April weather— Music and blossoms together— I gather and weave them for you.



THE HIGHER LAW.

Love and Obedience—these the Higher Law From which Thy worlds have swerved not, singing still Their primal hymn rejoicing, as at first The morning stars together. Hast thou heard, In vast and silent spaces of the sky, What time the bead-roll of the universe God calls in heaven, every tiniest star— From myriad twinkling points—from plummet depths Of dark too vast for eye and sense to guess, Send up a little silver answer "I am here." Even so, the humblest of thy little ones, dear Lord, May through the darkness hear Thy still small voice, And answer with quick gladness "Here am I,— I love Thee,—I obey Thee,—use me too!"



MAY.

Thou comest to the year, And bringest all things beautiful and sweet; Thy lovely miracles themselves repeat In the green glory of the grass, And peeping flowers that stay our lingering feet With their soft eyes, blue like the sky and clear; Thou bringest not, alas, Our lily, our May-blossom, O New Year!

Thou bringest all things fair, And bright, and gentle, but thou bring'st not her: The May-birds warble, and May breezes stir In the sweet-scented lilac boughs; But our one May—our gentlest minister Of gladness, with the beauty of her hair. Her place in our still house Is empty,—and the world is bleak and bare.



TWO WINDOWS.

I.

One looks into the sun lawn, and the steep Curved slopes of hills, set sharp against the sky, With tufted woods encinctured, waving high O'er vales below, where broken shadows sleep. Here, looking forth before the first faint cry Of mother-bird, fluttering a drowsy wing Above her brood, awakes the full-voiced choir, Ere yet the morning tips the hills with fire, And turns the drapery of the east to gold, My wondering eyes the opening heavens behold, Where far within deep calleth unto deep, And the whole world stands hushed and worshipping. Even thus,—I muse,—shall heaven's gates unfold, When earth beholds the coming of her King.

II.

This opens on the sunset, and the sea From its high casement: never twice the same Grand picture rises in its sea-girt frame Islets of pearl, and rocks of porphyry And cliffs of jasper, touched with sunset flame, And island-trees—that look like Eden's—grow Palm-like and slender, in gradations fine, That fade and die along the horizon line, And the wide heavens become—above—below— A luminous sea without a boundary

Nay wistful heart,—at day-dawn, or at noon— Or midnight watch—the Bridegroom cometh soon; By yonder shining path—or pearly gate; The word is sure,—thou therefore, watch and wait.



THE MEETING OF SPIRITS.

From out the dark of death, before the gates Flung wide, that open into paradise— More radiant than the white gates of the morn— A human soul, new-born, Stood with glad wonder in its luminous eyes, For all the glory of that blessed place Flowed thence, and made a halo round the face— gentle, and strong with the rapt faith that waits And faints not: sweet with hallowing pain The face was, as a sunset after rain, with a grave tender brightness. Now it turned From the white splendours where God's glory burned, And the long ranks of quiring cherubim— Each with wing-shaded eyelids, near the throne, Who sang—and ceased not—the adoring hymn Of Holy, Holy! And the cloud of smoke Went up from the waved censers, with the prayers Of saints, that wafted outward blessing-freighted broke Around him standing at the gate alone. All down the radiant slope of golden stairs, By which he climbed so late from earth to heaven, It rolled impalpable—a fragrant cloud; And still, turned from the Alleluias loud, Beyond the portal-guarding angels seven, He listened earthward, for a voice—a sound Out of the dark that spread heneath profound.

No wind of God stirred in that cloudy land That bordered all the River's thither side; To his that called no voice responsive cried, Or cleft the dark with flash of answering hand. And soft the while, sheathed, as it were, within The noise of heaven's rejoicing, to him stole Beloved voices, long to earth a sole Remembered sweetness only; sacred kept As reliquaries are that guard from sin, And wake the holy aim which else had slept. How yearned his heart to those long parted ones The amaranth, and the sacred flower which grew A saintly lily by the jasper wall, Making light shadows on those wondrous stones, As the wind touched its slender stems and tall, Turned not to sunward more divinely true, Than his most worshipping soul to that which made The light of heaven.

But now the nether shade Grew luminous with white ascending wings, And radiant arms of angels, who upbore With tender hands another soul new-born, Fairer than that last star whose bearing flings Another beauty on the brow of morn. Nearer the lovely vision rose, and more Aerial clear each moment to his eyes, Who stood in ecstacy of glad surprise, And looks of joyous welcome, while the air was stirred With the swift winnowing plumes approaching.

This I heard, And only this,—"Oh! haste thee, spirit blest, For thee and me remains at length the rest, The welcome end of life's long toilsome road, That leads us to our Father and our God." And—"Oh beloved, is it thou indeed, Hast reached before me these fair heavenly lands, Who taught thine infant lips, with reverent heed To say Our Father with small upraised hands: How lovely are thine eyes, that have no pain, And thy worn cheek, that keeps no travel-stain, From mid-noon labour called to thy reward; While I, at evening, a forgotten sheaf Still left afield, in mingled trust and grief, Waited the footsteps of our harvest Lord."

I heard no more—for wave succeeding wave— A sea of intermittent music swelled and grew, And filled the dome of heaven, all sharply cut With spires of glittering crystal: all the land Throbbed with the pulse of music keen, which clave A shining path before them: hand in hand— With their rapt faces toward the throne—the two Went in together—and the gates were shut.



GEORGE BROWN.

O Leader fallen by the wayside prone,— O strong great soul gone forth For thee the wide inhospitable north, And east and west, from sea to sea make moan: And thy loved land, whose stalwart limbs and brain, Beneath thy fostering care have thriven and grown To stately stature, and erect proud head, Freedom and Right and Justice to maintain Here in her place inviolate. Without stain The name and fame which stood for thee in stead Of titles and dominions: all men's praise, And some men's hate thou had'st, yet all shall weep thee dead; O Leader, fallen mid-march in the ways, Who shall fill up the measure of thy days!



TIDE-WATER.

Through many-winding valleys far inland, A maze among the convoluted hills, Of rocks up-piled, and pines on either hand, And meadows ribbanded with silver rills, Faint, mingled-up, composite sweetnesses Of scented grass and clover, and the blue Wild-violet hid in muffling moss and fern, Keen and diverse another breath cleaves through, Familiar as the taste of tears to me, As on my lips, insistent, I discern The salt and bitter kisses of the sea.

The tide sets up the river; mimic fleetnesses Of little wavelets, fretted by the shells And shingle of the beach, circle and eddy round, And smooth themselves perpetually: there dwells A spirit of peace in their low murmuring noise Subsiding into quiet, as if life were such A struggle with inexorable bound, Brief, bright, despairing, never over-lept, Dying in such wise, with a sighing voice Breathed out, and after silence absolute.

Faith, eager hope, toil, tears, despair,—so much The common lot,—together over-swept Into the pitiless unreturning sea, The vast immitigable sea.

I walk beside the river, and am mute Under the burden o fits mystery. The cricket pipes among the meadow grass His shrill small trumpet, of long summer nights Sole minstrel: and the lonely heron makes Voyaging slow toward her reedy nest A moving shadow among sunset lights Upon the river's darkening wave, which breaks. Into a thousand circling shapes that pass Into the one black shadow of the shore.

O tranquil spirit of the pervading test Brooding along the valleys with shut wings That fold all sentient and inanimate things In their entrenched calm for evermore, Save only the unquiet human soul; Hear'st thou the far-off sound of waves that roll In sighing cadence, like a soul in pain, Hopeless of heaven or peace, beating in vain The shores implacable for some replies To the dumb anguish of eternal doubt, (As I, for the sad thoughts that rise in me): Feel'st thou upon thy heavy-lidded eyes The salt and bitter kisses of the sea; And dost thou draw, like me, a shuddering breath Among dusk shadows brooding silently?

Ah me, thou hear'st me not: I walk alone. The doubt within me, and the dark without, In my sad ears, the waves' recurrent moan, Sounds like the surges of the sea of death, Beating for evermore the shores of time With muttered prophecies, which sorrow saith Over and over, like a set slow chime Of funeral bells, tolling remote, forlorn, Dirge-like the burden—"Man was made to mourn."



FORGOTTEN SONGS.

There is a splendid tropic flower which flings Its fiery disc wide open to the core— One pulse of subtlest fragrance—once a life That rounds a century of blossoming things And dies, a flower's apotheosis: nevermore To send up in the sunshine, in sweet strife With all the winds, a fountain of live flame, A winged censer in the starlight swung Once only, flinging all its wealth abroad To the wide deserts without shore or name And dying, like a lovely song, once sung By some dead poet, music's wandering ghost, Aeons ago blown oat of life and lost, Remembered only in the heart of God.



TO THE DAUGHTER OF THE AUTHOR OF "VIOLET KEITH."

I never looked upon thy face; I never saw thy dwelling-place; My home is by Lake Erie's shore, Beyond Niagara's distant roar; And thine where ships at anchor ride, By fair St. Lawrence's rolling tide, With half a continent between Its seas of blue, and isles of green, And many a mountain's nodding crest, And many a valley's jewelled breast. Thou in the east, I in the west; Yet in this book thou hast to me An individuality; Something more tangible and fair Than any dream or shape of air, With more than an ideal grace, And sweeter than a pictured face: For in this book my thought recalls The garden quaint, the convent walls. And thou beneath their shadow set, A blue-eyed fragrant violet. So for the maiden of the tale, Whose brave true heart might break, not fail, Thyself, my Violet I make, And love thee for thy mother's sake.



A PRELUDE, AND A BIRD'S SONG.

The poet's song, and the bird's, And the waters' that chant as they run And the waves' that kiss the beach, And the wind's—they are but one. He who may read their words, And the secret hid in each, May know the solemn monochords That breathe in vast still places; And the voices of myriad races, Shy, and far-off from man, That hide in shadow and sun, And are seen but of him who can To him the awful face is shown Swathed in a cloud wind-blown Of Him, who from His secret throne, In some void, shadowy, and unknown land Comes forth to lay His mighty hand On the sounding organ keys, That play deep thunder-marches, Like the rush and the roar of seas, And fill the cavernous arches Of antique wildernesses hoary, With a long-resounding roll, As they fill man's listening soul With a shuddering sense of might and glory.

These he shall hear, and more than these In bird's song, and in poet's scroll; Something underneath the whole, A music yet unbreathed.—unsung— Unwritten—incommunicable; Whispered from no mortal tongue: What seer nor prophet may rehearse In oracle, or Delphic fable, Since the old dead gods were young, And made with man their dwelling-place; But he shall hear, of all his race, The dread wherefore of life and death; He shall behold the ultimates Of fears and doubts, and scores and hates, And the sure final crown of faith. And in his ear the rhythmic verse Shall sound the steps of that beyond, Serene, that hastens not, nor waits, But holds within its depths profound The mystery of all lives—all fates— The secret of the universe.



AN APRIL DAWN.

All night a slow soft rain, A shadowy stranger from a cloudy land, Sighing and sobbing, with unsteady hand Beat at the lattice, ceased, and beat again, And fled like some wild startled thing pursued By demons of the night and solitude, Returning ever—wistful—timid—fain— The intermittent rain.

And still the sad hours crept Within uncounted, the while hopes and fears Swayed our full hearts, and overflowed in tears That fell in silence, as she waked or slept, Still drawing nearer to that unknown shore Whence foot of mortal cometh nevermore, And still the rain was as a pulse that kept Time as the slow hours crept.

The plummet of the night Sank through the hollow dark that closed us round, A lamp lit globe of space; outside, the sound Of rain-drops falling from abysmal height To vast mysterious depths rose faint and far, Like a dull muffled echo from some star Swung, like our own, an orb of tears and light In the unheeding night.

But when the April dawn Touched the closed lattice softly, and a bird, Too early wakened from its sleep, was stirred, And trilled a sudden note broke off, withdrawn, She heard and woke. All silently she laid Her gentle hands in ours, with such a look as made A rainbow of tears it fell upon, Caught from another and a heavenlier dawn, Fixed—trembled—and was gone. Swung, like our own, an orb of tears and light In the unheeding night.

But when the April dawn Touched the closed lattice softly, and a bird, Too early wakened from its sleep, was stirred, And trilled a sudden note broke off, withdrawn, She heard and woke. All silently she laid Her gentle hands in ours, with such a look as made A rainbow of tears it fell upon, Caught from another and a heavenlier dawn, Fixed—trembled—and was gone.

THE END