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FOUR-O’CLOCKS It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow. Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart— Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part. Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies. And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died! A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG Whence it came I did not know, How it came I could not tell, But I heard the music flow Like the pealing of a bell; Up and down the wild-wood arches, Through the sombre firs and larches, Long I heard it rise and swell; Long I lay, with half-shut eyes, Wrapped in dreams of Paradise! Then the wondrous music poured Yet a fuller, stronger strain, Till my soul in rapture soared Out of reach of toil and pain! Then, oh then, I know not how, Then, oh then, I know not where, I was borne, serene and slow, Through the boundless fields of air— Past the sunset’s golden bars, Past long ranks of glittering stars, To a realm where time was not, And its secrets were forgot! Land of shadows, who may know Where thy golden lilies blow? Land of shadows, on what star In the blue depths shining far, Or in what appointed place In the unmeasured realms of space, High as heaven, or deep as hell, Thou dost lie what tongue can tell? Send from out thy mystic portals With the holy chrism to-day, One of all thy high immortals Who shall teach me what to say! O beloveds, all the air Was a faint, ethereal mist Touched with rose and amethyst— Glints of gold, and here and there Purple splendors that were gone, Like the glory of the dawn, Ere one caught them. Soft and gray, Lit by many a pearly ray, Were the low skies bending dim To the far horizon’s rim; And the landscape stretched away, Fair, illusive, like a dream Wherein all things do but seem! There were mountains, but they rose O’er the subtile vale’s repose, Light as clouds that far and high Soar to meet the untroubled sky. There were trees that overhead Wide their sheltering branches spread, Yet were empty as the shade By the quivering vine-leaves made. There were roses, rich with bloom, Swinging censers of perfume Sweet as fragrant winds of May Blowing through spring’s secret bowers; Yet so phantom-like were they That they seemed the ghosts of flowers. Oh, the music sweet and strange In that land’s enchanted range! Like the pealing of the bells When the brazen flowers are swinging And the angelus is ringing, Soaring, echoing, far and near, Through the vales and up the dells— Softly on the enraptured ear A melodious murmur swells! As the rhythm of the river Day and night goes on forever, So that pulsing stream of song Rolls its silver waves along. Even silence is but sound, Deeper, softer, more profound! All the portals were thrown wide! Stretching far on either side Ran the streets, like silver mist, By the moon’s pale splendor kissed; And adown the shadowy way, Forth from many a still retreat, One by one, and two by two, Or in goodly companies; Gliding on in long array, Light and fleet, with silent feet, One by one, and two by two, Phantoms that I could not number, Countless as the wraiths of slumber, Passed before my wondering eyes! Then I grew aware of one Standing by me in the dun, Gray half-twilight. All the place Grew softly radiant; but his face, Albeit unveiled, I could not see For the awe that compassed me. Swift I spoke, by longings swayed Deeper than my words betrayed: “Master,” with clasped hands I prayed, “Who are these? Are they the dead?” “Nay, they never lived,” he said; “Whence art thou? How camest thou here?” Low I answered, then, in fear: “Sir, I know not; as I lay Dreaming at the close of day, Wondrous music, thrilling through me, To this land of phantoms drew me, Though I knew not how or why, Even as instinct draws the bird Where Spring’s far-off voice is heard. Tell me, Master, where am I?” “Thou art in the border-land, On the farthest, utmost strand Of the sea that lies between All that is and is not seen. Thou art where the wraiths of song Come and go, a phantom throng. ’Tis their heart’s melodious beat Fills the air with whispers sweet! These, O child, are songs unsung— Songs unbreathed by human tongue; These are they that all in vain Mightiest masters wooed amain— Children of their heart and brain That they could not warm to life By their being’s utmost strife. Every bard that ever sung Since the hoary earth was young Knew the song he could not sing Was his soul’s best blossoming, Knew the thought he could not hold Shrined his spirit’s purest gold. Look!” Where rose the city’s gate In majestic, sculptured state, From a far-off battle-plain, Through the javelins’ silver rain Bearing buckler, lance, and shield, And their standard’s glittering field, Eager, yet with shout nor din, Came a great host trooping in. Burned their eyes with martial fire, And the glow of proud desire, Such as gods and hero’s filled When their mighty souls were thrilled By old Homer’s golden lyre! Under dim cathedral arches Pacing sad, pacing slow, As to beat of funeral marches Or to music’s rhythmic flow— With their solemn brows uplifted, And their hands upon their breasts, Where the deepest shadows drifted, One by one pale phantoms pressed. Lost in dreams of heights supernal, Mystic dreams of Paradise, Or of woful depths infernal, Slow they passed before mine eyes. Oh, the vision’s pallid splendor! Oh, the grandeur of their mien— Kin, by birthright proud and tender, To the matchless Florentine! In stately solitude, Whereon might none intrude— Majestic, grand and calm, And bearing each the palm; Dwelling, serene and fair, In most enchanted air, Where softest music crept O’er harp-strings deftly swept, And organ-thunders rolled Like storm-winds through the wold, They stood in strength sublime Beyond the bounds of time— They who had been a part Of Milton’s mighty heart! And where, mysterious ones, Are Shakespeare’s princely sons, Bearing in lavish hands The spoil of many lands? From castles lifted far Against the evening star, Where royal banners float O’er rampart, tower, and moat, And the white moonlight sleeps Upon the Donjon keeps; From fairy-haunted dells Among the lonely fells; From banks where wild thyme grows And the blue violet blows; From caverns grim, and caves Lashed by the deep sea-waves; From darkling forest shade, From busy haunts of trade, From market, court, and camp, Where folly rings her bells, Or sorrow tolls her knells, Or where in cloister cells The scholar trims his lamp— Wearing the sword, the gown, The motley of the clown, The beggar’s rags, the dole Of the remorseful soul, The wedding-robe, the ring, The shroud’s white blossoming, O myriad-minded man, Thus thine immortal clan Passed down the endless ways Of the eternal days! Then said I to my spirit: “These are they who wore the crown; Well the king’s sons may inherit All his glory and renown. Where are they—the songs unsung By the humbler bards whose lyres Through earth’s lowly vales have rung, Like the notes of woodland choirs? They whose silver-sandalled feet Never climbed the clouds to meet?” Where?—The air grew full of laughter Low and sweet, and following after Came the softest breath of singing As if lily bells were ringing; And from all the happy closes, Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses, Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands, From the dim secluded places, Through the wide enchanted spaces, With their song-illumined faces Swept the shadowy minstrel bands! Songs unsung, the high and lowly, Songs, the holy and unholy, In that purest air grown wholly Clean from every spot and stain! And I knew as endless ages Still were turning life’s full pages, Each should find his own again— Find the song he could not sing, As his soul’s best blossoming! QUESTIONING A ROSE It was fair, it was sweet, And it blossomed at my feet. “O thou peerless rose!” I said, “Art thou heir to roses dead— Roses that their petals shed In the winds of long ago? Who bequeathed to thee the glow Of thy perfect, radiant heart? What proud queen of fire and snow Lived to make thee what thou art? Who gave thee thy nameless grace And the beauty of thy face, Touched thy lips with fragrant wine, Pledging thee in cups divine? On some long-forgotten day, When earth kept glad holiday, One bright rose was born, I think, Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink— Born, more blest than others are, To be thy progenitor! Oh, the roses that have died In the unremembered Junes! Oh, the roses that have sighed Unto long-forgotten runes! Dost thou know their secrets dear? Have they whispered in thine ear Mysteries of the rain and dew, And the sunshine that they knew? Have they told thee how the breeze Wooed them, and the amorous bees? Silent, art thou? Thy repose Mocks me, yet I fain would know Art thou kin to one rare rose Of a summer long ago? It was sweet, it was fair; Someone twined it in my hair, When my young cheek, blushing red, Shamed the roses, someone said. Dust and ashes though it be, Still its soul lives on in thee.” THE FALLOW FIELD The sun comes up and the sun goes down; The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town; But if it be dark or if it be day, If the tempests beat or the breezes play, Still here on this upland slope I lie, Looking up to the changeful sky. Naught am I but a fallow field; Never a crop my acres yield. Over the wall at my right hand Stately and green the corn-blades stand, And I hear at my left the flying feet Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat. Often while yet the morn is red I list for our master’s eager tread. He smiles at the young corn’s towering height, He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, But he glances not at the fallow field Whose idle acres no wealth may yield. Sometimes the shout of the harvesters The sleeping pulse of my being stirs, And as one in a dream I seem to feel The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel, Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain As they heap their wains with the golden grain. Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud, Though on every tongue your praise is loud. Our mother Nature is kind to me, And I am beloved by bird and bee, And never a child that passes by But turns upon me a grateful eye. Over my head the skies are blue; I have my share of the rain and dew; I bask like you in the summer sun When the long bright days pass, one by one, And calm as yours is my sweet repose Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows. For little our loving mother cares Which the corn or the daisy bears, Which is rich with the ripening wheat, Which with the violet’s breath is sweet, Which is red with the clover bloom, Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room. Useless under the summer sky Year after year men say I lie. Little they know what strength of mine I give to the trailing blackberry vine; Little they know how the wild grape grows, Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. Little they think of the cups I fill For the mosses creeping under the hill; Little they think of the feast I spread For the wild wee creatures that must be fed: Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, And the creeping things that no eye may see. Lord of the harvest, thou dost know How the summers and winters go. Never a ship sails east or west Laden with treasures at my behest, Yet my being thrills to the voice of God When I give my gold to the golden-rod. OUT AND IN A ship went sailing out to sea, A gallant ship and gay, When skies were bright as skies could be, One sunny morn in May. The light winds blew, The white sails flew, The pennants floated far; No stain I saw, Nor any flaw, From deck to shining spar! And from the prow, with eager eyes, Hope gazed afar—to Paradise. A ship came laboring in from sea, One wild December night; Ah! never ship was borne to lee In sadder, sorrier plight! Rent were her sails By furious gales, No pennants floated far; Twisted and torn And all forlorn Were shuddering mast and spar! But from the prow Faith’s steady eyes Caught the near light of Paradise! HER FLOWERS “Nay, nay,” she whispered low, “I will not have these buds of folded snow, Nor yet the pallid bloom Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume, Nor lilies waxen white, To go with her into the grave’s dark night. But now that she is dead Bring ye the royal roses blushing red, Roses that on her breast All summer long, by these pale hands caressed, Have lain in happy calm, Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!” Roses for all the joy Of perfect hours when life had no alloy; When hope was glad and gay, And young Love sang his blissful roundelay; And to her eager eyes Each new day oped the gates of Paradise. But, for that she hath wept, And over buried hopes long vigil kept, Bring mystic passion-flowers, To tell the tale of sacrificial hours When, lifting up her cross, She bore it bravely on through pain and loss! Then at her blessÈd feet, That never more shall haste on errands sweet, Lay fragrant mignonette And fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,— Dear humble flowers, that make Each passer-by the gladder for their sake! For she who lieth here Trod not alone the high paths shining clear, With light of star and sun Falling undimmed her lofty place upon; But stooped to lowliest ways, Filling with fragrance all the passing days! THREE LADDIES O sailors sailing north, Where the wild white surges roar, And fierce winds and strong winds Blow down from Labrador— Have you seen my three brave laddies, My merry red-cheeked laddies, Three bold, adventurous laddies, On some tempestuous shore? O sailors sailing south, Where the seas are calm and blue, And light clouds and soft clouds Are floating over you, Say, have you seen my laddies, My three bright, winsome laddies, My brown-haired, smiling laddies, With hearts so leal and true? O sailors sailing east, Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by; O sailors sailing west, Ask the eagles soaring high, If they have seen my laddies, My careless, heedless laddies, Three debonair young laddies, Beneath the wide, wide sky? O sailors, if you find them, Pray send them back to me; For them the winds go sighing Through every lonely tree— For these three wandering laddies, My tender, bright-eyed laddies, The laughter-loving laddies, Whom they no longer see. There are three men who love me, Three men with bearded lips; But oh! ye gallant sailors Who sail the sea in ships— In elf-land, or in cloud-land, Or on the dreamland shore, Can you find the little laddies Whom I can find no more? Three quiet, thoughtful laddies, Three merry, winsome laddies, Three rollicking, frolicking laddies, On any far-off shore? SUMMER, 1882
R. W. E. [In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29th, there is this record, “Son b.” The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.] Four letters on a yellow page Writ when the century was young; A few small grains of shining sand Across it lightly flung! A child was born—child nameless yet; A son to love till life was o’er; But did no strange, sweet prescience stir, Teaching of something more? Thy son! O father, hadst thou known What now the wide world knows of him, How had thy pulses thrilled with joy, How had thine eye grown dim! Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years, Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze, And seen him as he stands to-day, Crowned with unfading bays— While Love’s red roses at his feet Pour all their wealth of rare perfume, And Truth’s white lilies, pure as snow, His lofty way illume— How had thy heart’s strong throbbing shook The eager pen, the firm right hand, That threw upon this record quaint These grains of glittering sand! O irony of Time and Fate! That saves and loses, makes and mars, Keeps the small dust upon the scales, And blotteth out the stars! Kingdoms and thrones have passed away; Conquerors have fallen, empires died, And countless sons of men gone down Beneath War’s crimson tide. The whole wide earth has changed its face; Nations clasp hands across the seas; They speak, and winds and waves repeat The mighty symphonies. Mountains have bowed their haughty crests, And opened wide their ponderous doors; The sea hath gathered in its dead, Love-wept on alien shores. Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame, Have challenged all the slumbering land; Yet neither Time nor Change has touched These few bright grains of sand! VALDEMAR Within a city quaint and old, When reigned King Alcinor the Bold, There dwelt a sculptor whose renown With pride and wonder filled the town. And yet he had not reached his prime; The first warm glow of summer-time Had but just touched his radiant face, And moulded to a statelier grace The stalwart form that trod the earth As it had been of princely birth. So fair, so strong, so brave was he, With such a sense of mastery, That Alcinor upon his throne No kinglier gifts from life could own Than those it brought from near and far To the young sculptor, Valdemar! Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame, To lend its magic to his name, Had outrun Fortune’s swiftest pace And conquered in the friendly race. But a fair home was his, where bees Hummed in the laden mulberry-trees; Where cyclamens, with rosy flush, Brightened the lingering twilight hush, And the gladiolus’ fiery plume Mocked the red rose’s brilliant bloom; Where violet and wind-flower hid The acacia’s golden gloom amid; Where starry jasmines climbed, and where, Serenely calm, divinely fair, Like a white lily, straight and tall, The loveliest flower among them all, His sweet young wife, Hermione, Sang to the child upon her knee! Here beauteous visions haunted him, Peopling the shadows soft and dim; Here the old gods around him cast The glamour of their splendors past. Jove thundered from the awful sky; Proud Juno trod the earth once more; Pale Isis, veiled in mystery, Her smile of mystic meaning wore; Apollo joyed in youth divine, And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine. Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned, With virgin footsteps spurned the ground; Here rose fair Venus from the sea, And that sad ghost, Persephone, Wandered, a very shade of shades, Amid the moonlit myrtle glades. Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child, The Holy Mother, meek and mild, Angels on glad wing soaring free, Pale, praying saints on bended knee, Martyrs with palms, and heroes brave Who for their guerdon won a grave, Earth’s laughing children, rosy sweet, And the soul’s phantoms, fair and fleet— All these were with him night and day, Charming the happy hours away! Oh, who so rich as Valdemar? What ill his joyous life can mar? With home and glorious visions blest, Glad in the work he loveth best! But Love’s clear eyes are quick to see; And one fair spring, Hermione. Sitting beneath her mulberry-tree With her young children at her knee, Saw Valdemar from day to day, As one whose thoughts were far away, With folded arms and drooping head Pace the green aisles with silent tread; Saw him stand moodily apart With idle hands and brooding heart, Or gaze at his still forms of clay, Himself as motionless as they! “O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bear Some burden that I do not share! I am your wife, your own true wife; Shut me not out from heart and life! Why brood you thus in silent pain?” As shifts the changing weather-vane, So came the old smile to his face, Saluting her with courtly grace. “Nay, nay, Hermione, not so! No secret, bitter grief I know; But, haunting all my dreams by night And thoughts by day, one vision bright, One nameless wonder, near me stands, Claiming its birthright at my hands. It hath your eyes, Hermione, Your tender lips that smile for me; It hath your perfect, stately grace, The matchless beauty of your face. But it hath more! for never yet On brow of earthly mould was set Such splendor and such light as streams From this rare phantom of my dreams!” Lightly she turned, and led him through Under the jasmines wet with dew, Into a wide, cool room, shut in From the great city’s whirl and din— Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay. “Dear idler, do thy work, I pray! Thy radiant phantom lieth hid The mould of centuries amid, Waiting till thou shalt bid it rise And live beneath the wondering skies!” Then rose a hot flush to his cheek; His stammering lips were slow to speak. “Hermione,” he said at length, As one who gathers up his strength, “Hermione, my wife, I go Far from thee on a journey slow And long and perilous; for I know Somewhere upon the earth there is A finer, purer clay than this, From which I’ll mould a shape more fair Than ever breathed in earthly air! I go to seek it!” “Ah!” she said, With smiling lips, but tearful eyes, Half lifted in a grieved surprise, “How shall I then be comforted? Not always do we find afar The good we seek, my Valdemar! This common, way-side clay thy hand Hath been most potent to command. Yet I—I will not bid thee stay. Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!” Then his long journeyings began, And still his hope his steps outran. O’er desert sands he came and went; He crossed a mighty continent; Plunged into forests dark and lone; In jungles heard the panther’s moan; Climbed the far mountains’ lofty heights; Watched alien stars through weary nights; While more than once, on trackless seas, His white sails caught the eddying breeze. Yet all his labor was for nought, And never found he what he sought, Or far or near. The finer clay But mocked his eager search alway. Ofttimes he came, with weary feet, Back to the home so still and sweet Where his fair wife, Hermione, Dwelt with her children at her knee; But never once his eager hand Thrilled the mute clay with high command. One day she spoke: “O Valdemar, Cease from your wanderings wide and far! Life is not long. Why waste it, then, Chasing false fires through marsh and fen? Mould your fair statue while you may; High purpose sanctifies the clay.” He answered her, “My dream must wait, Fortune will aid me, soon or late! Perhaps the clay I may not find— But a strange tale is in the wind Of an old man whose life has been Shut up wild solitudes within On Alpine mountains. He has found What I have sought the world around. A learnÈd, godly man, he knows How the full tide of being flows; And he, in some mysterious way, Makes, if he cannot find, the clay. He will his secret share with me— I go to him, Hermione!” “But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies, And while you dream, the vision dies! And look! Our children suffer lack; There is no coat for Claudio’s back; Theresa’s little feet, unshod, Are torn by shards on which they trod; And Marcius cried but yesterday When the lads mocked him at their play. The very house is crumbling down; The broken hearth-stone needs repair; The roof is open to the air— It wakes the laughter of the town! O Valdemar! if you must go Up to those trackless fields of snow, Mould first from yonder common clay Something to keep the wolf away— A Virgin for some humble shrine, A soldier clad in armor fine, Or even such toys as Andrefels To laughing, wondering children sells.” “Now murmur not, Hermione, But be thou patient,” answered he. “Why mind the laughter of the town? It cannot shake my fair renown! A touch of hardship, now and then, Will never harm our little men; And as for this old, crumbling roof, Let rude winds put it to the proof, And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! I Surely the Land of Promise spy, Where the fair vision of my dreams, Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams! In its white hand it holdeth up For us, my love, a brimming cup Where wealth and fame and joy divine Mingle in life’s most sparkling wine. Bid me God-speed, Hermione, And kiss me, ere I go from thee!” So on he sped, from day to day— Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun, Where scarlet-coated poppies run, Gay soldiers ready for the fray— Past vineyards purpling on the hills, Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills, And homes like dovecotes nestling high Midway between the earth and sky! Then on he passed through valleys dim Crowded with shadows gaunt and grim, Up towering heights whence glaciers launch Their swift-winged ships for seaward flight, Or where, dread messenger of fright, Sweeps down the awful avalanche! And still upon the mountain side To every man he met he cried, “Where shall I find, oh! tell me where, The hermit of this upper air, Who Nature’s inmost secret knows?” And, pointing to the eternal snows, Each man replied, with wagging head, “Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.” At length one day, as sank the sun, He reached a low hut, dark and dun, And, entering unbidden, found An old man stretched upon the ground: A white-haired, venerable man, Whose eyes had hardly light to scan The face that, blanched with awful fear, Bent down, his failing breath to hear. “Pax vobiscum” he murmured low, “Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!” “No priest am I,” cried Valdemar. “Alas! alas! I came from far To learn thy secret of the clay— Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!” But while he wet the parchÈd lips, The dull eyes closed in death’s eclipse; And the old seer in silence lay, Himself a thing of pallid clay, With all his secrets closely hid As Ramses’ in the pyramid. Long time within that lonely place Valdemar lived, but found no trace In learnÈd book or parchment scroll (The ink scarce dry upon the roll) Of aught the stars had taught to him. Within the wide horizon’s rim, Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play, Knew the lost secret of the clay. Then sought he, after journeyings hard, The holy monks of St. Bernard. But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well, A man not ruled by book and bell. Godly, perhaps—but much inclined Some newer road to heaven to find. And was he dead? God rest his soul, After this life of toil and dole! And that was all! O Valdemar! Fly to thy desolate home afar, Where wasted, worn, Hermione, With her pale children at her knee, Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps! He finds her, smiling as she sleeps, For night more tender is than day, And softly wipes our tears away. “Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries, As one whose spirit inly dies; “Hear me confess that I have been False to thee in my pride and sin! God give me grace from this blest day To do His work in common clay! ” Next morn, in humble, sweet content, Into his studio he went, Eager to test his willing hand, And rule the clay with wise command. But no fair wonder first he wrought, No marvel of creative thought, Not even a Virgin for a shrine, Or soldier clad in armor fine— Only such toys as Andrefels To laughing, wondering children sells! One day he knelt him gravely down Beside the hearth-stone, rent and brown. “And now, my patient wife,” said he, “What can be done with this, we’ll see.” With straining arm and crimsoned face He pried the mortar from its place, Lifted the heavy stone aside, And left a cavern yawning wide. Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sun The guerdon of his search was won; And where his broken hearth-stone lay He found at last the perfect clay! JUBILATE! Jubilate! Jubilate! Christ the Lord is risen to-day! Hear the mighty chorus swelling Over land and over sea! River calls aloud to river, Mountain peak to mountain peak— Jubilate! Jubilate! Christ the Lord is risen to-day! Waken, roses, from your slumbers! Lilies, wake—for he is near! Happy bells in wild-wood arches, Ring and swing in sweet accord! Lift your voices, O ye maples, Sing aloud, ye stately pines, Jubilate! Jubilate! Christ the Lord is risen to-day! O thou goddess of the springtime, Fair Ostera, thou art dead! Never more shall priests and vestals Weave fresh garlands for thy shrine; But the happy voices ringing Over land and over sea, Swell the mighty jubilate— “Christ the Lord is risen to-day!” EASTER LILIES O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing, Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day? Do the shining angels, through Heaven’s arches flying, Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay? For we cannot reach you, O our well belovÈd— Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear; From our close embraces ye are far removÈd, And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near. Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting— Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!” Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting— Earth and we together sang a roundelay! Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow; Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears; After night of watching came the glad to-morrow, Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years. Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth, Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day— And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth, Heaven’s own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay! “O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST” O wind that blows out of the West, Thou hast swept over mountain and sea, Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings The breath of my love to me? Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips? Or tangled her soft brown hair? Or fluttered the fragrant heart Of the rose she loves to wear? O sun that goes down in the West, Hast thou seen my love to-day, As she sits in her beautiful prime Under skies so far away? Hast thou gilded a path for her feet, Or deepened the glow on her cheeks, Or bent from the skies to hear The low, sweet words she speaks? O stars that are bright in the West When the hush of the night is deep, Do ye see my love as she lies Like a chaste, white flower asleep? Does she smile as she walks with me In the light of a happy dream, While the night winds rustle the leaves, And the light waves ripple and gleam? O birds that fly out of the West, Do ye bring me a message from her, As sweet as your love-notes are, When the warm spring breezes stir? Did she whisper a word of me As your tremulous wings swept by, Or utter my name, mayhap, In a single passionate cry? O voices out of the West, Ye are silent every one, And never an answer comes From wind, or stars, or sun! And the blithe birds come and go Through the boundless fields of space, As reckless of human prayers As if earth were a desert place! A SUMMER SONG Roly-poly honey-bee, Humming in the clover, Under you the tossing leaves, And the blue sky over, Why are you so busy, pray? Never still a minute, Hovering now above a flower, Now half-buried in it! Jaunty robin-redbreast, Singing loud and cheerly, From the pink-white apple tree In the morning early, Tell me, is your merry song Just for your own pleasure, Poured from such a tiny throat, Without stint or measure? Little yellow buttercup, By the way-side smiling, Lifting up your happy face, With such sweet beguiling, Why are you so gayly clad— Cloth of gold your raiment? Do the sunshine and the dew Look to you for payment? Roses in the garden beds, Lilies, cool and saintly, Darling blue-eyed violets, Pansies, hooded quaintly, Sweet-peas that, like butterflies, Dance the bright skies under, Bloom ye for your own delight, Or for ours, I wonder! THE URN Across the blue Atlantic waves She sent a little gift to me: A golden urn—a graceful toy As one need care to see. Smiling, I held it in my hand, Thinking her message o’er and o’er, Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so near The undiscovered shore. Oh! had it been a funeral urn— The gift my darling sent to me With loving thoughts and tender words Across the heaving sea— A funeral urn which might have held Her sacred ashes, sealed in rest Utter as that which holds in thrall Some pulseless marble breast! Where drifts she now? On what far seas Floateth to-day her golden hair? What stars behold her pale hands, clasped In ecstasy of prayer? Forever in this thought of mine, Like the fair Lady of Shalott, She drifteth, drifteth with the tide, But never comes to Camelot! THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER “What, ho!” he cried, as up and down He rode through the streets of Windham town— “What, ho! for the day of peace is done, And the day of wrath too well begun! Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills; Drive down the cattle from off your hills; For Boston lieth in sore distress, Pallid with hunger and long duress: Her children starve, while she hears the beat And the tramp of the red-coats in every street!” “What, ho! What, ho!” Like a storm unspent, Over the hill-sides he came and went; And Parson White, from his open door Leaning bareheaded that August day, While the sun beat down on his temples gray, Watched him until he could see no more. Then straight he strode to the church, and flung His whole soul into the peal he rung; Pulling the bell-rope till the tower Seemed to rock in the sudden shower— The shower of sound the farmers heard, Rending the air like a living word! Then swift they gathered with right good-will From field and anvil and shop and mill, To hear what the parson had to say That would not keep till the Sabbath-day. For only the women and children knew The tale of the horsemen galloping through— The message he bore as up and down He rode through the streets of Windham town. That night, as the parson sat at ease In the porch, with his Bible on his knees, (Thanking God that at break of day Frederic Manning would take his way, With cattle and sheep from off the hills, And a load of grain from the barns and mills, To the starving city where General Gage Waited unholy war to wage), His little daughter beside him stood, Hiding her face in her muslin hood. In her arms her own pet lamb she bore, As it struggled down to the oaken floor: “It must go; I must give my lamb,” she said, “To the children that cry for meat and bread,” Then lifted to his her holy eyes, Wet with the tears of sacrifice. “Nay, nay,” he answered. “There is no need That the hearts of babes should ache and bleed. Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play, You and your pet, through the livelong day.” He laid his hand on her shining hair, And smiled as he blessed her, standing there, With kerchief folded across her breast, And her small brown hands together pressed, A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet, With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet. Away to its place the lamb she led, Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed, While the moon rose up and the stars looked down On the silent streets of Windham town. But when the heralds of morning came, Flushing the east with rosy flame, With low of cattle and scurry of feet, Driving his herd down the village street, Young Manning heard from a low stone wall A child’s voice clearly yet softly call; And saw in the gray dusk standing there A little maiden with shining hair, While crowding close to her tender side Was a snow-white lamb to her apron tied. “Oh, wait!” she cried, “for my lamb must go To the children crying in want and woe. It is all I have.” And her tears fell fast As she gave it one eager kiss—the last. “The road will be long to its feet. I pray Let your arms be its bed a part of the way; And give it cool water and tender grass Whenever a way-side brook you pass.” Then away she flew like a startled deer, Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear. Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyes One moment up to the morning skies; Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strode Sturdily down the lengthening road. “Now God be my helper,” he cried, “and lead Me safe with my charge to the souls in need! Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole, Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll, To the city in want and woe that lies I will bear this lamb as a sacrifice.” MARCH FOURTH
1881-1882 (An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt’s
“Light of the World.”) “Nay,” he said, “it is not done! At to-morrow’s set of sun Come again, if you would see What the finished thought may be.” Straight they went. The heavy door On its hinges swung once more, As within the studio dim Eye and heart took heed of Him! How the Presence filled the room, Brightening all its dusky gloom! Saints and martyrs turned their eyes From the hills of Paradise; Rapt in holy ecstasy, Mary smiled her Son to see, Letting all her lilies fall At His feet—the Lord of all! But the painter bowed his head, Lost in wonder and in dread, And as at a holy shrine Knelt before the form divine. All had passed—the pride, the power, Of the soul’s creative hour— Exaltation’s soaring flight To the spirit’s loftiest height. Had he dared to paint the Lord? Dared to paint the Christ, the Word? Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin! Ah, the shame his soul within! Saints might turn on him their eyes From the hills of Paradise, But the painter could not brook On that pictured face to look. Yet the form was grand and fair, Fit to move a world to prayer; God like in its strength and stress, Human in its tenderness. From it streamed the Light divine, O’er it drooped the heavenly vine, And beneath the bending spray Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way! Suddenly with eager hold, Back he swept the curtain’s fold, Letting all the sunset glow O’er the living canvas flow. Surely then the wondrous eyes Met his own in tenderest wise, And the Lord Christ, half revealed, Smiled upon him as he kneeled! Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought, Up he brush and palette caught, And where deepest shade was thrown Set one sign for God alone! Years have passed—but, even yet, Where the massive frame is set You may find these words: “Nec me PrÆtermittas, Domine!” “Neither pass me by, O Lord!” Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word, Low we bow before thy feet, Thy remembrance to entreat! In our soul’s most secret place, For no eye but thine to trace, Lo! this prayer we write: “Nec me PrÆtermittas, Domine!” FROM EXILE
Paris, September 3, 1879 (A Mother speaks) Ah, dear God, when will it be day? I cannot sleep, I cannot pray. Tossing, I watch the silent stars Mount up from the horizon bars: Orion with his flaming sword, Proud chieftain of the glorious horde; Auriga up the lofty arch Pursuing still his stately march— So patient and so calm are they. Ah, dear God! when will it be day? O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hear A cock crow through the silence clear! The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east, And, afar off, I catch the least Low murmur of the city’s stir As she shakes off the dreams of her! List! there’s a sound of hurrying feet Far down below me in the street. Thank God! the weary night is past, The morning comes—’tis day at last. Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise! The sun is up, it gilds the skies. She does not stir. The young sleep sound As dead men in their graves profound. Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste! To-day there is no time to waste. Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair. Hand me the glass. Once I was fair As thou art. Now I look so old It seems my death-knell should be tolled. Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale? Like a white ghost, so wan and frail? Well, that’s not strange. All night I lay Waiting and watching for the day. But—there! I’ll drink it; it may make My cheeks burn brighter for his sake Who comes to-day. My boy! my boy! How can I bear the unwonted joy? I, who for eight long years have wept While happier mothers smiling slept; While others decked their sons first-born For dance, or fÊte, or bridal morn, Or proudly smiled to see them stand The stateliest pillars of the land! For he, so gallant and so gay, As young and debonair as they, My beautiful, brave boy, my life, Went down in the unequal strife! The right or wrong? Oh, what care I? The good God judgeth up on high. And now He gives him back to me! I tremble so—I scarce can see. How full the streets are! I will wait His coming here beside this gate, From which I watched him as he went, Eight years ago, to banishment. Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when You see a band of stalwart men, With one fair boy among them—one With bright hair shining in the sun, Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes, Blue as the blue of summer skies. My boy! my boy!—Why come they not? O Son of God! hast Thou forgot Thy Mother’s agony? Yet she, Was she not stronger far than we, We common mothers? Could she know From her far heights such pain and woe?— Run farther down the street, and see If they’re not coming, Rosalie! Mother of Christ! how lag the hours! What? just beyond the convent towers, And coming straight this way? O heart, Be still and strong, and bear thy part, Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hear Above the city’s hum the near Slow tread of marching feet; I see— Nay, I can not see, Rosalie; Your eyes are younger. Is he there, My Antoine, with his sunny hair? It is like gold; it shines in the sun: Surely you see it? What? Not one— Not one bright head? All old, old men, Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—then He has not come—he is ill, or dead! O God, that I were in thy stead, My son! my son! Who touches me? Your pardon, sir. I am not she For whom you look. Go farther on Ere yet the daylight shall be gone. ‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’ You? You are not he—my Antoine! You— A bowed, gray-bearded man, while he Was a mere boy who went from me, Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir. God bless you! Soon you will find her For whom you seek. But I—ah, I— Still must I call and none reply! You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son! Thou art mine own, my banished one! A MOTHER-SONG Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining, Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky; Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining: Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh! Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping; Watches and waits she the angels’ song to hear; Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping, Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear. Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing; Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells; With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging, While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells! Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices, All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain, “Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices, And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain! Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of glory The Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn! Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the story How Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born! EASTER MORNING Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair, To Annie Blair spake she, As from beneath her wrinkled hand She peered far out to sea. “Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair, For my old eyes are dim; See you a single boat afloat Within the horizon’s rim?” Sweet Annie looked to east, to west, To north and south looked she: There was no single boat afloat Upon the angry sea. The sky was dark, the winds were high, The breakers lashed the shore, And louder and still louder swelled The tempest’s sullen roar. “Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried; “Doth any boat come in?” And scarce she heard the answering word Above the furious din. “Pray God no boat may put to sea In such a gale!” she said; “Pray God no soul may dare to-night The rocks of Danger Head!” “This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,” Dame Margaret cried again, “When Mary’s Son, the Merciful, On Calvary was slain. The earth did quake, the rocks were rent, The graves were opened wide, And darkness like to this fell down When He—the Holy—died. Give me your hand, O Annie Blair; Your two knees fall upon; Christ send to you your lover back— To me, my only son!” All night they watched, all night they prayed, All night they heard the roar Of the fierce breakers dashing high Upon the lonely shore. Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand, A voice above the din: “Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret! Is Annie Blair within? High on the rocks of Danger Head Her lover’s boat is cast, All rudderless, all anchorless— Mere hull and splintered mast.” Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand, And women wailing sore: “Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret! Your son you’ll see no more! God pity you! Christ comfort you!” The weeping women cried; But “May God pity Annie Blair!” Dame Margaret replied. “For life is long and youth is strong, And it must still bear on. Leave us alone to make our moan— My son! alas, my son!”
The Easter morning, flushed with joy, Saw all the winds at rest, And far and near the blue sea smiled With sunshine on its breast. The neighbors came, the neighbors went; They sought the house of prayer; But on the rocks of Danger Head The dame and Annie Blair, With still, white faces, watched the deep Without a tear or moan. “I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair— “My heart is turned to stone.” Forth from the church the pastor came, And up the rocks strode he, Baring his thin white locks to meet The salt breath of the sea. “The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake, The sea give up its dead, For Christ our Lord is risen indeed— ’Tis Easter morn,” he said. Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry, A rush of hurrying feet, The swarming of a hundred men Adown the village street. “Now unto God and Christ the Lord Be praise and thanks alway! The sea hath given up its dead This blessed Easter-day.” SEALED ORDERS “Oh, whither bound, my captain? The wind is blowing free, And overhead the white sails spread As we go out to sea.” He looked to north, he looked to south, Or ever a word he spake; “With orders sealed my sails I set— Due east my course I take.” “But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried, “This only do I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever wind may blow.” For many a day we sailÉd east. “O captain, tell me true, When will our good ship come to port?” “I cannot answer you!” “Then, prithee, gallant captain, Let us but drift awhile! The current setteth southward Past many a sunny isle, Where cocoas grow, and mangoes, And groves of feathery palm, And nightingales sing all night long To roses breathing balm.” “Nay, tempt me not,” he answered, “This only do I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever winds may blow!” Then sailed we on, and sailed we east Into the whirlwind’s track. Wild was the tempest overhead, The sea was strewn with wrack. “Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain, Thou’rt rushing on to death!” But back he answer shouted, With unabated breath: “Turn back who will, I turn not! For this one thing I know, That I must sail due eastward However winds may blow!” “Oh, art thou fool or madman? Thy port is but a dream, And never on the horizon’s rim Will its fair turrets gleam.” Then smiled the captain wisely, And slowly answered he, The while his keen glance widened Over the lonely sea: “I carry sealÉd orders. This only thing I know, That I must sail due eastward Whatever winds may blow!” AN ANNIVERSARY So long, so short, So swift, so slow, Are the years of man As they come and go! O love, it was so long ago! So long, so long that we were young, And in the cloisters of our hearts Hope all her joy-bells rung! So long, so long that since that hour Full half a lifetime hath gone by— How ran the days ere first we met, BelovÉd, thou and I? We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawn Must still presage the rising sun, And rose and crimson flush the east Ere day is well begun. We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraiths That fled when Day’s full splendor kissed Our souls’ high places, and its winds Swept the vales clear of mist! So long, so short, So swift, so slow, Are the years of man As they come and go! O love, it was but yesterday! Who said it was so long ago? How many times the rose hath bloomed, Why should we care to know? For it was just as sweet last June, As dewy fresh, as fair, as red, As when our first glad Eden knew The rare perfumes it shed! O love, it was but yesterday! If yesterday is far away, As brightly on the hill-tops lies The sunshine of to-day. Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad! O circling years, fly swift or slow! Your ripening harvests shall not fail, Nor autumn’s utmost glow. MARTHA Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve. Not all with tranquil heart, Even at thy dear feet, Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart! Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bear The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at thy feet May muse and pray! Yea, Lord!—Yet some must do Life’s daily task-work; some Who fain would sing, must toil Amid earth’s dust and moil, While lips are dumb! Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn, And woman bake the bread! And some must watch and wake Early, for others’ sake, Who pray instead! Yea, Lord!—Yet even thou Hast need of earthly care. I bring the bread and wine To thee, O Guest Divine! Be this my prayer! THE HOUR What is the hour of the day? O watchman, can you tell? Hark! from the tower of Time Strikes the alarum-bell! The strokes I cannot count. O watchman, can you see On the misty dial-plate What hours remain for me? I know the rosy dawn Faded—how long ago!— Lost in the radiant depths Of morning’s golden glow. Then all the mountain tops Stood breathless at high noon, While earth for brief repose Put off her sandal shoon. Now faster fly the hours— The afternoon is here; O watchman in the tower, Tell me, is sunset near? Yet—why care I to know?— Beyond the sunset bars Upon the dead day wait The brightest of the stars! THE CLOSED GATE I walked along a narrow way; The sun was shining everywhere; The jocund earth was glad and gay, With morning freshness in the air. The grass was green beneath my feet; The skies were blue and soft o’erhead; The robin carolled clear and sweet, And flowers their fragrance round me shed. How shone the great hills far away; How clear they rose against the blue; How fair the tranquil meadows lay, Where the bright river glances through! But suddenly, as on I pressed, Before me frowned a closÉd gate; Filled with dismay, and sore distressed, I strove in vain to conquer fate! Beyond, the hills for which I sighed— Beyond, the valleys still and fair— Beyond, the meadows stretching wide, And all the shining fields of air!
What does it mean, O Father! when Thy children reach some closÉd gate, Which, though they knock and knock again, Will not its watch and ward abate? Still shall they batter at the walls? Or still, like children, cry and fret, While the loud clamor of their calls Swells high in turbulent regret? When thou hast barred the door, shall they Challenge thy wisdom, God of love? Or humbly wait beside the way Till thou the barrier shalt remove? Too oft we cannot hear thee speak, So loud our voices and our prayers, While to the patient and the meek The gate thou openest unawares! CONTENT Not asking how or why, Before thy will, O Father, let my heart Lie hushed and still! Why should I seek to know? Thou art all-wise; If thou dost bid me go, Let that suffice. If thou dost bid me stay, Make me content In narrow bounds to dwell Till life be spent. If thou dost seal the lips That fain would speak, Let me be still till thou The seal shalt break. If thou dost make pale Pain Thy minister, Then let my patient heart Clasp hands with her. Or, if thou sendest Joy To walk with me, My Father, let her lead Me nearer thee! Teach me that Joy and Pain Alike are thine; Teach me my life to leave In hands divine! MY WONDERLAND They tell me you have been in Wonderland. Why, so have I! No boat’s keel touched the strand, No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding car Bore me to mystic realms, unknown and far. And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes, Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies; I, too, have been in Wonderland, and know How through its secret vales the weird winds blow. One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn— I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn, Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the south A young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth. She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and near Her minstrels’ voices, jubilant and clear; While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet, All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet, Ran over hill and dale, to bring to her Green robes with wild flowers ’broidered. All astir Were the gay, courtier butterflies; the trees Flung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze; The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed, Her happy servitors around her pressed, Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filled With life’s new wine, that all her pulses thrilled. In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day, In a gray casket, deftly hidden away, I found two pearls; but as I looked they grew To living jewels, that took wing and flew. And once a creeping worm, within my sight Wove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and white Then, bursting from its cerements, soared in air, A radiant vision, most supremely fair. Out of the darksome mould, before my eyes I saw a shaft of emerald arise, Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold, And set with gems of splendors manifold. Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood, When o’er the vaulted dome there swept a flood Of lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyre Took to its heart a globe of crimson fire. The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl became A liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame; And as I gazed, a silver crescent hung In violet depths, a thousand stars among. I saw a woman, marvellously fair, Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air; Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold, A marble goddess of transcendent mould. I saw a folded bud, in one short hour, Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower. O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far; Near as this rose, remote as yonder star! THE GUEST O thou Guest so long delayed, Surely, when the house was made, In its chambers wide and free, There was set a place
for thee. Surely, in some room was spread For thy sake a snowy bed, Decked with linen white and fine, Meet, O Guest, for use of thine. Yet thou hast not kept the tryst. Other guests our lips have kissed: Other guests have tarried long, Wooed by sunshine and by song; For the year was bright with May, All the birds kept holiday, All the skies were clear and blue, When this house of ours was new. Youth came in with us to dwell, Crowned with rose and asphodel, Lingered long, and even yet Cannot quite his haunts forget. Love hath sat beside our board, Brought us treasures from his hoard, Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine, Vintage of the hills divine. Down our garden path has strayed Young Romance, in light arrayed; Joy hath flung her garlands wide; Faith sung low at eventide; Care hath flitted in and out; Sorrow strewn her weeds about; Hope held up her torch on high When clouds darkened all the sky. Pain, with pallid lips and thin, Oft hath slept our house within; Life hath called us, loud and long, With a voice as trumpet strong. Sometimes we have thought, O Guest, Thou wert coming with the rest, Watched to see thy shadow fall On the inner chamber wall. For we know that, soon or late, Thou wilt enter at the gate, Cross the threshold, pass the door, Glide at will from floor to floor. When thou comest, by this sign We shall know thee, Guest divine: Though alone thy coming be, Someone must go forth with thee! AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear, No doubt it is. I was thinking here Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, How fair was the scene I looked upon; Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise, How it might look to other eyes. ’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed Cut here and there in the turf; instead, The broad straight paths run east and west, Down which two horsemen could ride abreast, And north and south with an equal state, From the gray stone wall to the low white gate. And, where they cross on the middle line, Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbine Clamber and climb at their own sweet will Over the latticed arbor still; Though since they were planted years have flown, And many a time have the roses blown. To the right the hill runs down to the river, Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver, And under the shade of the hemlock-trees The low ferns nod to the passing breeze; There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep With a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep. So quiet it is, so cool and still, In the green retreat of the shady hill! And you scarce can tell, as you look within, Where the garden ends and the woods begin. But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light, What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight! Red roses burn in the morning glow; White roses proffer their cups of snow; In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-gold The zinnias flaunt, and the marigold; And stately and tall the lilies stand, Like vestal virgins, on either hand. Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies, Flutter and dance under summer skies; Blue violets here in the shade are set, With a border of fragrant mignonette; And here are pansies and columbine, And the burning stars of the cypress-vine. Stately hollyhocks, row on row, Golden sunflowers, all aglow, Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue, Asters of every shade and hue; And over the wall, like a trail of fire, The red nasturtium climbs high and higher. My lady’s-slippers are fair to see, And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be, With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides, And many another flower besides. Do you see that rose without a thorn? It was planted the year my Hal was born. And he is a man now. Yes, my dear, An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here, I think how often lover and maid Down these long flowery paths have strayed, And how little feet have over them run That will stir no more in shade or sun. As one who reads from an open book, On these fair luminous scrolls I look; And all the story of life is there— Its loves and losses, hope and despair. An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyes Fair as the hills of Paradise. DISCONTENT I. (The Brier Rose speaks.) I cling to the garden wall Outside, where the grasses grow; Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun, And the yellow mulleins blow. The dock and the thistle crowd Close to my shrinking feet, And the gypsy yarrow shares My cup and the food I eat. The rude winds toss my hair, The wild rains beat me down, The way-side dust lies white And thick on my leafy crown. I cannot keep my robes From wanton fingers free, And the veriest beggar dares To stop and gaze at me. Sometimes I climb and climb To the top of the garden wall, And I see her where she stands, Stately and fair and tall— My sister, the red, red Rose, My sister, the royal one, The fairest flower that blows Under the summer sun! What wonder that she is fair? What wonder that she is sweet? The treasures of earth and air Lie at her dainty feet; The choicest fare is hers, Her cup is brimmed with wine; Rich are her emerald robes, And her bed is soft and fine. She need not lift her head Even to sip the dew; No rude touch makes her shrink The whole long summer through. Her servants do her will; They come at her beck and call. Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowers Inside of the garden wall! II. (The Garden Rose speaks.)
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