  A SONG IN THE EVENINGO sweetest bird that ever sang In notes of wild rejoicing; Thine even-song as first it rang, Was thrilling in its voicing! I felt thy rapture as I heard Thy song in all its beauty; To me it scarce seemed but a bird; 'Twas life, and love, and duty! I could not see thy tiny form, As softly closed the gloaming; And like a wanderer in the storm My heart was blindly roaming. While, as thy song rang pure and clear O'er sweet smell of the haying, Mem'ry sped back through many a year, Both light and shade displaying. And still thy notes of reed-like tone Came clear o'er mead and river, With tender meaning all its own, And trilled and trilled forever! "O heart," it sang, "let thine own life Become a song to others, That thou mayst count them in the strife Not alien, but as brothers! Sing on, sing on, thy notes repeat, Sing life, and love, and duty, That mystic three whose names replete Are e'er with heavenly beauty. Sing life, the gift of ray divine That pierced the gloom of even; The first upon our path to shine, A heritage of Heaven! And love—oh, what were life without This second gift eternal, That bids the glad earth blossom out In summer's garb supernal! Yet love and life were both in vain Were duty not a flower That springs beneath the blessÉd rain To crown Life's darkest hour!" Not unto me a bird, that eve, In notes of earth was singing, But a pure voice its way did cleave From Heaven its message bringing! MEADOW BLOOMMy one wee bud that grows in the meadow, Far apart from the flaunting garden blooms, Afar, where the brook and birds are singing, And the soft noon haze o'er the distance looms. My one wee bud, but to grow so bravely Where the rushes rise from the moorland green, Where birds skim close o'er the grassy billows And the low breeze murmurs its plaint between. My one wee song I sing in the even, When the home doth gather its loved ones close, And the world's afar and hearts grow nearer, And the jar of life sinks into repose. My one wee song, like a flower growing In this life of mine that were else so bare! Ah! shalt thou go forth to do my bidding— My love, shall he cull it as blossom fair? Ah! flower and song, be this thy meaning, Thy mission of love in the world is clear; The grace once born of seed sown in shadow Shall bloom in the hearts that now hold thee dear! A SONG OF THE AUTUMNScarlet and gold and crimson, Their banners flung to the breeze, Like monarchs' brilliant vesture The ranks of the maple trees. Golden and brown and russet The oaks in their Autumn dress; Soldiers in ranks deploying, To the front they onward press. Pale in their coats of yellow, Tinged and with orange flecked, The chestnuts on the hillside, As with royalty bedecked. Scarlet and gold and crimson, And golden and russet brown; Pale with a sun-kissed yellow Are the leaves now fluttering down. Garb of the season's bringing, Majestic it decks the hills, And Autumn's lavish splendor The soul with its beauty fills. THE IRISAdown the grassy hill they come, To greet me, every morn; Those little maids (in Norman caps) Of joy and spring-time born. They march demurely, side by side, How many pair there be! Far as mine eye can reach, their forms In green and white I see. Each sister wears with youthful grace Her snowy Norman cap, And in the long procession there I see no pause or gap. And so, I watch to see them come As morn by morn I pass, The green of shimmering robe and glint Of snow within the grass. They never speak and yet they nod A friendly greeting there, And all their beauty round me seems A fragrance in the air. I speak to them? Oh, yes, I speak And lovingly I bid Them welcome every summer morn, Those maids with downcast lid! They are so modest, pure and fair; They are so very sweet, I fain would linger there and call Them clustering round my feet. Far backward in the view my eyes The slow procession see, And yet they never leave the path Nor can they speak to me. 'Tis the flag-lily growing tall Amid the meadow grass; The Iris, as we often call Each snowy-snooded lass. In couples stately, there they stand As far as eye can scan, And round them waves the nodding grass As homage due from man. They stand a line of vestals pure, Or each a sweet-faced nun; While on each snowy cap there falls The radiance of the sun. Although the power of speech may not Be theirs in worldly phrase, They teach a lesson just as true, And just as full of praise. In their allotted path they walk, And fill their destined end, Their beauty gladdens every eye, As down the hill they wend. O flower-sisters, if ye make One heart in rapture rise; If ye but waken one pure thought To bloom in Paradise. Then have your lives, though brief, as boon To mortal man been given, To draw from earth his sordid thoughts And bid them rest on Heaven! |
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