Part 1
[Illustration: JULIA CARTER ALDRICH,
(PETRESIA PETERS.)]
HAZEL BLOOM,
BY JULIA CARTER ALDRICH. (PETRESIA PETERS.)
_Mother! O, holy music in the sound_ _Of that dear word—Mother! O, visions sweet_ _That crowd the mind and thickly cluster round,_ _To drive out tempting wiles, and leave replete_ _The soul’s most lofty plans, and purest thought!_
* * * * *
_Could man have known the part divine, repressed_ _Through youthful life, for noblest womanhood,_ _When she should pass to dear maternity—_ _Had he the Christ, in Mother, rightly known,_ _Kind Heaven had spared the pains of Calvary._ _Through her the first of Heavenly love is shown—_ _Through her, first glimpses caught of Christ, of God._
_B. F. Aldrich._
[Illustration]
BUFFALO: CHARLES WELLS MOULTON, 1899.
COPYRIGHT BY JULIA CARTER ALDRICH. 1899.
_In memory of that sainted one, My Mother, This volume is inscribed to the Mothers— The Home-makers of our land, By one who has known The breadth and depth Of maternal hope and joy— Whose soul has continually drank, Thro’ all the years of Motherhood, From that well-spring of Blessing— Unfailing, filial devotion._
_J. C. A._
INDEX.
The Weaver 9
Mystery 11
In Childhood’s Years 14
In the City of Suffering 15
Heliotrope 18
Constancy 20
Estranged 22
My Inkstand 25
History of One Life 26
Evening 27
Rondeaux 29
Solace of the Flowers 30
Regret 32
Hazel Bloom 35
Life’s Shuttle 38
Springtime 40
For Insomnia 42
Mother 45
Eoline’s Dream 48
Our Own 52
Wounded Faith 55
Destiny 57
Unclaimed 60
Death 61
Night-Blooming Cereus 64
My Muse 66
We Never Know 68
A June in Childhood 70
Goldenrod 74
An Evening in June 75
Yosemite 77
Blight or Blessing 80
O, For a Rainy Day 82
The Great Poet 83
Love’s Riches 88
Complainings 90
Questionings 92
Persecuted 94
O, Kindly Speak 96
He is Risen 97
The Christ 99
Feed My Lambs 102
The Kingdom of Heaven 103
Supplication 106
The Portrait 107
Out in the Woods 109
Unforgiven 112
The Evening and the Morning 114
The Unseen 116
Painting 117
The Christian’s Armor 120
To My Friend 121
Hill-Crest Home 124
Lilies of the Valley 135
Pearly Shells 138
Courage 140
Trailing Arbutus 141
Encouragement 145
Faith 147
Nirvana 149
Heredity 150
Pebbles 152
Words 157
Mother 159
Hands 161
Endymion 163
Calypso—The Lover’s Pocket 167
What is Love 171
Sleighing 173
First Love 175
Man 176
Trust of Childhood 177
Alone 180
Night 183
Disappointment 185
Love’s Ideal 186
A Legend of the Lily 187
To James Newton Mathews 190
The Great Hereafter 191
Late October 195
On the Beach 198
Hidden 200
My Robins are Gone 202
Winterbloom 204
The Old Home 206
Thought 209
Columbus 212
HAZEL BLOOM
The Weaver.
With warm desire to please the captious ones, Whose fervency the finished fabric suns, With ardent conjurations she besought The thronging sprites, that feed the loom of thought, To gather shining woof, from climes afar— From lands where all things bright and wondrous are— To seek the dame whose tireless hand doth hold The distaff yielding threads of fine spun gold, And bring the gathered treasures in to her, All sweet with far-fetched frankincense and myrrh: Instead of quest in distant lands for woof From near they brought, and with it sharp reproof.
“The glow and flame of thy desire Is lit by an unholy fire. We bring thee shreds for needs of life With which its ways are ever rife; Weave these as we shall bring them in (None leads with Lotus-charm to sin) And when the web falls from thy care, Who needs takes self-apportioned share. If one is girt by it for storm, Or one lone home, made glad and warm— If one bruised heart finds through it balm, One groping soul, up-lifting psalm, Then, thank thy God that thou hast wrought The humble shreds that we have brought.”
Mystery.
All the earth’s history Is mingled with mystery; Thrid its long pathways thro’ Time’s gathered pages, Struggle with theories,—delve as you will, Wrapped in uncertainty, mystery still, Baffling the lore of philosophy’s sages.
Wishes ungratified, Longings unsatisfied; Search is untiring and effort is eager, Reaching for aye for the far, unattained, Feeling the spirit to narrowness chained,— All we may know, to the unknown is meager.
Yet, human pomposity, Rich in verbosity, Leads us afar, thro’ the limitless spaces, Parting so boldly the cometal robes, Shows us their bodies, as infantile globes, Sportively seeking maturity’s places.
It measures Infinity, Questions Divinity—Talks of the universe at its inception; Theory, feeling the pulse of the Earth, Tells us how long since the planet had birth And when we may look for its utter disruption.
Yet LIFE’S remote decimal— The infinitesimal, Puzzles the agnost for Nature’s great mother; Never a blade without fertilized germ,— Never a seed without blossoming term,— Each is a subsequent unto the other.
* * * * *
Most wondrous, mysterious, Throned and imperious, Mind, in the beautiful temple of Being, Rules o’er its realm with absolute sway Till, broken and crumbling, the structure of clay, Then swift on the wings of the silences fleeing.
Thought, strained to intensity, Ranging immensity, Asks for their home—for the spirit’s bright heaven; A speck in the universe—our little earth, ’Mong millions, all grander and greater of girth— Will God’s central glory to _this_ one be given?
Ah! Safely He has hidden it, From earth-gaze forbidden it: Humbled and weary the bold Thought, returning, Nestles down closer to God’s written word; By grief’s parching thirst its sweet fountains are stirred; Its pages yield balm that will soothe the heart’s yearning.
There, Heaven comes near to us,— Those who were dear to us, Safe in its mansions—we’ll question not where,— Live in the light of an Infinite Love! Faith sweetly whispers—“They beckon above,— The loved ones, who’ve left us, are waiting us there.”
The hidden earth-histories— The sought-after mysteries Are veiled, but in blessing;—we seek for them ever; Wisdom hath woven this mystical bond, Binding the soul to God’s greater Beyond, Enlarging, enriching, thro’ constant endeavor.
In Childhood’s Years.
In childhood’s years, what dreamy days In spring’s soft airs or autumn’s haze! How golden bright the sunset skies Where just beyond our heaven lies! Each dawn the sun has merry plays With Rosy-mist, who veils his rays To shield us from his glory blaze, While she paints morn such lovely dyes In Childhood’s years.
We tread but joy-lit, sunny ways, Nor dream of dread, that is decay’s:— No sorrow comes but quickly flies— No love is known that cools and dies— No crafty selfishness betrays In childhood’s years.
In the City of Suffering.[1]
In the city of suffering souls grow large, And money-greed languishing lies; ’Neath the hurrying feet, of God’s messengers there, That pompous, old Selfishness dies: Ambition, so eagerly climbing to heights Where glory, alone, is the prize, Forgets his wild dreams at the shriek of distress And goes where Humanity cries.
In the city of suffering, sympathies blend As valley rills, blend in a stream; The high, and the low, all forgetful of rank, Are thrilled by calamity’s scream. There Wealth’s jeweled hand and the toil-hardened palm, Have neither a preference in claim, But agony ardently stretching them forth, Makes common appeal, in His name.
In the city of suffering hearts grow warm— Aye, flame in the darkness of woe; The spark God gave, from His infinite love, Neath the hot breath of pain is aglow. There, swift to the rescue, goes valorous strength, Surprising the world with his deeds— There, Courage will struggle with death for a life, While yielding his own up, if needs.
In the city of Suffering, Avarice hides In the gloomy old vault with his gold, Nor dares to meet Charity’s love-lighted face, His own is so pitiless and cold; There, cowardice, envy—all drosses of soul In the crucial test are consumed— Dark altars, once glowing with brotherly love, In the shadow of sorrow, relumed.
The city of Suffering is Heaven’s wide door For victims its horrors enthrall; E’en martyrs have sung when the fagots blazed high— So ever He heareth our call; And those who, with fellow-love prompting their deeds, Fought there, with the mounting flame fiends, Have wrought in the plan, for ennobling the world, With God’s own, mysterious means.
In the city of Suffering souls break the bonds That indolent selfishness forged in the womb, And lives, that were dwarfed by their mammon-cut groove, Find growth in Love’s labor, and sunshine in gloom. When raven-winged Sorrow sweeps over the land, An angel attends where its shadow may fall, And, out from its darkness, brings heavenly light, And faith, in the Wisdom, that’s over us all.
[1] “There was a puff—a muffled roar, and the tower was literally rent by an explosion. A moment later the flames burst out thro’ every rent and fissure, and the men, away up there, in mid air, fighting the fire, were cut off from the world below, by an outpour of smoke and flame, soon to become a mighty conflagration.”
Heliotrope.
There’s a charm in its fragrance bewitchingly sweet— A something that binds with a magical spell; E’en silence, thro’ this, to the heart can repeat The message that’s sent in its purple fringed cell.
’Tis an odorous breath, from the heavenly heights— An angel hand, beckoning to the bloom scented fields, Where the soul in its freedom may taste the delights That the garden of Paradise yields.
Like childhood’s sweet dreams of the holy and true, That float thro’ Life’s dusk in the ether of Thought, Or morn’s rosy blush, melting into the blue, With tint of the beryl and amethyst caught.
’Tis an exquisite messenger, given the heart, That winsomely speaks to the spirit, alone, And whatever sentiment sent, will impart— Will tell it so sweetly, in language its own.
When souls must needs pass thro’ Grief’s wordless abyss, Then heart unto heart, through it, uttereth speech— The sympathy, seeking expression through this, Is told with a tenderness words never reach.
If you’ve aught that’s too sacred for words to express, Too tender to breathe in a wish or a hope, ’Twill be fittingly draped in the delicate dress, And borne in the perfume of HELIOTROPE.
Constancy.
The Fates have decreed thou canst never be mine, Yet, constant, my soul turneth ever to thine With love that outreaches Time’s cruel decree. Too holy the passion with others to name— Thoughts deepest and purest feed ever the flame, That burns on the altar, kept sacred to thee.
As ocean in silence embosoms the light That beams from the gems in the crown of the night, Yet dimming its purity never, So thou, in my bosom a presence shalt be, As stars shining down in the depths of the sea— Unsullied thy brightness forever.
Like a verdure-girt spring in the wide desert plains— Like the stroke, bringing freedom, by the riving of chains, Aye, Life’s every essence of pleasure Had been love’s requital, that long ago morn; Still ever I’ll count, (yet this rose has its thorn) Having loved, though I lost, as a treasure.
* * * * *
Tho’ hopes were all blighted that haloed my youth, And withered the flowers I deemed rooted in truth,— Tho’ sunshine will brighten no morrow, Yet never accusing’s deep bitterness stirs The heart, that would only pour joy into her’s, And the tenderest soothing for sorrow.
Her spirit dwelt ever in dreamy ideal, While mine was so earthy and chained to the real, With the heavens all brazen above me:— All nature to hers echoed hymnings divine, While doubts of a future, stirred ever in mine— No marvel she never could love me.
But somehow, with Destiny’s mystical skein, My love has entangled my infidel brain And bound it with hope, to a heaven; I dream of a sphere, we may find beyond this Where—blessed fruition! life’s coveted bliss To the purified soul will be given.
Estranged.
O, to be near to you!—Oh, to be dear to you!— To feel in my heart, that your heart is my own. All days have been dreary—my soul is aweary, And still, must I walk in this dark way alone?
O, fond was my dreaming, when hope’s star was beaming, When fancy’s bright web like a mantle of gold, Lay over life’s losses—its trials and crosses, And hid them, in splendors, of fold upon fold.
I thought then to follow (Oh, heartless and hollow!) Where Fashion’s throng led, and to kneel where it knelt— Thought Love’s nectared chalice was found in a palace— In princely halls only, true happiness dwelt.
But Fashion’s vile brew, is of wormwood and rue— It prays where the virtues are trampled and dead— The bane we thought gladness, has led to this madness; Dissipation came in, and the Peace-angel fled.
No wandering emotion e’er sullied devotion, But anger’s hot lava my reason o’erran; In the coolness of pride, (that love’s fervor belied) The sorrows and pangs of estrangement began.
Be rashness forgiven, bring back to us heaven— Our Eden-like home, with its love-lighted skies; Tho’ parted forever, affection dies never— ’Tis knit into life with indissoluble ties.
The rills that have mingled, can never be singled— They’ll flow on as one in their course to the sea; By love, early plighted, our souls were united, And ever—forever united must be.
Entwining each thought—with tenderness fraught— Is loving, enduring remembrance of thee, And, deep in your heart, in its holiest part, I know there’s a hidden affection for me.
Shall life be all nighted—Love’s flame ne’er be lighted, While I—by its altar with ashes o’er strewn— Must ever remember thro’ constant December, The balmy bright days and the roses of June?
O, desert, Sahara!—Oh, waters of Marah! I tread the hot sands—press the fount with my lips— In sorrow, go roaming, thro’ the shadowy gloaming That falls, o’er a life, with love’s sun in eclipse.
My Inkstand.
This new one is thought both convenient and nice— The atmosphere forcing the ink to the brim; I question the worth of this modern device, For seldom great thoughts on the surface will swim, But something like whales, when they find themselves sought, Down, swiftly from sight, in the depths they will sink— At the bottom, the angled for ideas are caught, And only by multiplied thrusts in the ink.
1855.
History of One Life.
Its morning dawned thro’ penury’s narrow pane— A noon of wealth, with glory’s laurel crown— Human weakness—one mistake—a felon’s stain— The evening gloomed with all his fellow’s frown.
Evening.
Vermillion and gold In beauty unfold On the light, floating clouds of the West; The low, crooning sound Of all Nature around Is lulling the world into rest.
Like a rover of Sin The zephyr steals in ’Mong roses and carnations rare— In ecstatic bliss Gives each one a kiss, Then scatters their sweets on the air.
In the shadowy hush The linnet and thrush Have gone to their nests in the grove; The blue pimpernell To the lilly’s wee bell Is whispering his story of love.
Blest hour of delight That verges the night, What beauties and glories are thine, When the great car of day With its din rolls away, And silence seems Presence divine.
Now the sparkle of dew And the rich violet hue Of the fast purpling clouds of the West, Hint of time’s rapid flight And of life’s coming night That shall lull into heavenly rest.
Rondeaux.
A brilliant thought leaps out and glows, Or scatters fragrance like the rose, Nor needs an artizan’s design To plan and shape to make it shine,— Not all is brilliance in rondeaux.
The labored effort plainly shows The mind has passed thro’ mighty throes To give the world, with stamp divine, A brilliant thought.
The music wins which sweetly flows, Not that which falls like stunning blows, And ease and grace, with sense combine, To clothe with elegance the line, Where Genius gives, in verse or prose, A brilliant thought.
Solace of the Flowers.
Oft a deep, unspoken anguish In the secret soul is stirred, And the wounded heart, though yearning For a kindly, loving word, Opens not its sacred portal, For the arts of friendly healing— Only God is told the sorrow, Through a mute-lipped, sad appealing.
“I am with you”—seems responded, From the hush of Nature’s bowers, And the spirit feels God nearer Where He’s strewn the earth with flowers; Nature’s language, rich with blessing, For its unobtrusive words, Speaks through softly murm’ring streamlets, And the low, sweet trill of birds.
E’en a tiny, bruised allyssum, Or a trampled mignonette, Teach the heart, by sweet example, That ’tis better to forget. Like the touch of seraph pinions, Or a faintly whispered hope, Is the charm of perfume floating From a hidden heliotrope.
Ah! there’s soothing for the spirit Where the humid coolness lingers, Where the breezes touch us gently With their dainty, fairy fingers,— Where the woodland nymphs are gliding, Noiseless, o’er the mosses bright, Spreading Sylva’s vestal altar With a cloth of violets white.
All these tiny, fragrant flowers Speak to us in tender tone, Gently winning us from sorrow With a language all their own; Little beauties, sent in blessing,— In our pathway angels strew them, That we hear, when joy is shrouded, Loving voices whisper through them.
Regret.
“—if only it never had been All the world had been brighter and then—”
Will a hope never throb, but it comes back a sob, From the echoing halls of the soul? Do the joy-bells stirred, by a low thrilling word, Forever resound with a funeral toll?
Will the roses we grasp, like the bite of an asp, Give back to our sense but the stinging of pain? Can there float a perfume, from the lillies’ white bloom, That blends with enchantment Tofana’s slow bane?
Where but flowers were sown, has a thistle seed blown, To root in their soil, a vile bramble to grow? Doth each lovliest vine, ’round a hyssop entwine? And out from sweet fountains must bitterness flow?
Does there lurk in each joy, a vile fiend to destroy All the pleasure and blessing it brought, With the stings of regret, as with thorns thickly set, That will pierce, as it turns, every retrospect thought?
Ay, there’s never a spot, where this demon is not; Like a serpent he creeps in this Eden of ours, Where its pleasures are purest, its treasures securest, And blights with his poison its loveliest flowers.
But we’ll act for the right, as God gives us the light, Nor complain that the end from our vision is veiled; ’Twas in blessing and love, that the Father above, Secured us from loss that prevision entailed.
In mercy, dear Father, still veil from our sight, The dawn of a joy, or a grief’s brooding night, That we faint not, expecting the gathering gloom, Nor cease in the strife that ennobles the life,— That we cloud not our joys with a shadowy tomb, Nor a heart ever miss the delectable bliss, Of a sweet, unexpected delight.
Hazel Bloom.
When paths that in summer were fringed with lush grass, Are raspy with frost-whitened blades as you pass, When the arbor’s denuded of clusters and leaves, And the Ivy’s bare vines are entwining the eaves, When the bright tinted sumach has changed to a brown And the wind-shaken forest drops summer wealth down— The autumn’s rich robings of crimson and gold In the path of the years, to be trampled as mould— When the beauty of purple-hued asters is shed, And the glory of goldenrod faded and dead, When the song-birds, we loved for their jubilant tune, Have gone where they find a perennial June, When clouds that were downy on the summer’s bright blue, Have draped all the skies in a somberly hue, When the orchard has yielded its riches of fruit, And its life-feeding myst’ry is hid in the root— The Aftermath gathered—the last sheaves of grain— When Nature seems all in a funeral train, Then Hazel buds burst thro’ their scales into bloom, And glow like the stars that rob midnight of gloom.
When brooklets, unfettered, went leaping in glee, O’er rocks and thro’ woodlands, adown to the sea— When the bloom-time of Spring, in its glory, was here, And earth all resounding with music and cheer, When asphodels loaded with fragrance the air And vied with the roses in loveliness rare, Witch-Hazel, from Nature, seemed standing apart, The wee, golden buds were asleep in its heart, And sunshine and shower besought it, in vain, To star, with its bloom, Flora’s garlanded fane. Oh, marvel of beauty—bright blossoms of gold! They show us the life leafless branches enfold. ’Tis the flower of hope with this lesson of cheer— ’Tis the season of rest, not “The death of the year,” When, Nature, reposing in the bosom of God, Feels the throb of His heart ’neath her snow-mantled sod— At the soul of All-life with new life is imbued— At the Fountain of Beauty, enriched and renewed.
* * * * *
Aye, symbol of Hope and the star gleam of Faith, That give to Life’s autumn a glow— A spirit revealed, while the seeming of Death Lies palled in the brown leaves below.
A mission it has that was given of Him Who gave it its blossoming time; Thus blooming alone—desolation around, Defying the glittering rime, It speaks to the soul—’tis an oracle sweet, His token, His promise and bond That, tho’ passing thro’ change that leads down thro’ the tomb, There’s a beautiful Springtime beyond.
Life’s Shuttle.
The Shuttle went flying With sympathy sighing, While it shot all the gold weft with threadings of woe. There was murmured complaining, The Shuttle arraigning— That grief, with the joy, was unwound in the throw. A whispered regretting:— “No blessing forgetting, God knoweth thy needs—it is His to bestow:— From LOVE I’m receiving The woof I am weaving.” The Shuttle’s reproof was subduing and low, And, blent with Time’s beating, I heard it repeating The lesson it taught in love’s tenderest flow.
Aye, softly it chanted this simple refrain— “’Tis wisdom that mingles the sorrow and pain. The sunlight, that gilds, with its glory the earth, Would blight with its blaze, but for clouds and the rain, And lives would be arid and smitten with dearth If beamed on forever with joy and mirth— _In blessing I weave in the sorrow and pain_.”
Springtime.
When meadows are strewn with the buttercup’s gold, There’s gladness for childhood that song never told; The laugh of a child, bubbling up from the heart, Is linked with the spring, a most beautiful part.
A bevy of children—sweet far away dream!— They trip o’er the sward, lit with dandelion gleam— We’ll join in their sports with a heartiness true; Our own vanished springtime, with them, we’ll renew.
The woods, (that are reached by a romp thro’ the lane Where the grass is made velvet by sunshine and rain) Have infinite beauty, in blossom outspread— Delights for the gods in the fragrance they shed.
Come, drink in the perfume of blossoming trees— Take lessons of patience from murmuring bees, And listen to brooklets—they’ll sing you a song As, wild in their glee, they go leaping along.
Come, watch the wild birds as they cheerily dart— Their music, with sunshine, take into your heart— Let the gladness of childhood thrill you, and be gay, Thus keeping your soul in perpetual May.
When Nature is robing her forests anew, And heaven spreads over her loveliest blue— When earth is aglow with spring’s ravishing bloom, Ingratitude only sits shrouded in gloom.
For Insomnia.