Part 2

When Somnus is giddy and flies from my pillow, And care’s elfin throngs come to vex me— When mem’ry, perverse, all the sweet things forgetting, Will mention but those that perplex me, I ask that monotony’s rigid insistence Shall drive out the gibberous crew; They flee from his presence—will hie back to elfland, Where their Night shade and astrofell grew—

Ask thought for a theme that’s subduing in power— The sea, with its billows all hushed to a calm— Not mantled with darkness, but lit with the sunset, When Day, unto Evening, is chanting her psalm. All life’s petty griefs in the grandeur evanish, The spirit is freed from its thrall, And unto the faint heart a trustfulnesss whispers, “Be brave—there’s a God over all.”

* * * * *

In fancy I launch on the shimmering sea That’s lighting with glory its waters for me; Like a sprite of the ocean the boat seems to glide, As lightly the oars dip the opaline tide, Till out in expanses, afar from the shore, Away from life’s din and tumultuous roar Where, gently I’m rocked on the breast of the deep, While symphonic waves woo the Lethe of Sleep. A broad, shining pathway is westward unrolled— I watch the bright wavelets, with tresses of gold, Run out in wild play to the visual rim Where the sky bends to kiss them in distance so dim, Till thought is enchanted—anxiety flees, And weariness slips into somnolent ease; The silences seem to have rhythmical beat— ’Tis footfalls of wakefulness, now in retreat. Forgetfulness softly creeps into the mind, Suspecting no trace of resistance to find, But wakefulness turns back, commands and forbids— Yet, Slumber steals past her and touches the lids; Then Morpheus bears me away in his arms To his realm that’s swept of all fears and alarms Where, lulled with his stupors, of poppy and rose, I dreamily, dreamily sink to repose.

Mother.

When evening falls softly, with far away dreaming, Oft steals o’er my spirit a rapturous seeming— I feel the light touch of her hand as of old, When bending above me with good night caresses, She lovingly pushed back the long heavy tresses, And smoothed out the tangles of gold.

Touch memory’s harp in the silence of even, And loved ones will leave e’en the raptures of heaven, And come to us then when the gates are ajar: With mother’s face, ever most central and tender, They light all the Past with a rosy-hued splendor And the soul’s secret chamber’s unbar.

From hidden recesses they bring out its treasures— Among them are shining youth’s dream-lighted pleasures, When mother-love blent with, and hallowed them all; The haunts that the years with their sunsets have gilded, The castles of beauty that child-fancy builded, All come in the gloaming at memory’s call.

’Twas down by the river, where bluebells were sweetest And swift-footed hours forever ran fleetest, Enthralled by the charm, that I loved most to roam— To watch where the sunshine and ripple wove wimples, Like smiles, on a rosy face, dancing with dimples, Forgetful of duty till mother called home.

Right-angled with the river-bank’s water-worn ledges The forest and farm knit their raveled-out edges, In a brambled rail-fence. From the pasture’s green field, Thro’ the edge of the woodland, a path, fringed with mosses And bushy green tangles with clematis flosses, Half the charms of the deep wood revealed.

When sunset was tinting each shadowy hollow ’Twas gladness, the kine, from the pasture, to follow And dream, as I wandered, of fairy and gnome— To loiter ’mong ferns, with great trees spreading over, And breathe the perfume of wild roses and clover Enrapt, until mother called home.

I’m lingering now on the banks of the River— The sunset of Time on its ripples a-quiver— How peaceful the flowing—no turmoil or foam— A luminous mist o’er the landscape is falling— The evening has come, I hear a voice calling,— ’Tis mother’s voice calling me home.

Eoline’s Dream.

One long day of toil was ending, And my head was hot with pain When a thought, akin to envy, Racing thro’ my throbbing brain, Muttered to my fevered fancy “Only wealth has power to please— Rocking in the lap of riches Life were fair as summer seas.”

Wealth for me would bridge the ocean, Open Europe’s storied lore, Rome and Greece, with art and beauty, Each would open wide her door; These my hungering soul had longed for— Oft they seemed within my clasp, But like gold beneath the rainbow They escaped my eager grasp.

How I spurned the homely hangings That in poverty were wrought, E’en the couch, whose dingy plushings Now in weariness I sought. “Common things,” I said, repining, “Ne’er for me can blessing hold”; But the Sun, just then declining, Flooded all with molten gold.

And a benison, descending On the wings of closing day, Soothed and hushed my wild complaining— Drove the evil sprite away— Brought before me _my_ possessions, Richest in the long array, Wealth of home, where all my dear ones Make it bright with love, alway.

Lightly drooped the shining fringes Of the evening’s twilight hour, While the playful, roving zephyr Gently kissed each folding flower; Softly gliding into dreamland On the sunset’s gilded car, Soon for me, his golden splendor Wrapped all objects, near and far.

In his grand effulgent shimmer “Common things,” grew strangely bright; And my home became a palace All resplendent in the light; E’en the russet garb of labor, If unstained by deed of shame, There outshone imperial purple, With its throne and titled name.

Sweeter than the grand exotics, Were my lillies, pure and white— All was beauty—all about me Whispered to me—“Life is bright,” And its sweetest flowers are blooming In the toil-worn paths of earth, And its purest gems will sparkle On the brow of honest worth.

Diamonds, oft, are but the tear-drops Avarice wrings from orphaned trust, And his gorgeous, gilded trappings Steal their hues from hearts he’s crushed. More I saw in raptured dreaming— Seraphs holding crowns of gold, Beckoning up the shining pathway Where the gates of Rest unfold.

Some whose wealth did bow them earthward Sought for this to enter in, Others, wearing robes of priesthood, Thought that these absolved from sin; But no easier passed the portal, Those in purple, cowl, or gown;— He who bore life’s burden’s bravely, Won the race and wore the crown.

* * * * *

Then a touch of dimpled fingers Woke my heart with mother-joy— Golden head upon my bosom— Tired, sleepy, baby boy Poured a wealth of love and kisses On the lips that had complained. He (sweet angel!—God had sent him) Quick the demon, Envy, chained.

Our Own.

Not all we name as friends, the soul receives as such, Nor ever those whose lip-born love weaves smoothest claim; Those only who, to ours, give genial spirit touch Can light that hidden shrine with friendship’s holy flame. ’Tis by this sign the friends God made for us are known; Dear ones! We count their names as precious gems which lie Within the hearts most sacred place—its very own— A circlet bright that’s bound by sympathy’s silken tie.

There’s still another bond for which no word is found— A gift of His, so high the minds extremest reach Doth fail to find it name, or ontologic bound, Tho’ undefined—beyond the subtlest grasp of speech, This wondrous, unseen realm, to spirit sense, remains, And o’er its lines the soul, to kindred soul, conveys Joy’s glad, exultant flash, or sorrow’s woeful pains, Which, thro’ this gift divine, love’s tenderness allays.

* * * * *

’Tis sweet in twilight’s hush, when noisy day has fled And evening’s azure glows with beauty’s single star— When roses, gemmed with dew, their richest fragrance shed, To feel the silence thrill with signals from afar Feel the thought-lines warmly pulsing with a message from OUR OWN— To know the call of dear ones, as we know the breath of flowers, And catch love’s fond impulsion, thro’ this mystic Psychephone, Trembling on the stillness of the dreamy, evening hours. Thro’ distance, o’er these subtile, sentient threads of mind, We feel, by finest sense, our answering heart-beats throb Till every fluttering, white-winged joy doth find Response, and every grief a sympathetic sob. O, blessed bond! It links us to the Life Divine! Thro’ this our prayers may reach the holy Fount of Love— The league of kinship which these spirit cords entwine, By fervent sway of soul, is felt in realms above.

Wounded Faith.

Mine open enemy hath no power to wound— His poison shafts fall hurtless to the ground; He may wreak a treach’rous lynx-like deed And yet will never cause my heart to bleed. If he should glare on me in hottest hate, With tiger fierceness, plan the direst fate, With claws distended, lusting for the roon, I’d smile and do him kindness over soon, Or, give a sure nepenthe for his wrath By silent, strewing favors in his path.

But when those to whom my heart is bound in trust, With aim concealed, make unexpected thrust,— When those I’d counted friends, as friends had served, Whose joy and weal my strongest effort nerved— If THEY shall stab and gaze with hungry eyes To catch my wince of pain, ’neath friendship’s guise, Then, a wound is made, that all the quivering senses feel— A wound, that only trusted friends could deal; And, saddest hurt of all, the heart will find, The same stab struck its faith in human kind.

“Destiny.”

She freighted a thistle-down once with a wish, And gave to the breeze with her breath; The Fates were to hold its invisible leash And, if to be granted ere death, Bring back, at her will, to her out-reaching hand This wealth-laden embassy sent. Unheeding her will and its pleading command, Up, up toward the zenith it went, Till will, it would seem, at the last had controlled, When, earthward it came, like a fairy rigged sail— Came straight toward the hand that was eager to hold The zephyr-tossed feather, whose course should unveil What Destiny held, in the Future concealed— Life’s weightiest questions decide. Almost within grasp and it wavered and reeled, Then, mounting again the etherial tide, It floated—was lost in the depths of the blue. That thistle down, swayed by a pulse of the air, Had wrecked her heart’s hopes on the rocks of despair, As billows of ocean rich argosies strew.

Now listless and faithless she sits on the shore Where Time’s restless surge casts its wrack at her feet; She sees not the sunshine—hears only the roar Of dark, sullen waves as they ceaselessly beat. In Fate-ridden weakness she shrinks from all strife— Lets Destiny’s elves to her fancy repeat The early “decrees” that have shadowed her life— No effort essays that might wreak a defeat— Just waits for the stroke of pale Atropos’ knife.

* * * * *

A faith in the hidden controllings of FATE, Enchains, with its might, even Reason and Will: In wreakless inaction her devotees wait For the slow-turning grind of her mill—Let circumstance bind them with torturing gyves, Pass doors that would open to Industry’s keys And when, with his braided pangs, Poverty drives, Receive all his lashings as “Fortune’s decrees.”

E’en tho’ Opportunity’s latch-string is out, They, shelterless, wait for events to compel, And deem themselves goaded by Destiny’s knout While held in the toils of her mystical spell. Credulity, Sloth and their following throngs Forever are weaving entangling snares— ’Tis not till a victim is bound with their thongs, To thwart his endeavor that Destiny dares.

Bring WILL to the front—strike Destiny down, And throttle the Fate that would hinder success— You’ll find that dame Fortune will put off her frown And yield, for past sufferings, an ampleredress.

Unclaimed.

Just beyond the reach of thought, Just beyond the grasp of mind Is a sense of Presence—fraught With blessing—felt, yet undefined.

At times it seems a wondrous power— A strength, awaiting _Faith’s_ command— For trusting soul, a proffered dower, That’s held by Love’s omniscient hand.

Is it the gift, reserved of God For those whom Faith brings nearest Him?— The power that smote the rock?—the rod That rives the fountain’s brim, That all His thirsty souls may drink? “O, ye of little faith,” He cries— So many faithless Peters sink, _And the proffered power dies_.

Death.

When thou, O Death, art come to be the old man’s guest Who, bowed beneath the heavy weight of toil and years, So longeth for thy rest, Or to the weary mother, looking through her tears, To the bright celestial shore Where her loved have gone before, Then, truly, thou art blest.

To them the ties that bound are broken, all, And they will stretch glad hands of welcome unto thee Who comes to break their thrall— To slip the leash of weary life and set them free; They, impatient, wait release To pass the golden gates of Peace And gladly list thy call.

But, in Love’s young home, where Life is one bright, pulsing sea Of joy and hope, thy summons hath heart-breaking sound, Like cruel Fate’s decree; As tho’ alone, by stealth, she had thy gyves unbound, When thou hadst to this Eden crept And wrought, while guardian angels slept, What Envy’s dream might be.

We feel the surging depth of Sorrow’s stifled cry, Yet in thy presence, helpless, dumb with grief, we stand And silent question—Why?— Why budding life is frozen by thine icy hand, Why yielded to thy devastating claim Are all the loveliest of earth,— E’en God’s sweetest, dearest gift of birth— A mother-love, Which is for life’s most holy joys, the precious name.

While cloud-depths veil in gloom the steely form of truth, The heart, athrob with grief, still questions why:— Ah, why Love’s brightly burning flame Is ever smothered by thy breath,— Its altar, dark and cold, whereon dead ashes lie;— Oh! why are love, and hope, and youth, All left within thy grasp, O, Death?

Night-Blooming Cereus.

Birth of darkness! bloom of night! Bringing me such rare delight; Floating charm, thy rich perfume Stirs the lagging, weary brain, Hushes all the thoughts of gloom, Soothes or dulls the pangs of pain.

This floral wonder, glistening white, Scorning Day’s broad, glaring light, In the sacred stillness now Beams in beauty on my sight, As the star on evening’s brow Beams upon a moonless night.

Like a rainbow on the skies, Looked for, yet a glad surprise— Like a meteor’s flash and gleam Crossing midnight’s sullen gloom, Like the fairy forms of dream Is this wondrous, starry bloom.

Tell me lovely, mystic flower, Why you gem this gruesome hour? Were the jasper gates ajar? Did the Night, from angel’s crown, Pluck for us its brightest star, And cast the gleaming jewel down?

O, thou, pearly, radiant flower! Why give Night such wealth of dower? Why with anthers, dipped in gold, ’Round a carpel, rosy red, Wait in darkness to unfold, And thy queenly beauty spread?

Now a sentient presence seeming— Ah! it whispers, or I’m dreaming: “An evangel I’m to thee, With this message from the Past; How e’er full life’s joys may be, Like my bloom they may not last.

Throngs are gone—the voices stilled That once these halls with gladness filled; Here, with thee, I stand alone Where, before Night’s ebon throne, Silence holy, waits to bear From thy heart its inmost cry, Wrought into such fervent prayer As doth bring God’s presence nigh.”

My Muse.

She wanders on, at her sweet will, Thro’ gloomy vales or paths of pleasure, Nor asks the world if grave, or gay, Shall be her theme and measure.

She scorns the stilty, stiff Rondeau That artizans must fashion, But loves the brooklets romping flow And Nature’s gush of passion.

Tho’ common use has smoothly worn The Sonnet’s polished fetter, She wonders how its chains are borne When freedom’s range is better.

The triolet she never tries— She’d lose in such endeavor The glory of the sunset skies, The music of the river.

My muse is not a Hellenese With bright, Olympian halo, But that strong, helpful one, that feels The heart-throbs of her fellow.

She lifts me from the slough, Despond— Bids Nature hush my sighing By crooning for me sweetest song, While in her bosom lying.

The violets, the Spring first kissed, To us, are sweet as heather— We climb the hills, thro’ shining mist, In Autumn’s golden weather.

When, Lotus-drugged, Ambition sleeps, She whispers—“Come up higher”— Thro’ starry fields of azure deeps I’m led and feasted by her.

She breaks the locks which golden keys Could only open to me, And kindly joins her gift, with Art’s, Earth’s grandest views to show me.

While those who sing for fame and crown Must bide the Poet’s tether, Dear Muse and I will wander down Thro’ Freedom’s vale, together.

’Tis sweet to us, the path we tread— All Nature’s song is ours, Her wildest scenes, the stars o’erhead And all her fragrant flowers.

We Never Know.

Ah, me! we never know What cold, wild winds may blow Across the springtime’s balmy promise, sweet— By what untimely frost The fruit germs may be lost, And rosy petals beaten down with sleet.

The eyes that glow tonight With childhood’s loving light, To-morrow may, with pallid lids be veiled— The bounding pulse be stilled, Life’s crimson current chilled, And rich, red lips with Death’s cold kisses paled.

We never know the fate So near, until too late; Tho’ oft the black-winged demon’s shadow falls In heavy gloom upon the heart— A thousand dreads upstart, Yet onward, all, until the shock appalls.

Warm love anticipates, With open arms awaits, ’Till hissing wires the stunning message brings. Oh, God! the wild despair That hushes e’en the voice of prayer, And makes the soul forget all offerings.

Such sudden, crushing grief! Hope, rising, scouts belief, But falls down, prone, before the sorrow-flashing wires. Hear Sympathy’s whispered tone, Oh, ye, who sit alone, With but the light of memory’s altar fires.

A June in Childhood.

I stood in the flush of an evening in June When leafage and blossom and fragrance triune, Crown this, of the months, the most queenly and fair; The clover and roses had poured on the air A nectar I drank with enjoyment rare; Baptized in this flood of ecstatic delight My child eyes were blessed with miraculous sight.

O, gladly I’d yield up the wisdom of years, If gazing out now, thro’ the mist of my tears, I could think as I tho’t in that beautiful dream, That the gates were ajar, and the shimmer and gleam Of golden-paved streets on that silvery stream, “The River of Life”—shining thro’ in the west, Gave us a bright glimpse of the home of the blest.

I saw, as I gazed with my dream-lighted eyes, A broad, gilded stairway let down from the skies, And angels came out with their robings of white, All ’broidered and shining with flosses of light, And bound on each brow with a coronet bright, Was a veil of soft gossamer, fold upon fold, With amethyst border, and flutings of gold.

And spread on the sky, to my glorified view, Was a foam crested ocean, pavillioned with blue; Bright islands of azure thro’ cloud-rifts were seen, Then sunk, like Atlantis, in billowy sheen: While ships, that I fancied from shores evergreen, Afloat on its bosom, at anchor would ride, Or cut with their prows thro’ the rose-tinted tide.

Some angels sailed far, where the cloud-waves grew dark, In boats that were graceful as gondolier’s barque, And those I tho’t sailing far over the seas To watch over missions and little Burmese; Then others swept down, where the glory-crowned trees Hid them on the stairs, but I knew from that band Some went to each household, all over the land,

Where children would whisper “I lay me to sleep, Send angels dear Father, my spirit to keep Thro’ midnight and darkness, to guard me from harm, To give me sweet dreams, and to shield from alarm— To watch me till morning dawns, rosy and warm, Or, dying before, let them bear me above To the bosom of Jesus, on pinions of love.”

* * * * *

These memories float in on the fragrance to night, While sunset is veiling in glory the light, And seasons, repeating in cyclical rune, Bring forward in beauty, rose-garlanded June; All earth seems an altar with flowers o’erstrewn— ’Tis Nature’s thank offering—my heart is in tune With her grand _De Profundis_, now rolling in praise; Send angels, dear Father, a grown-up child prays, And a rose-wreathed June for my sunset of days.

Goldenrod.

O, Goldenrod, bright goldenrod! It fringes all the wayside hedges, And makes the forest mantle rich With lovely tasseled edges. It lights with sunshine of its own Each dark, neglected dingle, And links itself with memories of The cheery, old-time ingle.

Despite the summer’s burning drought, It blooms profuse and bright as ever, And where spring fountains rippled forth With laughter to the river, It kisses now their parching lips To woo their music mellow, And wreaths our dying flowers with An aureole of yellow.

It gaily lifts its nodding plumes Above decay’s inceptive traces, And hides beneath its cloth-of-gold The season’s fading graces. Bright goldenrod! ’tis autumn’s crown And summer’s sunset glory— Each blooming-time is new with joy As Love’s old charming story.

An Evening in June.

Glory won ’gainst beauty’s brush in painting sunset skies, But paling now, upon the hills in rosy languor lies: All breathing life, with her, seems panting for a cooling breeze, For winds have stopped ’mid ocean isles, to toss the gleaming spray And spicy odors rich, along the golden path of day; And motionless, awaiting Beauty’s Star, stand all the trees, While Erse, from her stores, besprinkles earth with gems, From mantling robes of green, to flower-broidered hems.

But mortals, restless aye, will burden all life’s golden hours With low complainings, forgetting bounty’s blessing showers, Impatient, beg the _one_ withheld for other days and needs, Nor see the plan inwoven, that the world’s wide hunger feeds; Nor ken the flashes on the sultry air, above the plain, Are the wings of ripening angels, sweeping o’er the grain.

Yosemite.

With humbled heart, subdued and awed I look on thee, Thou time-defying granite pile; with senses rapt Behold thee, grand and world-renowned—YOSEMITE— Thy spray-enwreathing stream— Thy rock-walled vale and sunset clouds, all glory capped With evanescent gleam.

Aye, gaze and wondering gaze, until the centuries swing Their massive doors ajar, and glimpses give when Earth was young; But farthest grasp of human thought but weakling reasons bring To solve thy problem vast; In vain the Present asks the voiceless silences that hung Their mysteries o’er the Past—

The far, dim Past, that wrapped our sphere in shoreless sea— The mantling gloom, that swathed its infancy in mist, While yet our central orb did wait Omnipotent decree To bless the world with Light— Ere Day’s first, smiling morn with rosy beams had kissed Away the brooding night.

What engine wrought in Nature’s great completing plan To ope for thee thy chasm’s broad, abysmal deeps? Was it the glacier’s ponderous plow, that smoothed for man The verdant, fertile plain, Or, rolling waters that thro’ circling eons, wore thy steeps With solemn, sad refrain?—

Or from Earth’s central fires, did fierce, volcanic throes Expel, in molten mass, the elemental rock, That o’er the wilds to mountain majesty arose, And while yet warm with throbbing strain, Did earthquake rend with pole-disturbing shock, Thy mighty walls amain?