III.

A dimness of a glory glimmers here Thro' veils and distance from the space remote, A faintest far vibration of a note Reaches to us and seems to bring us near; Causing our face to glow with braver cheer, Making the serried mist to stand afloat, Subduing languor with an antidote, And strengthening love almost to cast out fear: Till for one moment golden city walls Rise looming on us, golden walls of home, Light of our eyes until the darkness falls; Then thro' the outer darkness burdensome I hear again the tender voice that calls, "Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come."

A GREEN CORNFIELD.

"And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."

The earth was green, the sky was blue: I saw and heard one sunny morn A skylark hang between the two, A singing speck above the corn;

A stage below, in gay accord, White butterflies danced on the wing, And still the singing skylark soared And silent sank, and soared to sing.

The cornfield stretched a tender green To right and left beside my walks; I knew he had a nest unseen Somewhere among the million stalks:

And as I paused to hear his song While swift the sunny moments slid, Perhaps his mate sat listening long, And listened longer than I did.

A BRIDE SONG.

Through the vales to my love! To the happy small nest of home Green from basement to roof; Where the honey-bees come To the window-sill flowers, And dive from above, Safe from the spider that weaves Her warp and her woof In some outermost leaves.

Through the vales to my love! In sweet April hours All rainbows and showers, While dove answers dove,-- In beautiful May, When the orchards are tender And frothing with flowers,-- In opulent June, When the wheat stands up slender By sweet-smelling hay, And half the sun's splendour Descends to the moon.

Through the vales to my love! Where the turf is so soft to the feet, And the thyme makes it sweet, And the stately foxglove Hangs silent its exquisite bells; And where water wells The greenness grows greener, And bulrushes stand Round a lily to screen her.

Nevertheless, if this land, Like a garden to smell and to sight, Were turned to a desert of sand, Stripped bare of delight, All its best gone to worst, For my feet no repose, No water to comfort my thirst, And heaven like a furnace above,-- The desert would be As gushing of waters to me, The wilderness be as a rose, If it led me to thee, O my love!

THE LOWEST ROOM.

Like flowers sequestered from the sun And wind of summer, day by day I dwindled paler, whilst my hair Showed the first tinge of grey.

"Oh, what is life, that we should live? Or what is death, that we must die? A bursting bubble is our life: I also, what am I?"

"What is your grief? now tell me, sweet, That I may grieve," my sister said; And stayed a white embroidering hand And raised a golden head:

Her tresses showed a richer mass, Her eyes looked softer than my own, Her figure had a statelier height, Her voice a tenderer tone.

"Some must be second and not first; All cannot be the first of all: Is not this, too, but vanity? I stumble like to fall.

"So yesterday I read the acts Of Hector and each clangorous king With wrathful great Æacides:-- Old Homer leaves a sting."

The comely face looked up again, The deft hand lingered on the thread "Sweet, tell me what is Homer's sting, Old Homer's sting?" she said.

"He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine, He melts me like the wind of spice, Strong as strong Ajax' red right hand, And grand like Juno's eyes.

"I cannot melt the sons of men, I cannot fire and tempest-toss:-- Besides, those days were golden days, Whilst these are days of dross."

She laughed a feminine low laugh, Yet did not stay her dexterous hand: "Now tell me of those days," she said, "When time ran golden sand."

"Then men were men of might and right, Sheer might, at least, and weighty swords; Then men in open blood and fire Bore witness to their words,--

"Crest-rearing kings with whistling spears; But if these shivered in the shock They wrenched up hundred-rooted trees, Or hurled the effacing rock.

"Then hand to hand, then foot to foot, Stern to the death-grip grappling then, Who ever thought of gunpowder Amongst these men of men?

"They knew whose hand struck home the death, They knew who broke but would not bend, Could venerate an equal foe And scorn a laggard friend.

"Calm in the utmost stress of doom, Devout toward adverse powers above, They hated with intenser hate And loved with fuller love.

"Then heavenly beauty could allay As heavenly beauty stirred the strife: By them a slave was worshipped more Than is by us a wife."

She laughed again, my sister laughed; Made answer o'er the laboured cloth: "I rather would be one of us Than wife, or slave, or both."

"Oh better then be slave or wife Than fritter now blank life away: Then night had holiness of night, And day was sacred day.

"The princess laboured at her loom, Mistress and handmaiden alike; Beneath their needles grew the field With warriors armed to strike.

"Or, look again, dim Dian's face Gleamed perfect through the attendant night: Were such not better than those holes Amid that waste of white?

"A shame it is, our aimless life; I rather from my heart would feed From silver dish in gilded stall With wheat and wine the steed--

"The faithful steed that bore my lord In safety through the hostile land, The faithful steed that arched his neck To fondle with my hand."

Her needle erred; a moment's pause, A moment's patience, all was well. Then she: "But just suppose the horse, Suppose the rider fell?

"Then captive in an alien house, Hungering on exile's bitter bread,-- They happy, they who won the lot Of sacrifice," she said.

Speaking she faltered, while her look Showed forth her passion like a glass: With hand suspended, kindling eye, Flushed cheek, how fair she was!

"Ah well, be those the days of dross; This, if you will, the age of gold: Yet had those days a spark of warmth, While these are somewhat cold--

"Are somewhat mean and cold and slow, Are stunted from heroic growth: We gain but little when we prove The worthlessness of both."

"But life is in our hands," she said; "In our own hands for gain or loss: Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred Fire Suffice to purge our dross?

"Too short a century of dreams, One day of work sufficient length: Why should not you, why should not I, Attain heroic strength?

"Our life is given us as a blank, Ourselves must make it blest or curst: Who dooms me I shall only be The second, not the first?

"Learn from old Homer, if you will, Such wisdom as his books have said: In one the acts of Ajax shine, In one of Diomed.

"Honoured all heroes whose high deeds Through life, through death, enlarge their span Only Achilles in his rage And sloth is less than man."

"Achilles only less than man? He less than man who, half a god, Discomfited all Greece with rest, Cowed Ilion with a nod?

"He offered vengeance, lifelong grief To one dear ghost, uncounted price: Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself, Heaped up the sacrifice.

"Self-immolated to his friend, Shrined in world's wonder, Homer's page, Is this the man, the less than men Of this degenerate age?"

"Gross from his acorns, tusky boar Does memorable acts like his; So for her snared offended young Bleeds the swart lioness."

But here she paused; our eyes had met, And I was whitening with the jeer; She rose: "I went too far," she said; Spoke low: "Forgive me, dear.

"To me our days seem pleasant days, Our home a haven of pure content; Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant.

"Homer, though greater than his gods, With rough-hewn virtues was sufficed And rough-hewn men: but what are such To us who learn of Christ?"

The much-moved pathos of her voice, Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek Grown pale, confessed the strength of love Which only made her speak.

For mild she was, of few soft words, Most gentle, easy to be led, Content to listen when I spoke, And reverence what I said:

I elder sister by six years; Not half so glad, or wise, or good: Her words rebuked my secret self And shamed me where I stood.

She never guessed her words reproved A silent envy nursed within, A selfish, souring discontent Pride-born, the devil's sin.

I smiled, half bitter, half in jest: "The wisest man of all the wise Left for his summary of life 'Vanity of vanities.'

"Beneath the sun there's nothing new: Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on: If I am wearied of my life, Why, so was Solomon.

"Vanity of vanities he preached Of all he found, of all he sought: Vanity of vanities, the gist Of all the words he taught.

"This in the wisdom of the world, In Homer's page, in all, we find: As the sea is not filled, so yearns Man's universal mind.

"This Homer felt, who gave his men With glory but a transient state: His very Jove could not reverse Irrevocable fate.

"Uncertain all their lot save this-- Who wins must lose, who lives must die: All trodden out into the dark Alike, all vanity."

She scarcely answered when I paused, But rather to herself said: "One Is here," low-voiced and loving, "Yea, Greater than Solomon."

So both were silent, she and I: She laid her work aside, and went Into the garden-walks, like spring, All gracious with content:

A little graver than her wont, Because her words had fretted me; Not warbling quite her merriest tune Bird-like from tree to tree.

I chose a book to read and dream: Yet half the while with furtive eyes Marked how she made her choice of flowers Intuitively wise,

And ranged them with instinctive taste Which all my books had failed to teach; Fresh rose herself, and daintier Than blossom of the peach.

By birthright higher than myself, Though nestling of the self-same nest: No fault of hers, no fault of mine, But stubborn to digest.

I watched her, till my book unmarked Slid noiseless to the velvet floor; Till all the opulent summer-world Looked poorer than before.

Just then her busy fingers ceased, Her fluttered colour went and came: I knew whose step was on the walk, Whose voice would name her name.

* * * * *

Well, twenty years have passed since then: My sister now, a stately wife Still fair, looks back in peace and sees The longer half of life--

The longer half of prosperous life, With little grief, or fear, or fret: She, loved and loving long ago, Is loved and loving yet.

A husband honourable, brave, Is her main wealth in all the world: And next to him one like herself, One daughter golden-curled:

Fair image of her own fair youth, As beautiful and as serene, With almost such another love As her own love has been.

Yet, though of world-wide charity, And in her home most tender dove, Her treasure and her heart are stored In the home-land of love.

She thrives, God's blessed husbandry; Most like a vine which full of fruit Doth cling and lean and climb toward heaven, While earth still binds its root.

I sit and watch my sister's face: How little altered since the hours When she, a kind, light-hearted girl, Gathered her garden flowers:

Her song just mellowed by regret For having teased me with her talk; Then all-forgetful as she heard One step upon the walk.

While I? I sat alone and watched; My lot in life, to live alone In mine own world of interests, Much felt, but little shown.

Not to be first: how hard to learn That lifelong lesson of the past; Line graven on line and stroke on stroke: But, thank God, learned at last.

So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, Content to take the lowest place, The place assigned me here.

Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength Most weak, and life most burdensome, I lift mine eyes up to the hills From whence my help shall come:

Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart To the Archangelic trumpet-burst, When all deep secrets shall be shown, And many last be first.

DEAD HOPE.

Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even; Hope dead lives nevermore, No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud To weep itself away; Or were he buried underground To sprout some day! But dead and gone is dead and gone Vainly wept upon.

Nought we place above his face To mark the spot, But it shows a barren place In our lot.

A DAUGHTER OF EVE.

A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warmed sweet to-morrow:-- Stripped bare of hope and every thing, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.

VENUS' LOOKING-GLASS.

I marked where lovely Venus and her court With song and dance and merry laugh went by; Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly, Bound from the ground and in mid air to sport. Left far behind I heard the dolphins snort, Tracking their goddess with a wistful eye, Around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high Or low, and cooed after their tender sort. All this I saw in spring. Through summer heat I saw the lovely Queen of Love no more. But when flushed autumn through the woodlands went I spied sweet Venus walk amid the wheat: Whom seeing, every harvester gave o'er His toil, and laughed and hoped and was content.

LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

Love that is dead and buried, yesterday Out of his grave rose up before my face, No recognition in his look, no trace Of memory in his eyes dust-dimmed and grey. While I, remembering, found no word to say, But felt my quickened heart leap in its place; Caught afterglow thrown back from long set days, Caught echoes of all music passed away. Was this indeed to meet?--I mind me yet In youth we met when hope and love were quick, We parted with hope dead, but love alive: I mind me how we parted then heart sick, Remembering, loving, hopeless, weak to strive:-- Was this to meet? Not so, we have not met.

BIRD RAPTURES.

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come darkness, moonrise, every thing That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale.

Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, Make haste to wake the nightingale: Let silence set the world in tune To hearken to that wordless tale Which warbles from the nightingale

O herald skylark, stay thy flight One moment, for a nightingale Floods us with sorrow and delight. To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail; Leave us to-night the nightingale.

MY FRIEND.

Two days ago with dancing glancing hair, With living lips and eyes: Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies; So pale, yet still so fair.

We have not left her yet, not yet alone; But soon must leave her where She will not miss our care, Bone of our bone.

Weep not; O friends, we should not weep: Our friend of friends lies full of rest; No sorrow rankles in her breast, Fallen fast asleep.

She sleeps below, She wakes and laughs above; To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love, To-morrow follow so.

TWILIGHT NIGHT.