Part 2

The harsh king--Winter--sat upon the hills, And reigned, and ruled the earth right royally. He locked the rivers, lakes, and all the rills-- "I am no puny, maudlin king," quoth he, "But a stern monarch, born to rule and reign; And I will show my power to the end. The Summer's flowery retinue I've slain, And taken the bold, free North-Wind for my friend.

"Spring, Summer, Autumn--feeble queens they were, With their vast troops of flowers, birds, and bees, Soft winds, that made the long green grasses stir-- They lost their own identity in things like these! I scorn them all! nay, I defy them all! And none can wrest the sceptre from my hand. The trusty North-Wind answers to my call, And breathes his icy breath upon the land."

The Siren, South-Wind, listening the while, Now floated airily across the lea. "Oh, King!" she said, with tender tone and smile, "I come to do all homage unto thee. In all the sunny region, whence I came, I find none like thee, King, so brave and grand! Thine is a well-deserved, unrivalled fame; I kiss in awe, dear King, thy cold white hand."

Her words were pleasing, and most fair her face. He listened rapt, to her soft-whispered praise. She nestled nearer, in her Siren grace. "Dear King," she said, "henceforth my voice shall raise But songs of thy unrivalled splendor! Lo! How white thy brow is! How thy garments shine! I tremble 'neath thy beaming glance, for oh, Thy wondrous beauty mak'st thee seem divine."

The vain king listened, in a trance of bliss, To this most sweet sweet-voiced Siren from the South, She nestled close, and pressed a lingering kiss Upon the stern white pallor of his mouth. She hung upon his breast, she pressed his cheek, And he was nothing loth to hold her there, While she such tender, loving words did speak, And combed his white locks, with her fingers fair.

And so she bound him, in her Siren wiles, And stole his strength, with every glance she gave, And stabbed him through and through with tender smiles, And with her loving words she dug his grave; And then she left him: old, and weak, and blind, And unlocked all the rivers, lakes and rills, While the queen Spring, with her whole troop, behind, Of flowers, and birds, and bees, came over the hills.

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.

Life has its shadows, as well as its sun; Its lights and its shades, all twined together. I tried to single them out, one by one, Single and count them, determining whether There was less blue than there was gray, And more of the deep night than of the day. But dear me, dear me, my task's but begun, And I am not half way into the sun.

For the longer I look on the bright side of earth, The more of the beautiful do I discover; And really, I never knew what life was worth Till I searched the wide storehouse of happiness over. It is filled from the cellar well up to the skies, With things meant to gladden the heart and the eyes. The doors are unlocked, you can enter each room, That lies like a beautiful garden in bloom.

Yet life has its shadow, as well as its sun; Earth has its storehouse of joy and of sorrow. But the first is so wide-and my task's but begun That the last must be left for a far distant morrow. I will count up the blessings God gave in a row, But dear me! when I get through them, I know I shall have little time left for the rest, For life is a swift-flowing river at best.

WHATEVER IS--IS BEST.

I know as my life grows older, And mine eyes have clearer sight-- That under each rank Wrong, somewhere There lies the root of Right; That each sorrow has its purpose-- By the sorrowing oft unguessed, But as sure as the Sun brings morning, Whatever is--is best.

I know that each sinful action, As sure as the night brings shade, Is sometime, somewhere punished, Tho' the hour be long delayed. I know that the soul is aided Sometimes by the heart's unrest, And to grow means often to suffer-- But whatever is--is best.

I know there are no errors, In the great Eternal plan, And all things work together For the final good of man. And I know when my soul speeds onward In its grand Eternal quest, I shall say, as I look back earthward, Whatever is--is best.

TRANSPLANTED.

Where the grim old "Mount of Lamentation" Lifts up its summit like some great dome, I list for the voices of Inspiration That rang o'er the meadows and hills of home. I catch sweet sounds, but I am not near them, There are vast, vague oceans between us rolled; Or it may be my heart is too full to hear them With the eager ear that it lent of old.

It is full of the joy of to-day--and to-morrow, Which smiles with a promise of fresh delight; And yet my honey is galled with sorrow As I think of the loved ones out of sight. I wonder so soon if the dear old places Are growing used to my absent feet, I wonder if newer and fairer faces To the hearts that housed me seem just as sweet.

I know on the world's great field of battle When a comrade falls out how the ranks close in; The strife goes on with its rush and rattle, And who can tell where he late has been?

But through life a grafted vine I may wind me About old Eastern homes at length, The roots of love that I left behind me In Western soil will keep their strength. Though dear grows the "Mount of Lamentation." And dear the ocean, and dear the shore, I shall love the land of my Inspiration, Its lakes, its valleys, its tried hearts, more.

WORLDLY WISDOM.

If it were in my dead Past's power To let my Present bask In some lost pleasure for an hour, This is the boon I'd ask:

Re-pedestal from out the dust Where long ago 'twas hurled, My beautiful incautious trust In this unworthy world.

The symbol of my own soul's truth-- I saw it go with tears-- The sweet unwisdom of my youth-- That vanished with the years.

Since knowledge brings us only grief, I would return again To happy ignorance and belief In motives and in men.

For worldly wisdom learned in pain Is in itself a cross, Significant mayhap of gain, Yet sign of saddest loss.

NEW ORLEANS, 1885.

A queen of indolence and idle grace, Robed in the remnants of a costly gown, She turns the languor of her lovely face Upon Progression, with a lazy frown. Her throne is built upon a marshy down; Malarial mosses wreathe her, like old lace. With thin, crossed feet, unshod, and bare and brown, She sits indifferent to the world's swift race.

Across the seas there stalks an ogre grim. Too listless, she, for even Fear's alarms, While frightened nations rally in defense, She lifts her smiling creole eyes to him, And, reaching out her shapely, unwashed arms, She clasps her rightful lover-Pestilence.

THE ROOM BENEATH THE RAFTERS.

Sometimes when I have dropped to sleep, Draped in a soft luxurious gloom, Across my drowsing mind will creep The memory of another room, Where resinous knots in roof boards made A frescoing of light and shade, And sighing poplars brushed their leaves Against the humbly sloping eaves.

Again I fancy, in my dreams, I'm lying in my trundle bed; I seem to see the bare old beams And unhewn rafters overhead; The hornet's shrill falsetto hum I hear again, and see him come Forth from his dark-walled hanging house, Dressed in his black and yellow blouse.

There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred, And wove into my fair dream's woof The chattering of a martin bird, Or rain-drops pattering on the roof. Or half awake, and half in fear, I saw the spider spinning near His pretty castle where the fly Should come to ruin by-and-by.

And there I fashioned from my brain Youth's shining structures in the air, I did not wholly build in vain, For some were lasting, firm and fair. And I am one who lives to say My life has held more good than gray, And that the splendor of the real Surpassed my early dream's ideal.

But still I love to wander back To that old time and that old place; To tread my way o'er Memory's track, And catch the early morning grace, In that quaint room beneath the rafter, That echoed to my childish laughter; To dream again the dreams that grew More beautiful as they came true.

MY COMRADE

Out from my window westward I turn full oft my face; But the mountains rebuke the vision That would encompass space; They lift their lofty foreheads To the kiss of the clouds above, And ask, "With all our glory, Can we not win your love?"

I answer, "No, oh mountains! I see that you are grand; But you have not the breadth and beauty Of the fields in my own land; You narrow my range of vision And you even shut from me The voice of my old comrade, The West Wind wild and free."

But to-day I climbed the mountains On the back of a snow-white steed, And the West Wind came to greet me-- He flew on the wings of speed. His charger, and mine that bore me, Went gaily neck to neck. Till the town in the valley below us Looked like a small, dark speck.

And oh! what tales he whispered As he rode there by me, Of friends whose smiling faces I am so soon to see. And the mountains frowned in anger, Because I balked their spite, And met my old-time comrade There on their very height;

But I laughed up in their faces, As I rode slowly back, While the Wind went faster and faster, Like a race-horse on the track.

AT AN OLD DRAWER.

Before this scarf was faded, What hours of mirth it knew; How gaily it paraded For smiling eyes to view. The days were tinged with glory, The nights too quickly sped, And life was like a story Where all the people wed.

Before this rosebud wilted, How passionately sweet The wild waltz swelled and lilted In time for flying feet; How loud the bassoons muttered, The horns grew madly shrill, And, oh, the vows lips uttered That hearts could not fulfill.

Before this fan was broken, Behind its lace and pearl What whispered words were spoken, What hearts were in a whirl; What homesteads were selected In Fancy's realm of Spain, What castles were erected, Without a room for pain.

When this odd glove was mated, How thrilling seemed the play; May be our hearts are sated-- They tire so soon to-day. Oh, thrust away those treasures, They speak the dreary truth; We have outgrown the pleasures And keen delights of youth.

SO LONG IN COMING.

When shall I hear the thrushes sing, And see their graceful, round throats swelling? When shall I watch the bluebirds bring The straws and twiglets for their dwelling? When shall I hear among the trees The little martial partridge drumming? Oh! hasten! sights and sounds that please The summer is so long in coming.

The winds are talking with the sun; I hope they will combine together And melt the snow-drifts, one by one, And bring again the golden weather. Oh haste, make haste, dear sun and wind, I long to hear the brown bee humming; I seek for blooms I cannot find, The summer is so long coming.

The winter has been cold, so cold; Its winds are harsh, and bleak, and dreary, And all its sports are stale and old; We wait for something now more cheery. Come up, O summer, from the south, And bring the harps your hands are thrumming. We pine for kisses from your mouth! Oh! do not be long in coming.

LAY IT AWAY.

We will lay our summer away, my friend, So tenderly lay it away. It was bright and sweet to the very end, Like one long, golden day. Nothing sweeter could come to me, Nothing sweeter to you. We will lay it away, and let it be, Hid from the whole world's view.

We will lay it away like a dear, dead thing Dead, yet forever fair; And the fresh green robes of a deathless spring, Though dead, it shall always wear. We will not hide it in grave or tomb, But lay it away to sleep, Guarded by beauty, and light, and bloom, Wrapped in a slumber deep.

We were willing to let the summer go-- Willing to go our ways; But never on earth again I know Will either find such days. You are my friend, and it may seem strange, But I would not see you again; I would think of you, though all things change, Just as I knew you then.

If we should go back to the olden place, And the summer time went, too, It would be like looking a ghost in the face, So much would be changed and new. We cannot live it over again, Not even a single day; And as something sweet, and free from pain, We had better lay it away.

PERISHED.

I called to the summer sun, "Come over the hills to-day! Unlock the rivers, and tell them to run, And kiss the snow-drifts and melt them away." And the sun came over--a tardy lover-- And unlocked the river, and told it to glide And kissed the snow-drift till it fainted and died.

I called to the robin, "Come back! Come up from the south and sing!" And robin sailed up on an airy track, And smoothed down his feathers and oiled his wing. And the notes came gushing, gurgling, rushing, In thrills and quavers, clear, mellow and strong, Till the glad air quivered and rang with song.

I said to the orchard, "Blow!" I said to the meadow, "Bloom!" And the trees stood white, like brides in a row, And the breeze was laden with rare perfume. And over the meadows, in lights and shadows, The daisies white and violets blue, And yellow-haired buttercups blossomed and grew.

I called to a hope, that died With the death of the flowers and grass, "Come back! for the river is free to glide-- The robin sings, and the daisies bloom." Alas! For the hope I cherished too rudely perished To ever awaken and live again, Though a hundred summers creep over the plain.

THE BELLE'S SOLILOQUY.

Heigh ho! well, the season's over! Once again we've come to Lent! Programme's changed from balls and parties-- Now we're ordered to repent. Forty days of self-denial! Tell you what I think it pays-- Know't'l freshen my complexion Going slow for forty days.

No more savory Frenchy suppers-- Such as Madame R-- can give. Well, I need a little _thinning_ Just a trifle--sure's you live! Sometimes been afraid my plumpness Might grow into downright fat. Rector urges need of fasting-- Think there's lot of truth in that.

We must meditate, he tells us, On our several acts of sin. And repent them. Let me see now-- Whereabouts shall I begin! Flirting--yes, they say 'tis wicked; Well, I'm awful penitent. (Wonder if my handsome major Goes to early Mass through Lent?)

Love of dress! I'm guilty there, too-- Guess it's my besetting sin. Still I'm somewhat like the lilies, For I neither toil nor spin. Forty days I'!! wear my plainest-- Could repentance be more true? What a saving on my dresses! They'll make over just like new.

Pride, and worldliness and all that, Rector bade us pray about Every day through Lenten season, And I mean to be devout! Papa always talks retrenchment-- Lent is just the very thing. Hope he'!! get enough in pocket So we'!! move up town next spring.

MY VISION.

Wherever my feet may wander Wherever I chance to be, There comes, with the coming of even' time A vision sweet to me. I see my mother sitting In the old familiar place, And she rocks to the tune her needles sing, And thinks of an absent face.

I can hear the roar of the city About me now as I write; But over an hundred miles of snow My thought-steeds fly to-night, To the dear little cozy cottage, And the room where mother sits, And slowly rocks in her easy chair And thinks of me as she knits.

Sometimes with the merry dancers When my feet are keeping time, And my heart beats high, as young hearts will, To the music's rhythmic chime. My spirit slips over the distance Over the glitter and whirl, To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits, And thinks of her "little girl."

When I listen to voices that flatter, And smile, as women do, To whispered words that may be sweet, But are not always true; I think of the sweet, quaint picture Afar in quiet ways, And I know one smile of my mother's eyes Is better than all their praise.

And I know I can never wander Far from the path of right, Though snares are set for a woman's feet In places that seem most bright. For the vision is with me always, Wherever I chance to be, Of mother sitting, rocking and knitting, Thinking and praying for me.

DREAM-TIME

Throughout these mellow autumn days, All sweet and dim, and soft with haze, I argue with my unwise heart, That fain would choose the idler's part.

My heart says, "Let us lie and dream Under the sunshine's softened beam, This is the dream-time of the year, When Heaven itself seems bending near.

"See how the calm still waters lie And dream beneath the arching sky. The sun draws on a veil of haze, And dreams away these golden days.

"Put by the pen--lay thought aside, And cease to battle with the tide. Let us, like Nature, rest and dream And float with the current of the stream."

So pleads my heart. I answer "Nay, Work waits for you and me to-day. Behind these autumn hours of gold. The winter lingers, bleak and cold.

"And those who dream too long or much, Must waken, shivering, at his touch, With naught to show for vanished hours, But dust of dreams and withered flowers.

"So now, while days are soft and warm, We must make ready for the storm." Thus, through the golden, hazy weather, My heart and I converse together.

And yet, I dare not turn my eyes To pebbly shores or tender skies, Because I am so fain to do E'en as my heart pleads with me to.

SING TO ME.

Sing to me! something of sunlight and bloom, I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom, I am so sick with the world's noise and strife,-- Sing of the beauty and brightness of life-- Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing to me! something that's jubilant, glad! I am so weary, my soul is so sad. All my earth riches are covered with rust, All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust. Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing of the blossoms that open in spring, How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling, Say, though the winter is round about me, There are bright summers and springs yet to be. Sing to me, sing to me!

Sing me a song full of hope and of truth, Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth! Say, though my sorrow I may not forget, I have not quite done with happiness yet. Sing to me, sing to me!

Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek; Turn the light lower--there--no, do not speak, But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice; Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice. Sing to me, sing to me!

SUMMER SONG.

The meadow lark's trill and the brown thrush's whistle From morning to evening fill all the sweet air, And my heart is as light as the down of a thistle-- The world is so bright and the earth is so fair. There is life in the wood, there is bloom on the meadow; The air drips with songs that the merry birds sing. The sunshine has won, in the battle with shadow, And she's dressed the glad earth with robes of the spring.

The bee leaves his hive for the field of red clover And the vale where the daisies bloom white as the snow, And a mantle of warm yellow sunshine hangs over The calm little pond, where the pale lilies grow. In the woodland beyond it, a thousand gay voices Are singing in chorus some jubilant air. The bird and the bee, and all nature rejoices, The world is so bright, and the earth is so fair.

I am glad as a child, in this beautiful weather; I have tossed all my burdens and trials away; My heart is as light-yes, as light as a feather; I am care-free, and careless, and happy to-day. Can it be there approaches a dark, drear to-morrow? Can shadows e'er fall on this beautiful earth! Ah! to-day is my own! no forebodings of sorrow Shall darken my skies, or shall dampen my mirth.

A TWILIGHT THOUGHT

The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her head On the breast of her dusky lover. Night. The sun has made her a couch of red, And woven a cover of dim twilight; And the lover kisses the maiden's brow, As low on her couch, she sleepeth now.

Here at my window, above the street, I sit, as the day lies in repose; And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet, And I watch this human tide that flows Upward and downward, to and fro, As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.

Over and over the busy town; Hither and thither, through all the day, One goes up, and another down, Each in his own allotted way. Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet, And jar, and jostle upon the street.

People that never met before, People that never will meet again; A careless glance of the eye, no more, And both are lost in the sea of men. Strangers divided by miles, in heart, Under my window meet and part.

But whether their feet pass up, or down, Over the river, east or west; Whether it's in or out of the town, To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest,-- We are journeying to a common goal-- There is one _last_ point for every soul.

Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe, Whether their aims are great or small, Whether their paths lie high or low-- There is one last resting place for all. Then upward, and onward, go surging by Under my window--you all must die.

THE BELLE OF THE SEASON.

Nay--do not bring the jewels-- Away with that robe of white, I am sick of the ball room, sister-- I would rather stay here, to-night. "The grandest ball of the season!" "The upper-ten thousands' show!" Yes, yes, I know it, my darling, But I do not care to go.

Last night I was thinking deeply, Something I seldom do. You know I came home at midnight, Well, I lay awake till two. I was thinking of my girlhood, Just how I had spent its years, And I blushed for shame, my darling, And my pillow was wet with tears.