Part 5
And I seem to live over my girlhood again, When my life was as warm as the spring: Before it had read the sharp lesson of pain, And when you were my hero, arid king.
Oh! you were not worthy the love that I gave, Like the sun in midsummer, it burned; While a passionless fancy, an idle day-dream, Was the poor, shallow thing you returned.
Long ago--long ago! time has softened the pain, That threatened to shadow my life. I am older, and wiser I think, now, than then, And you have a beautiful wife--
As pure as the angels, as fair, too, they say, With her blue eyes and snowy-white lid. But I cannot help wondering, here to myself, If she loves you as well as I did.
Ah me! it can never harm you, or your bride, For me to dream over that night, When you whispered sweet words o'er the rose from my hair. And my foolish heart throbbed in delight.
1868
_WAITING_
The days flow on, and on, And never one comes back. Another year has vanished and gone, As the waves of the sea wash out the track On the shining sands o' th' shore. And patience waneth, and hope is spent, As I wait and watch for the one who went, And cometh to me no more.
The spring-time lived and died, And the summer followed fast; And I watched through both, with a heart that cried, For the one who vanished into the past, Like a beautiful star from the sky; Who sailed in a good ship over the sea, And the ship came back: But "where is he, Oh, treacherous ship," I cry?
The autumn, gold and brown, Rose from the summer's grave, And the rain and my tears fell down and down, As day by day, I stood by the wave. And cried aloud in my pain. But what cares the sea for a tortured soul! It mocks at grief, and the breakers roll, Singing a loud refrain.
And never a word from thee, But a silence deep as death; Though the winter gleameth on moor and lea, And the cold, cold wind, with its cruel breath, Blows over the angry sea. Yet alway and ever, till life is done, Shall I watch, and wait, and weep for one Who cometh never, to me.
1869
_DRIFTING APART_
Farther apart, each day, our lives are drifting; Farther apart at every set of sun. The clouds between us show no signs of lifting, But droop, and gather shadows, one by one.
Drifting apart! the visions that I've cherished, Within my loving, foolish heart for years, At those two meaning words, have rudely perished, And in their place is naught but bitter tears.
I do not weep--I do not sigh, and languish, And murmur at the hard decree of fate. I walk my way, in silent, smiling anguish, Knowing remorse, and tears, are all too late.
But oh, my darling! I am only human, And though 'tis weakness, I do love you yet. Mine is the heart, of clinging, constant woman, Whose lot it is to love, and not forget.
I know that we can never stem the current, That bore the sunshine of my life away; Our feet can never cross the unbridged torrent That flows between us, wider every day.
Perhaps, when we have passed the heavenly portal, And all our tears are dried by Christ, the Friend, And we have entered on the life immortal, Perhaps our path ways There may meet, and blend.
I cannot tell; the mystic, grand To-morrow Was never meant for earthly, mortal eyes. But it is sweet, to think all tears and sorrow, Will vanish at the dawn of heavenly skies.
1868.
_ONCE MORE TOGETHER_
[To H. A. M.]
What sounds so sweet as the glad words of greeting? And what starts the tears, Like the warm kiss that is given at meeting After long years.
Friend of my heart, we are once more together; Hand clasped in hand. We sit and we walk in the beautiful weather That gladdens the land.
Oh, rare golden days, in the heart of September; Days more than sweet-- Days that my heart will forever remember, Ye are too fleet!
Why haste away! the greedy "Past's" measure Already runs o'er; But like a miser who hoards up rare treasure, He cries out for "more."
Oh, bright Autumn days! If you only would linger And loiter, and stay! Too soon old time shall be pointing his finger And bidding me say.
That word "Good-bye," that's so hard to be spoken. Hearts have been stirred Almost to breaking; and fond hearts _have_ broken At that last word.
Away with these sad thoughts! this rare golden weather Shall not find me sad, Because we cannot _always_ wander together, But I will be glad
Of the days that are left. No foreboding of sorrow Shall darken my sky. Nor To-day be o'erclouded, because some To-morrow, I must say good-bye.
1871
_ONCE IN A WHILE_
Once in a while, in this world so strange, To lighten our sad regrets, We find a heart that is true through change-- A heart that never forgets. Oh, rare as a blossoming rose in December-- As a bird in an Arctic clime, Is a heart, a _heart_ that can remember Through sorrow and change and time.
Once in a while we find a love That will live through life and death, Ay! that will follow the soul above. Not passing away with the breath. But rarer, Oh, rarer by far and stranger Than a spring in the desert sand, Is a love that will last, with toil, and danger, And strife on every hand.
Once in a while we find a friend That will cling through good or ill, Whose friendship follows us e'en to the end, Be it up or adown the hill, But the heart so true, and the love so tender, And friendship's faithful smile, Whether we dwell in squalor or splendor, We find but "once in a while."
1872
_BEAUTY_
Though thy cheek be fair, as the roses are, Thy brow like the drifted snow, And thine eye as bright, as the diamonds light, Yet if in thy heart doth grow But noxious weeds, and selfish deeds Follow thy steps alway, What in the end availeth it, friend, If thy face is fair, I pray.
For the smoothest brow, old Time will plow, And he dimmeth the brightest eye; And the fairest face, and the form of grace, In the lowly grave must lie. But our deeds live on, when life is done. Nor Time, nor death destroy; And the words we say, will make their way With sorrow, or with joy.
And even the thought, that we utter not, In heaven is like a shout. And bad or good, it is understood, And the angels write it out But they do not care, if the face be fair, Or what the world deems plain. They look to the heart, and the deathless part, For the rest is poor and vain.
1870
_A PLEA FOR FAME_
Let those slander fame who will-- Call her cheat and blame her ways. It may all be true; and still I shall give her words of praise. She has been my faithful friend, True and constant to the end.
Since I saw her hand first beckon Far above my lowly plain, I have had no need to reckon What my loss, or what my gain. She has made sweet blossoms blow In whatever path I go; She hath made the dark ways light. Made the somber places bright; She has filled my empty cup Full to overflow with pleasure, And, though I may drink it up, She again refills the measure.
She has never promised aught That she has not more than brought. She has stood by me in danger, Made a friend of many a stranger-- Made a welcome warm for me Whereso'er my lot may be; Thrown wide open many a door That was closed to me before; Given me every boon and blessing-- Almost--that is worth possessing.
All my life, I never knew Any other friend so true. Youth and Love are fleeting things; Wealth has light and airy wings-- Fame, once mine, will never flee, She has been a friend to me. Let who will condemn her ways, I shall always sing her praise.
1872
_SOMEWHERE_
Somewhere there is a spot of ground, Covered with grass, or snow, may-be, That one day will be spaded 'round And dug up to make room for me.
And I unconsciously have trod, Perhaps, and so again may tread Upon the very voiceless sod, That will be roof above my head.
Somewhere upon the earth to-day Are dwelling men, who yet shall spade And cut and dig the earth away, Until my narrow house is made.
Perchance they have clasped hands with me; Those hands, that, after I am dead, Shall measure me so reverently, To find how long to make my bed.
How strangely, solemn thoughts like these Will come, when life seems blithe and gay; Like voices of the passing breeze, Saying "All things must pass away-"
_OUR ANGEL_
Upon a couch all robed by careful hands For her repose, the maiden Mable lies, Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands-- A mass of stranded gold, that mortal eyes May, wondering, gaze upon a little while; That mortal hands may touch a few times more.
Her placid lips part in a sweet, faint smile, As if the glories of that mystic shore, When first they fell upon her spirit eyes-- All the rare splendors of that unseen way Had touched her with a wondering, glad surprise, And left the pleased expression on her clay.
Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast-- Two shapes of wax upon a drift of snow. And they have robed her for her peaceful rest. Not in the hateful shroud--that sign of woe, But in that garb we loved to see her wear; A dark blue robe, fashioned by her own hand.
I wonder, as I see her lying there, If God will give her spirit in His land Another shape. She could not be more fair. I think he will not change her form, or face, But with the same long, rippling, golden hair She will kneel down before the throne of grace, And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raise Up to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand. And will with her own sweet voice, sing God's praise, And still be fairest in the Angel band.
1872
_A SUMMER IDYL_
I hear the sound of the reapers, All in the golden grain, And voices of strong young binders, Singing a sweet refrain. The winds are asleep on the hilltops, And the sun smiles down in the vale, Till the rose faints under his glances, And her cheek grows wan and pale.
The meadows are green as the ocean; And the winds, when they wake from rest, Ripple and billow the grasses, Like waves on the ocean's breast. The vine grows over my window, Where the humming bird comes each day, And the robin and thrush in the willow, Are singing their lives away.
Oh, beautiful, languid Summer! You are so fleet, so fleet. Oh, youth, and joy, and gladness, You are so sweet--so sweet! My life is a wonderful poem, Complete in measure and rhyme, And the sweetest of all the stanzas Is written this summer time.
But the golden harvest is going-- The summer will fade and pass. The thrush and the robin will vanish, And the snow fall over the grass. The vine at my window will perish. And the beautiful poem of life Will change to a measure of sorrow, And be marred and broken by strife. Then revel in youth, and summer; Oh, heart, be glad and gay, For sorrow, and blight, and winter, Are coming to us one day.
1872
_THE MUSICIANS_
The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure, And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear, For he and Mirth played a joyful measure, And they played so loud that I could not hear The wailing and moaning of souls a-weary-- The strains of sorrow that floated around, For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery, And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers, Played louder and louder in joyful glee; But sometimes a discord was heard by others-- Though only the rhythm was heard by me. Louder and louder, and faster and faster The hands of the brothers played strain on strain, When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master Swept them aside; and Pain, Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner, Restrung the strings of my quivering heart, And the air that he played was a plaintive minor, So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start; Each note was an echo of awful anguish, As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow, And my soul for a season seemed to languish And faint with its weight of woe.
With skillful hands, that were never weary, This Master of Music played strain on strain, And between the bars of the miserere, He drew up the strings of my heart again: And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder, To see that they did not snap in two.
"They are drawn so tight they will break asunder," I thought, but instead, they grew, In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger; And I could hear on the stilly air-- Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer-- The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair, And my soul grew tender and kind to others; My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad; And I held all men to be my brothers, Linked by the chastening rod.
My soul was lifted to God and heaven, And when on my heart-strings fell again The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even, There was never a discord to mar the strain. For Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner, Attuned the strings with a Master hand, And whether the music be major or minor, It is always sweet and grand.
1872
_IN VAIN_
The artist looks down on his canvass, And smothers a heart-weary sigh, And he sees not the beautiful picture That glows with the hues of the sky. For a picture that cannot be painted Burns into the artist's brain, And he weeps as he sits at his easel, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
The poet reads over his poem, The thoughts of a Heaven-lent soul-- And sweet as the ripple of waters The beautiful sentences roll. But a poem that cannot be written, Burns into the poet's brain, And he weeps in a passion of anguish, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
The musician sits at his organ, And the air echoes sweet melodies. But his heart cries for sounds that are better Than the sounds that he draws from the keys. For a chord that has never been sounded-- A passionate,--ecstatic strain. And he weeps as he sits at the organ, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."
Oh, Artist, Musician and Poet! Three souls that were lent to the earth To brighten with fingers of beauty This bare, barren planet of dearth! You dream of the glories of Heaven, And vainly are striving to show To the gaze of the clay-fettered mortals, The things that no mortal shall know.
1871
_BABY EVA_
[Lines to the sweetest little girl in the world.]
Sitting and watching the fire-light fall In fitful gleams, on floor, and wall, I think of the fairest of baby-girls, With bright blue eyes, and sunny curls, With two round cheeks, and a dimpled hand-- The sweetest baby in all the land.
I think of her thousand coaxing arts, That won her place in my heart of hearts; And how at twilight, the baby's hour-- A winsome queen, she ruled in power; And laid on my shoulder her head of gold And named the stories she wanted told.
"Goosey Loosey," "Cat and Mouse," "London Bridge," and "Jack and his House," "Peter's Pig," and "the Foolish Frog," "The Mooley Cow," and "the Poly-wog." And when these were told, as many more, Till I needs must add, to my ample store.
I can think how the bright little eyes would glow At the tale of the kid that was made to go. How they filled with tears, when Old Mother Hubbard Opened the door on an empty cupboard. How they sparkled with glee, and glowed with fun When she heard how the wasp made the hornet run.
Over and over the winsome elf Would plead for the stories she knew herself; She would sigh o'er the fate of poor Hen-Pen Who foolishly hid in the Fox's den, And grieve o'er the poor little mouse that was drowned Before his "great long tail" was found.
And sitting alone in the fire-light's glow, And thinking about it, all I know That not on the earth, in any place, Is there such another winsome face-- Is there another, so sweet and wise, As baby Eva--beneath the skies.
1873
_I SHALL NOT FORGET_
I shall not forget you. The years may be tender, But vain are their efforts to soften my smart; And the strong hands of Time are too feeble and slender To garland the grave that is made in my heart. Your image is ever about me--before me, Your voice floats abroad on the voice of the wind; And the spell of your presence, in absence, is o'er me, And the dead of the past, in the present I find.
I cannot forget you. The one boon ungiven, The boon of your love, is the cross that I bear. In the midnight of sorrow, I vainly have striven To crush in my heart the sweet image hid there; To banish the beautiful dreams that are thronging The halls of my memory--dreams worse than vain; For the one drop withheld, I am thirsting and longing, For the one joy denied, I am weeping in pain.
I would not forget you. I live to remember The beautiful hopes that bloomed but to decay, And brighter than June glows the bleakest December, When peopled with ghosts of the dreams passed away. Once loving you truly, I love you forever; I mourn not in weak, idle grief for the past; But the love in my bosom can never, oh never Pass out, or another pass in, first or last.
_THE OLD AND THE NEW_
As a mother who dies in travail-- Who closes her eyes in death, And sinks in the sleep that is long and deep, With her babe's first wailing breath, In the hush of the midnight watches, So, the old year passed away, And the new was born, and was hailed this morn, As the "Happy New Year Day."
The day when our eyes look backward, To see what our hands have done, Through the hours of gold that the dead year told, Like the beads of a pious Nun-- When we shut up the blotted ledger, With its record of joy and grief, Of losses and gains, and pleasures and pains, And turn to the new white leaf
We hoped, we planned, and we promised, When the year that is dead was young: But our hopes are like leaves that are withered, And the year like a song that is sung. We planned out some wonderful project, That should bring to us riches and fame: Hour by hour, day by day, our plans fell away, And our project was only a name.
We promised that life should be better, As the sphere of our labors grew broad, That "those things behind" should pass from the mind, As we reached for the prize of our God. But alas, for the promises given! Lo, what were our good resolves worth? They were lost to our sight, and we strayed from the light, And worshiped the poor things of earth.
And so, while we builded our castles, With turrets of sapphire and gold, Till they glowed in the sun, the months one by one, Slipped away, and the year grew old-- Grew feeble and old and departed In the shadows and gloom of the night; And some said 'twas a year full of sorrow, And some, 'twas a year of delight.
Some, sitting in darkness and weeping, Sob, "Oh. but the year was so long!" And some, full of cheer, say the beautiful year Was only one verse of a song. To some it brought gladness and pleasure, To others but sorrow and gloom. It gave one the sweet orange blossoms, Another, the dust of the tomb.
There are mothers to-day who are sitting, With arms that are aching to hold The small form of grace, and the dear little face, And the head with its crown of spun gold; And they think of the last happy New Year, And the voice that made music all day, And, sitting alone in the silence, they moan, For the babe that is hidden away.
There are maidens, in love-letters, reading The story so old and so new; And their happy hearts beat, in a rhythm so sweet, As they read of the love strong and true; And they think that of all the glad New Years, There was never another so glad; And they heed not the wail of the mother, so pale, Who thinks the day dreary and sad.
There are some leaning over the coffin Of a hope that went out with the year; And their sad eyes are dry, and the lips white that cry, "The hope of a life-time lies here." God pity and comfort such mourners, For God alone knoweth the pain Of these suffering hearts, when a dear hope departs, And is buried to rise not again.
It is sad to lean over a loved one, And cover the face with a pall, But who mourns, with bowed head, o'er a hope that is dead, Has the bitterest sorrow of all. God grant that this New Year may bring them, Some other hope, fully as sweet; May it cull the bright flowers from happiness' bowers, And cast them in wreaths at their feet.
Despair and delight walk together; The sunshine falls over the tomb; And close by the weary, whose lives are all dreary, Walk those who are crowned with earth's bloom. Some wearing the laurels of glory, And flushed with the glow of success, May their wreaths never pale, or their honors grow stale, Or their hopes or their happiness less.
Oh, wonderful year that has left us! Full of tragedy, sorrow and change, Was there ever another so fateful, Was there ever another so strange? Great hearts that were throbbing last New Year Are food for the grave-worms to-day, And lips whose least word a whole nation heard, Are nothing but cold, silent clay.
There was one who was crowned with the Fern Leaves, Whose ringing tones, full of good cheer, Lightened hearts that were sad, and made weary ones glad, On many a weary New Year. There was one double-dowered by heaven, Twice gifted and favored by God, REID, whose brush, and whose pen, made him king among men,-- He, too, lieth under the sod.
And another, the hero of battles. Before whom the enemy fled In alarm and dismay, while he won the day, MEAD,--warrior and hero, is dead. There was one who climbed up the steep ladder, Step by step, on rounds that he made; And carved out his name, on the summit of Fame, In letters that never will fade.