Part 7

Thou dost not know how brave and strong A woman's heart can be. But few could hide so well and long What mine has hid from thee. So well, that should this idyl chance To meet thine eye, my friend, Thou'd scan it with a careless glance, Nor dream to whom 'twas penned.

1872

_A GOLDEN YEAR_

Linger, linger, oh royal year! For I grieve to see you dying. Rest on the hilltops--loiter near; Wait, O Time, in your flying. For never, in all the twice ten years, You have brought to build my twenty. Never was one so free from tears-- So overflowing with plenty.

Filled to the brim with the purest draughts, That I sip in fearless pleasure; While an unseen spirit watches and laughs, And again refills the measure. My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes, The year has gathered together, And right bountifully they have come to me. From the Spring to the Autumn weather.

The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet, That grew in the world Ideal, Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet, And blossomed among the Real. And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows, Passion-hearted, yet tender. And my path is strewn with the glories of June, And I'm hedged about with its splendor.

Care flew over the hills, one day, And I sang, as he swift retreated; And Hope took his crown, and Joy settled down, On the throne where Care had been seated. Contentment hedged me all round about, And Love built his blazing fire; And Happiness poured his treasures out, And left me with no desire.

I have walked breast high in a sea of bliss: I have loved my God, and my brother. There never before was a year like this-- There never can be another. Linger, loiter, a little while, For I grieve to see you dying! But even in grief, I can only smile, For my heart is too light for sighing.

December, 1870

_FORESHADOWED_

My life has been a summer day complete, Teeming with pleasures, tender, pure, and sweet. But tiny clouds have ever dimmed the sky, And they have quickly passed, and floated by.

Oh, seldom in this thorny world of ours, Is mortal's pathway so bestrewn with flowers. Fragrant and fair, they ever blow and bloom, Untouched by chilling frosts, and wintry gloom. And I thank God, for all his tenderness, And from my very soul adore, and bless Him who has cast my lines in pleasant ways, And crowned with joy and happiness my days.

But sometimes, though the sun shines clear and bright, And all the world seems full of joy and light, A nameless shadow, none but I can see, Falls on my heart, hushing its melody. A nameless, voiceless shadow; but I know It tells of future agony and woe. Some mighty sorrow, vague and undefined, But dark, and awful, waits for me, behind That shadowy cloud. Something of woe and tears-- Of grief, and anguish, is the future years.

It floats away, and I rejoice again, With all my warm young heart untouched by pain. But ever and anon I see it loom, Over my life, and feel its awful gloom.

Oh God! I know not what is hidden there. But give me strength to suffer and to bear. Oh, guide my soul! and teach me how to pray, And make my spirit stronger every day. Upon Thy mighty arm, oh! let me rest, And lean. And when Thou deemest best, Reveal, my Father, what is hid behind The nameless shadow, vague, and undefined.

1869

_FORTUNE'S WHEEL_

My Love was a poor man's daughter, And I was a poor man's son. And oft we walked on the sea shore, When the work of the day was done. Hand in hand, on the gleaming strand, And our two hearts beat as one.

My Love was meek, and gentle, And she was wondrous fair; With hazel dyes in her slumbrous eyes, And chestnut shades in her hair. And we raked hay on the meadow, And I gave my heart in her care.

But the great, notched wheel of Fortune, Kept turning on and on. And she was a rich man's daughter, And I was a poor man's son. And she had a score of lovers, or more. But I was the favored one.

And I passed hard by her window, Nor turned my face to see The lady fair, with gems in her hair, As fine as fine could be. Though I knew her heart was dying For just one word from me.

My Love grew pale as the lily, And faded day by day, And I passed by, and heard her sigh, And turned my face away. For I was proud as the proudest-- And her gold between us lay.

And the great, notched wheel of Fortune Kept rolling on and on. And she was a poor man's daughter, And I was a rich man's son. And maids of grace smiled in my face, But I saw only one.

I found my love in the cottage, Where first I sought her side. And I shall not tell _how_ I wooed--but well, For she had not my pride. And I gave my heart in her keeping, And won her for my bride.

1870

_SEARCHING_

These quiet autumn days, My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings Goes out, and searches for the hidden things, Beyond the hills of haze.

With mournful, pleading cries Above the waters of the voiceless sea That laps the shores of broad Eternity, Day after day it flies.

Searching, but all in vain, For some stray leaf that it may light upon, And read the future as the days agone-- Its pleasure and its pain.

Listening, patiently, For some voice speaking from the mighty deep, Revealing all the secrets it doth keep, In silence, there for me.

Come back and wait! my soul, Day after day thy search has been in vain, Voiceless and silent o'er the future's plain Its mystic waters roll.

God seeing, knoweth best, And in his time the waters shall subside, And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide. Then wait, my soul, and rest.

1869

_DAFT_

In the warm yellow smile of the morning, She stands at the lattice pane, And watches the strong young binders Stride down to the fields of grain; And she counts them over and over As they pass the cottage door: Are they six? she counts them seven-- Are they seven? she counts one more.

When the sun swings high in the heavens, And the reapers go shouting home, She calls to the household, saying "Make haste! for the binders have come! And Johnnie will want his dinner-- He was always a hungry child;" And they answer, "Yes, it is waiting;" Then tell you, "Her brain is wild."

Again, in the hush of the evening, When the work of the day is done, And the binders go singing homeward In the last red rays of the sun, She will sit at the threshold waiting, And her withered face lights with joy: "Come, Johnnie," she says, as they pass her, "Come in to the house, my boy."

Five summers ago, her Johnnie Went out in the smile o' the morn, Singing across the meadow, Striding down through the corn: He towered above the binders Walking on either side, And the mother's heart within her Swelled with exultant pride.

For he was the light of the household; His brown eyes were wells of truth, And his face was the face of the morning, Lit with its pure, fresh youth; And his song rang out from the hill-tops, Like the mellow blast of a horn, As he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows, And down through the rows of corn.

But hushed were the voices of singing, Hushed by the presence of death, As back to the cottage they bore him-- In the noontide's scorching breath. For the heat of the sun had slain him, Had smitten the heart in his breast, And he who had towered above them Lay lower than all the rest.

The grain grows ripe in the sunshine, And the summers ebb and flow, And the binders stride to their labor, And sing as they come and go; But never again from the hill-tops Echoes the voice like a horn; Never up from the meadows, Never back from the corn.

Yet the poor, crazed brain of the mother Fancies him always near; She is blest in her strange delusion, For she knoweth no pain, no fear: And always she counts the binders As they pass her cottage door; Are they six, she counts them seven: Are they seven, she counts one more.

1870

_TRUST_

Once Pain beat on my heart, And well-nigh killed it. I shuddered at the smart, But said, "God willed it." And down and down again, With awful power, Fell the great hand of Pain, Hour after hour.

While, like a mighty flail, The fierce blows hurt me, I cried, "God doth prevail: He'll not desert me." Blow upon cruel blow, The great hand gave me, Yet I cried, "He doth know, And he will save me."

I did not loudly cry, And ask God's reason; I knew He'd tell me why, In his own season. "In His good time," I said, In trusting blindness, And I was not afraid To wait his kindness.

I did not trust in vain. God drew me nearer. And whispered, "Smile again! The way is clearer." And lo! my mortal sight Could reach to heaven, My faith dispelled the night, And light was given.

_THE COMMON LINK_

When on the crowded thoroughfare, Amidst the motley throng I stray, In all the stranger faces there, I meet and pass from day to day, Whether the face be young, or old, Or wreathed in smiles, or calm, or cold, On every brow I trace some line That links the strangers' heart to mine.

Though a proud beauty rustles by, With haughty mien, I smile and say, "You have a heart-ache--so have I: We both are hiding it to-day. Though you are rich, I am poor, We both have entered sorrow's door; Grief comes alike to you and me, So we are of one family."

The richest nabob that I meet, The poorest delver that I see, Youth and old age upon the street, Are one and all the same to me. No heart that beats, but has its grief; Nor wealth, nor youth, gives full relief; And through the tears that sometimes fall I claim relationship to all.

So poor, and rich, and high, and low, I meet upon this common plain. Though far and wide our paths may lie, We entertain the same guest--Pain. The subtle threads of this strange cord, Draw me to mankind, and the Lord, And through the sorrows heaven sends, I hold all men to be my friends.

1869

_BURIED TO-DAY_

Cold is the wind, that blows up from the river. Cold is the blast that sweeps over the plain. In the bleak breath of the morning, I shiver-- Shiver and weep, in my desolate pain. She was so fair--like the beautiful lily-- Fair, oh too fair to be hidden away. And the grave is so dark, and so damp, and so chilly, And she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.

White is the snow that is heaped on the meadow, Whiter the face, in this desolate room. Low in the valley lurk darkness and shadow-- Low lies my heart, in its sorrow and gloom. How the spades scrape, on the sods they are breaking, Breaking, and cutting the snowdrifts away. How the men bend to the grave they are making, Where she--oh my love!--will be buried to-day.

Thick are the walls! but the bleak wind will enter, And chill her through all her long slumber, I know. Rich are her robes! but the merciless Winter Will beat on her breast, with its tempests of snow. Oh, she was guarded, and shielded from sorrow-- Kept from the shadows, and darkness, alway. But she will lie, as the beggar to-morrow-- My love--oh my love!--that is buried to-day.

1870

_WHEN I DIE_

Often, when I am alone, Thinking of the "things unseen;" Things to our eyes never shown, Hidden by the veil between This world and eternity-- To be lifted by and by, Oft the thought has come to me, "Who will robe me, when I die."

When the night-time swiftly nears, And my last sleep comes apace, And the mourners' bitter tears Fall above my dying face; When I pass out, white and still, Where no mortal hand can save, Out beyond the reach of skill-- Who will robe me, for the grave?

When my work is all complete, And I have no more to do, And I pass with willing feet, From the old life, to the new; While my dear ones numb with woe, Weep above my pulseless heart, Who, of all the friends I know, Who will robe me to depart?

Who will fold my pallid hands, On my quiet bosom; close Eyes that gaze on other lands, Clothe me for my last repose? When soft fingers toy and play With my tresses tenderly, Oft the thought has come to me, "Will _these_ robe me, when I die?"

_THE UNSEEN THORN_

"Cinnamon Roses!" she said, "how fair," Holding them out in her finger-tips. "Yes," I whispered, "the hue they wear Was borrowed out of thy cheeks, and lips. Beautiful roses! and each supposes Itself replete, with thy graces, Sweet. Fair they may be, yet not like thee-- See! they fade at thy smile, dear maid!"

"Give me a Rose!" and nothing loth, She tossed a beautiful bud to me. But I gathered the maid and the flowers both-- Close to my breast. "Not that, but _thee!_ I most am wanting. The dear face haunting My heart each hour, is the sweetest flower." And I gathered close the face like a rose, And kissed her lips and her finger-tips.

The leaves, from the roses in her hand, Dropped one by one: but the _thorn_ was left. (Fool, that I did not understand.) Cheated, and jilted, and all bereft, Of the fair, false blossom I held on my bosom I stand to-day. But the _thorn_ alway Pierces my heart like a cruel dart. The rose is dead: and her love--has fled.

1870

_FATHER AND CHILD_

The New Year wedded the winter-- Winter, the harsh old king! Whose head was a snow-capped mountain-- Whose breath was the North-Wind's sting. But he wooed and wedded the maiden, And gave her a robe of snow; And hung on her breast bright jewels, With a lace-work of frost below.

And the days flowed on like a river; And the mother looked up and smiled, When she laid in the arms of Winter, Their beautiful first-born child. "And what shall we name our infant?" She said to the harsh old king. And the old man kissed her softly, And said, "we will call her Spring."

"And how shall we robe our darling? I have always dressed in white! But she must be clothed in colors-- With something soft, and bright." And the old man smiled and answered, "We will give her a robe of green; Trimmed with the fairest flowers, And buds, that were ever seen!"

And he kissed the beautiful infant, Softly on cheek, and brow, And he clasped the hand of the mother, And said "I am going now! The days of my life were numbered, And the last is slipping away. But I leave you to guard our darling, Wherever her steps shall stray."

1870

_UNDER THE MOON_

Under the moon two lovers walked-- The silver moon--the round, full moon; Under its beams they softly talked, Of youth, and love, and June. And they plighted their vows in the silvery light, For their hearts, like the moon, were full, that night.

Under the moon they walked again-- The setting the moon--the waning moon. And scarcely a word was said by the twain. (Ah moon, you set too soon.) For love, in one o' the hearts, like the rim Of the waning moon, grew faint, and dim.

Under the skies a maiden stood-- The cold night skies--the moonless skies: She heard the owl in the lonely wood, And she heard her own deep sighs. "Heart and skies devoid of light; Oh God!" she cried, "what a dreary night!"

Under the skies is a narrow mound-- The watchful skies--the starry skies. And the rays of the moon, so full and round, Shine down, where the maiden lies. And they shine on the fickle lover, who Walks with another, and woos anew.

_SINGERS_

The sweetest songs that were ever sung, And those that please the best, Through sorrow, and grief, and tears were wrung From some o'er-burdened breast. Though the words breathe only of mirth, and bloom, And the strains are the gladdest and lightest, Remember that after a night of gloom, The rays of the sun are brightest.

The rain must fall, ere the spring-time grass Grows tender, and green, and sweet. Through the pangs of travail, a soul must pass, Ere a song is born complete. After a winter of storm, and snow, Blossom the buds in our bowers: After a season of tears and woe, Blossom the poet's flowers.

There are few who give the poet a thought, When they read the pleasing strain. There are few who know that a poem is wrought Through sorrow, and tears, and pain. The merriest song, and the blithest lay, And those that are sweetest and gladdest, Are woven in gloomy and cheerless days, When the poet's heart is the saddest.

_TAKE MY HAND_

I am walking in the darkness: All around me is the night. I am groping in the shadows, And I cannot see the light. Every sunbeam has departed; There is gloom throughout the land. I am fainting by the wayside-- Heavenly Father, take my hand.

Oh, the paths are rough and thorny, That my weary feet have trod. I am bleeding--I am dying, Take me by the hand, O God! Let my gloomy way be lighted, By the glory of Thy face! And thy broad and mighty bosom, Let it be my resting place.

Through this awful night of sorrow, Father, let me hear thy voice. Teach me how to sing in anguish-- How to suffer, and rejoice. Take me by the hand, and guide me, Lead me in the better way. Through this vale of storm, and tempest, To the land of perfect day.

Strengthen me for every contest: Let my prayer be not in vain. I would bless thee in my sorrow-- I would glory in my pain. Make my spirit white, for heaven! Let my soul be purified In the blood that flowed so freely, From the wound in Jesus' side.

Gird my soul, oh God, for battle! I am weak, O make me strong. Do not let my courage falter, Though the strife be fierce, and long. And upon Thy hand, my Father, Let me keep a clinging hold, Till I cross the pearly portal, To the city built of gold.

1869

_DISINTERRED_

[Written after the attempt of Sensation Lovers to prove that Shakespeare's plays were written by Lord Bacon.]

Lo! here's another corpse exhumed! Another Poet disinterred! Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave, And let the dust be hoed and stirred; And bring the bones of Shakespeare out! 'Twill edify the throng, no doubt.

"The Byron scandal has grown old! That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale. The throng is gaping for more food! We need a new sensation tale. Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound. Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!

"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe' And proved beyond the shade of doubt, _He_ saw no raven, after all. Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out! Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good! Who shall we serve up next for food?"

And who, say I, oh seers of earth! What corpse comes next? I daily look To see if some sage hasn't proved That Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rook! Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore-- Who was a plagiarist, and boor.

Sensation, keep your servants out; Let them be watchful, and alert! We'll need a new discovery soon: Tell them to dig about the dirt, And tear off Keats', or Shelly's shroud, To please and edify the crowd.

1870

_A LAWYER'S ROMANCE_

Into the mellow light of the cloudless autumn day, Somehow, the vision slips, of a landscape, far away, Wherever I turn my eyes, it hovers before them still, The little, vine-wreathed cot, on the southerly slope of the hill,

The pasture at the left, the ducks a-swim in the pond, And the straight, green rows of corn, with the wheat fields just beyond, The sloping lawn on the right, that is always seeming to say To the lake that lies below, "I will meet you just half way."

And over and over the cot, from th' ground to th' mossy eaves, Cling, and twine, and clamber the vines, with their dark, green leaves; The little mimic garden, with its simple flowers a-blow, Larkspur, bleeding hearts, and the clumps of phlox, like snow;

Petunias, red and white, like drooping and fragile maids, Rose trees hanging down, with roses of many shades, Marigolds, bachelor-buttons, with clusters of evergreen, On the two trim rows of beds, with the narrow path between,

And the setting rays of the sun, lending it all a flush, That is given to sunset scenes, by the heavenly Artist's brush. It is thus it rises to-day, and hovers before my eyes; I have seen it softly lit, with the mornings' sweet surprise--

I have seen it when the dew glistened upon the grass-- In the hush of the summer noon, when the calm lake lay like glass-- In the ghostly rays o' the moon--in the quiet of the night-- But never half so fair as under that sunset light.

Ah! foolish, and weak old heart, must you live it over again? Why reopen the book, whose final page was Pain! But the picture rises before me, rises, and hovers there, And the glory of the sunset falls on the maiden's hair;

The maid, who stood in that garden ten long summers ago. Stood by the "bleeding hearts," and the clusters of phlox, like snow. Ah! musty and dusty old heart, you were younger and lighter then! Yet not young, for now you have beat, two score years and ten;

But that one summer holds the essence of all my life, The forty years before were records of toil and strife, And I opened the book again, when my holiday was o'er, And began at the page I left, and plodded on as before.

Weary of law, of work, of the dust, and heat of th' town, Ill, in body and mind, my heart went longing down To the cool, green country meadows; and I followed it one day, And there in the vine-wreathed cot, let the summer slip away;

Ay! and I let the heart I had guarded forty years-- The heart that had never been stirred by love's wild hopes and fears-- I let it slip away to the maid with amber eyes, With tresses dusky brown, and cheeks like th' sunset skies.

Ah! secret I tried to keep, ah! love I strove to hide! But in the July twilight, I lingered at her side, And, leaning by the rose tree, her tresses swept my cheek! "Ah! sweet," I cried in a tremor, "I love you--let me speak!"