ft: i^mmW Wimvmii^ | lihut^ BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME FROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF Henrg M. SaQc 1891 fl4»f5-H 2.3 d 1 -+.. Cornell University Library PS 1264.H96 Ballads, lyrics, and hymns. 3 1924 021 988 666 PS* .SV Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 924021 988666 '^f '^^A. -^"-,E;^"i:.7-AHPj' yy^ly ,-=' ''^ ^■~»^ BALLADS. The Young Soldier ..... " ^vinds ! ye are too rough, too kough ! " Ruth and I ..... . Hagen Waldee .... "Among the pitfalls in oub way" Our Schoolmaster .... "The best man should never pass by" . The Geay Swan ...... The Washeewoman ..... Growing Kich ...... "Too much joy is sorrowful," Sandy Macleod ... . . The Picture-Book ..... " He spoils his house and throws his pains away " A Walk through the Snow " The glance that doth my neighbor doubt " The Water-Bearer ..... The Best Judgment ... Hugh Thohndyke ... "Still from the unsatisfying quest" ['"aithless ...... •'Do not look for wrong and evh." — My Faded Sha^vl ..... Care ........ Old Chums ...... "Apart from the woes that are dead and gone," The Shoemaker ..... To THE Wind ...... "What comfort, when with clouds of woe" . Little Cyrus ...... Pag« 3 8 9 12 14 15 18 19 22 26 26 27 29 31 32 34 35 43 46 48 49 51 52 60 61 63 64 66 68 CONTENTS. "OcK God is love, akd that which we miscall" Morning ...... The Summer Storm . . . ■ If and If ..... " We are the mariners, and God the sea Ah Order for a Picture Fifteen and Fifty .... Jenht Dunleath ..... Thickset's Ring .... Crazy Christopher .... The Ferry of Gallaway KEVOLimONARY StORY .... "Just here and there with some poor little ray "Hope in our hearts doth only stay" THOUGHTS Thanksgivikg The Bridal Veil . The Special Darling A Dream of the "West On Seeing a Drowninq Moth Good and Evil Stroller's Song A Lesson On Seeing a Wild Bird Rich, though Poor Sixteen Prayer for Light The Uncut Ljiaf The Might of Truth Counsel . The Ltttle Blacksmith Two Travellers The Blind Traveller The Blackbird . My Good Angel More Life Contradictory AND THEORIES. CONTENTS. This is Au. In Vaiu Best, to the Best Thorns Old Adam The Farmer's Daughter A Prayer Alone Sometimes The Sea-Side Cave January . The Measure of Time Idle Fears Hints . To a Stagnant River Counsel Latent Life How AND Where . The Felled Tree A Dream Work Comfort Faith and Works The Rustic Painter One of Many The Shadow The Unwise Choice Signs of Grace Providence The Living Present One Dust The Weaver's Dream Not Now Crags Man To Solitude The Law of Libertt . My Creed Open Secrets vm The Saddest Sight The Beidai, Houb Idle CONTENTS. Faet 21 ;4 266 267 HYMNS. The Sure Witness Love is Life . ■ • • " Tht wokks, Lord, isterpket Thee," Time ..•■•• CoXSOLATIdN suppt.ication "Wht should ooe spirits be oppeest" Whither . . • • • Sl-re Aschok Resiember Lteic Sunday Mousing In the Dark Parting Song Mourn Not The Heaven that's Here The Streaji of Life . Dead and Alive Invocation Life of Life Mercies . Pleasurb and Pain Mysteries Lyric . Trust All in All . The Pure in Heart Unsatisfied . More Life Light and Darkness Substance Life's Mtsteet Fob Self-Heup . CONTENTS. ix ^ Page Ptino Htms ........ 328 extkemities ........ 327 Hekk and Thekb .,.,,, . , 329 The Dawh of Peace .,.,.,. 330 DCCASIOSAL . , . . . . , |3g PORTRAIT, ON Steel, bt Ritchie TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG HocHSTEm iii THE YOUNG SOLDIER Herrick 3 THE GRAY SWAN Fenn 19 THE WATER-BEARER Bellows 35 MY FADED SHAWL , Hillon 52 LITTLE CYRUS Carey 69 AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE Granville Perkins 85 CRAZY CHRISTOPHER Hochstein 110 THANKSGIVING Hillok 127 ON SEEING A DROWNING MOTH... .Fenn 14i THE LITTLE BLACKSMITH J. G. Brown 171 THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER Wm. Hart 19'. THE FELLED TREE " " 223 THE WEAVER'S DREAM Lacnt Thompson 24ii THE SURE WITNESS.. Hochstein. in ^allati£i* THE YOUNG SOLDIER NTu the house ran Lettice, With hair so long and so bright, Crying, " Mother ! Johnny has 'listed ! ^ He has 'listed into the fight ! " " Don't talk so wild, little Lettice ! " J And she smoothed her darling's brow, " 'T is true I you '11 see — as true can be — He told me so just now I " BALLADS. " Ah, that 's a likely story ! Why, darling, don't you see, If Johnny had 'listed into the war He would tell your father and me I ' " But he is going to go, mother, Whether it 's right or wrong ; He is thinking of it all the while. And he won't be with us long." " Our Johnny going to go to the war ! " " Ay, ay, and the time is near ; He said, when the corn was once in the ground, We could n't keep him here ! " " Hush, child ! your brother Johnny Meant to give you a fright." " Mother, he '11 go, — I tell you I know He 's 'listed into the fight ! " Plucking a rose from the bush, he said, Before its leaves were black He 'd have a soldier's cap on his head, And a knapsack on his back ! " "A dream ! a dream ! little Lettice, A wild dream of the night ; Go find and fetch your brother in, And he will set us right." BALLADS. So out of the house ran Lettice, Calling near and far, — " Johnny, tell me, and tell me true, Are you going to go to the war ? " ' At last she came and found him In the dusty cattle-close, Whistling Hail Columbia, And beating time with his rose. The rose he broke from the bush, when he said, Before its leaves were black He 'd have a soldier's cap on his head. And a knapsack on his back. Then all in gay mock-anger, He plucked her by the sleeve. Saying, "Dear little, sweet little rebel, I am going, by your leave ! " " O Johnny ! Johnny ! " low he stooped. And kissed her wet cheeks dry. And took her golden head in his hands, And told her he would not die. "But, Letty, if anything happen — There won't I and he spoke more low — But if anything should, you must be twice as good As you are, to mother, you know ! *' BALLADS. "Not but that you are good, Letty, As good as you can be ; But then you know it might be so. You 'd have to be good for me ! " So straight to the house they went, his cheeks Flushing under his brim ; And his two broad-shouldered oxen Turned their great eyes after him. That night in the good old farmstead Was many a sob of pain ; " O Johnny, stay ! if you go away, It will never be home again ! " But Time its still sure comfort lent, Crawling, crawling past. And Johnny's gallant regiment Was going to march at last. And steadying up her stricken soul. The mother turned about, Took what was Johnny's from the drawer And shook the rose-leaves out : And brought the cap she had lined with silk. And strapped his knapsack on, And her heart, though it bled, was proud as she said, " You would hardly know our John ! " BALLADS. Another year, and the roses Were bright on the bush by the door ; And into the house ran Lettice, Her pale cheeks glad once more. " O mother ! news has come to-day I 'T is flying all about ; Our John's regiment, they say, Is all to be mustered out ! " mother, you must buy me a dress, And ribbons of blue and buff! O what shall we say to make the day Merry and mad enough ! " The brightest day that ever yet The sweet sun looked upon, When we shall be dressed in our very best. To welcome home our John I " So up and down ran Lettice, And all the farmstead rung With where he would set his bayonet, And where his cap would be hungl And the mother put away her look Of weary, waiting gloom. And a feast was set and the neighbors met To welcome Johnny home. BALLADS. The good old father silent stood, With his eager face at the pane, And Lettice was out at the door to shout When she saw him in the lane. And by and by, a soldier Came o'er the grassy hill ; It was not he they looked to see, And every heart stood still. . He brought them Johnny's knapsack, 'T was all that he could do. And the cap he had worn begrimed and torn. With a bullet-hole straight through! asC\5XS>30w Among the pitfalls in onr way The best of us walk blindly ; O man, be wary ! watch and pray. And judge your brother kindly. Help back his feet, if they have slid, Nor count him still your debtor ; Perhaps the very wrong he did Has made yourself the better. BALLADS. U OUR SCHOOLMASTER. We used to think it was so queer To see him, in his thin gray hair, Sticking our quills behind- his ear, And straight forgetting they were there. We used to think it was so strange That he should twist such hair to curls, And that his wrinkled cheek should change Its color like a bashful girl's. Our foolish mirth defied all rule, As glances, each of each, we stole, The morning that he wore to schoo! A rose-bud in his button-hole. And very sagely we agreed That such a dunce was never known — Fifty! and trying still to read Love-verses with a tender tone I No joyous smile would ever stir -Our sober looks, we often said. If we were but a Schoolmaster, And had, withal, his old white head. 16 BALLADS. One day we cut his knotty staff Nearly in two, and each and all Of us declared that we should laugh To see it break and let him fall. Upon his old pine desk we drew His picture — pitiful to see, Wrinkled and bald — half false, half true, And wrote beneath it. Twenty-three 1 Next day came eight o'clock and nine. But lie came not : our pulses quick With play, we said it would be fine If the old Schoolmaster were sick. And still the beech-trees bear the scars Of wounds which we that morning made, Cutting their silvery bark to stars Whereon to count the games we played. At last, as tired as we could be. Upon a clay-bank, strangely still. We sat down in a row to see His worn-out hat come up the hill. 'T was hanging up at home — a quill Notched down, and sticking in the band, And leaned against his arm-chair, still His staff was waiting; for his hand. BALLADS. 17 Across his feet his threadbare coat Was lying, . stuffed with many a roll Of " copy-plates," and, sad to note, A dead rose in the button-hole. And he no more might •take his place Our lessons and our lives to plan : Cold Death had kissed the wrinkled face Of that most gentle gentleman. Ah me, what bitter tears made blind Our young eyes, for our thoughtless sin. As two and two we walked behind The long black coffin he was in. And all, sad women now, and men With wrinkles and gray hairs, can see How he might wear a rose-bud then, And read, love-verses tenderly. 18 BALLADS. The best man should never pass by The worst, but to brotherhood true. Entreat him thus gently, " Lo, I Am tempted m all things as you." Of one dust all peoples are made, One sky doth above them extend, And whether through sunshine or shade Their paths run, they meet at the end. And whatever his honors may be, Of riches, or genius, or blood, God never made any man free To find out a separate good. THE GRAY SWAN. " Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, Is my little lad, my Elihu, A-sailing with your ship ? " The sailor's eyes were dim with dew, - " Your little lad, your Elihu ? " He said, with trembling lip, — " What httle lad ? • what ship ? " " What little lad ! as if there could be Another such an one as he !' What little lad, do you say? Why, Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee I It was just the other day The Gray Swan sailed away." 20 BALLADS. " The other day ? " the sailor's eyes Stood open with a great surprise, " The other day ? the Swan ? " His heart began in his throat to rise. " Ay, ay, sir, here in tlie cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone?" " Gone with the Swan.'" " And did she- stand With her "anchor clutching hold of the sand, For a month, and never stir?" " Why, to be sure ! I 've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her, — A sight to remember, sir." " But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago ? I stood on the Ch-ay Swan's deck, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off, as it might be, so ! The kerchief from your neck." " Ay, and he '11 bring it back ! " "And did the little lawless lad That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?" " Lawless ! the man is going mad ! The best boy ever mother had, — BALLADS. 21 Be sure he sailed with the crew I What would you have him do ? " " And he has never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign To say he was alive ? " " Hold ! if 't was wrong, the wrong is mine ; Besides, he may be in the brine. And could he write from the grave ? Tut, man ! what would you have ? " " Gone twenty years, — a long, long cruise, — 'T was wicked thus your love to abuse ; But if the lad still live. And come back home, think you you can Forgive him ? " — " Miserable man. You're mad as the sea, — you rave, — What have I to forgive ? " The sailor twitched his shirt so blue. And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. " My God ! my Father ! is it true ? My little lad, my Elihu ! My blessed boy, my child ! My dead, my living child I " 22 BALLADS. THE WASHERWOMAN. At the north end of our village stands, With gable black and high, A woatlier-beaten house, — I 've stopt Otten as I went by, To see the strip of bleaching grass Slipped brightly in between The long straight rows of hollvhocks, And current-bushes green ; The clumsy bench beside the door, And oaken washing-tub. Where poor old Rachel used to stand. And rub, and rub, and rub ! Her blue-checked apron speckled with The suds, so snowy white ; From morning when I went to school Till I went home at night, She never took her sunburnt arms Out of the steaming tub : We used to say 't was weary work Only to hear her rub. BALLADS. 23 With sleeves stretched straight upon the grass The washed shirts used to lie ; By dozens I have counted them Some days, as I went by. The burly blacksmith, battering at His red-hot iron bands, Would make a joke of wishing that He had old Rachel's hands f And when the sharp and ringing strokes Had doubled up ly^ shoe. As crooked as old Rachel's back. He used to say 't would do. And every village housewife, with A conscience clear and light. Would send for her to come and wash An hour or two at night ! Her hair beneath her cotton cap Grew silver-white and thin ; And the deep furrows in her face Plouffhed all the roses in. Yet patiently she kept at work,' — We school-girls used to say The smile about her sunken mouth Would quite go out some day. 24 BALLADS. Nobody ever thought the spark That in her sad eyes shone, Burned outward from a living soul Immortal as their own. And though a tender flush sometimes Into her cheek would start, Nobody dreamed old Rachel had A woman's loving heart ! At last she left her heaps of clothes One quiet autumn day, And stript from off her sunburnt arms The weary suds away ; That night within her moonlit door She sat alone, — her chin Sunk in her hand, — her eyes shut up. As if to look within. Her face uplifted to the star That stood so sweet and low Against old crazy Peter's house — (He loved her long ago !) Her heart had worn her body to A handful of poor dust, — Her soul was gone to be arrayed In marriage-robes, I trust. BALLADS. 25 GEOWING EICH. And why are you pale, my Nora? And why do you sigh and fret ? The black ewe had twin lambs to-day, And we shall "be rich folk yet. Do you mind the clover-ridge, Nora, That slopes to the crooked stream? The brown cow pastured there this week, And her milk is sweet as cream. The old gray mare that last year fell As thin as any ghost. Is getting a new white coat, and looks As young as her colt, almost. And if the corn-land should do well, And so, please God, it may, I '11 buy the white-faced bull a bell. To make the meadows gay. I know we are growing rich, Johnny, And that is why 1 fret, t'or my little brother. Phil is down In the dismal coal-pit yet. BALLADS. And when the sunshine sets in tii' corn, The tassels green and gay, It will not touch my father's eyes, That are going blind, they say. But if I were not sad for him. Nor yet for little Phil, Why, darling Mold's hand, last year. Was cut off in the mill. And so, nor mare nor brown milch-cow. Nor lambs can joy impart, For the blind old man and th' mill and mine Are all upon my heart. Too much of joy is sorrowful. So cares must needs abound ; The vine that bears too many flowers Will trail upon the ground. BALLADS. 27 SANDY MACLEOD. When I tliink of the weary nights and davs Of poor, hard-working folk, always I see, with his head on his bosom bowed, The luckless shoemaker, Sandy Macleod. Jeering schoolboys used to say His chimney would never be raked away By the moon, and you by a jest so rough May know that his cabin was low enough. Nothing throve with him ; his colt and cow Got their living, he did n't know how, — Yokes on their scraggy necks swmging about, Beating and bruising them year in and out. Out at the elbow he used to go, — Alas for him that he did not know The way to make poverty regal, — not he, If such way under the sun there be. Sundays all day in the door he sat, A string of withered-up crape on his hat, The crown half fallen against his head. And half sewed in with a shoemaker's thread. ■28 BALLADS. Sometimes with Ms hard and toil-worn hand He would smooth and straighten th' faded band. Thinking perhaps of a little mound Black with nettles the long year round. Blacksmith and carpenter, both were poor, And there was the schoolmaster who, to be sure, Had seen rough weather, but after all When they met Sandy he went to the wall. His wife was a lady, they used to say, Repenting at leisure her wedding-day, And that she was come of a race too proud E'er to have mated with Sandy Macleod ! So fretting she sat from December to June, While Sandy, poor soul, to a flineral-tune Would beat out his hard, heavy leather, until He set himself up, and got strength to be still. It was not the full moon tliat made it so light In the poor little dwelling of Sandy one night, It was not the candles all shining around, — Ah, no I 't was the light of the day he had found. BALLADS. 29 THE PICTURE-BOOK. Thk black walnut-logs in the chimney Made ruddy the house with their light, And the pool in the hollow was covered With ice like a lid, — it was night ; And Roslyn and I were together, — I know now the pleased look he wore. And the shapes of the shadows that checkered The hard yellow planks of the floor ; And how, when the wind stirred the candle, Afii-ighted they ran from its gleams, And crept up the wall to the ceiling Of cedar, and hid by the beams. There were books on the mantel-shelf, dusty, And shut, and I see in my mind. The pink-colored primer of pictures We stood on our tiptoes to find. We opened the leaves where a came] Was seen on a sand-covered track, A-snuffing for water,* and bearing A great bag of gold on his back ; 30 BALLADS. And talked of the free flowing rivers A tithe of his burden would buy, And said, when the lips of the sunshine Had sucked his last water-skin dry; With thick breath and mouth gaping open, And red eyes a-strain in his head, His bones would push out as if buzzards Had picked him before he was dead ! Then turned the leaf over, and finding A palace that banners made gay, Forgot the bright splendor of roses That shone through our windows in May ; And sighed for the great beds of princes, While pillows for him and for me Lay soft among ripples of ruffles As sweet and as white as could be. And sighed for their valleys, forgettino* Plow warmly the morning sun kissed Our hills, as they shrugged their green shouldi rs Above the white sheets of the mist. Their carpets of dyed wool were softer, We said, than the planks of our floor, Forgetting the flowers that in summer Spread out their gold mats at our door. BAl.LADH. 31 The storm spit its wrath in the chimney, And blew the cold ashes aside, And only one poor little fagot Hung out its red tongue as it died , When Roslyn and I through the darkness Crept off to our shivering beds, A thousand vague fancies and wishes Still wildly astir in our heads : Not guessing that we, too, were straying In thought on a sand-covered track. Like the camel a-dying for water, And bearing the gold on his back. He spoils his house and throws his pains away Who, a9 the sun veers, builds his windows o\r. For, should he wait, the Light, some time of day. Would come and sit beside, him in his door. 32 BALLADS. A WALK THROUGH THE SNOW. I WALKED from our wild north country once, In a driving storm of snow ; Forty and seven miles in a day — You smile, — do you think it slow ? You would n't if ever you had ploughed Through a storm like that, I trow. There was n't a cloud as big as my hand, The summer before, in the sky ; The grass in th' meadows was ground to dust, The springs and wells went diy ; We must have corn, and three stout men Were picked to go and buy. Well, 1 was one , two Dags I swung Across my shoulder, so ! And kissed my wife and boys, — their eyes Were blind to see me go. 'T was a bitter day, and just as th' sun Went down, we met tlie snow ! BALLADS. 33 At first we whistled and laughed and sung, Our blood so nimbly stirred ; But as the snow-clogs dragged at our feet, And the air grew black and blurred, We walked together for miles and miles, And did not speak a word I I never saw a wilder storm : It blew and beat with a will; Beside me, like two men of sleet. Walked my two mates, until They tell asleep in their armor of ice, And both of them stood still. I knew that they were warm enough, And yet I could not bear To strip them of their cloaks ; their eyes Were open and a-stare ; And so I laid their hands across Their breasts, and left them there. And ran, — Lord, I cannot tell How fast ! in my dismay I thought the fences and the trees — The cattle, where they lay So black against their stacks of snow — All swam the other way ! 6 34 BALLADS. And when at dawn I saw a hut, With smoke upcurling wide, 1 thought it must have been my mates That hved, and I that died ; 'T was heaven to see through th' frosty panes The warm, red cheeks inside ! Tke glance that doth thy neighbor doubt Turn thou, O man, within, And see if it will not bring out Some unsuspected sin. To hide from shame the branded brow, Make broad thy charity, And judge no man, except as thou Wouldst have him judge of thee. THE WATER-BEARER. 'T WAS in the middle of summer, And burning hot the sun, That Margaret sat on the low-roofed porch, A-singing as she spun : Singing a ditty of slighted love, That shook with every note The- softly shining hair that fell In ripples round her throat, ' 36 BALLADS. The changeful color of her cheek At a breath would fall and rise, And even th' sunny lights of hope Made shado'vys in her eyes. Beneath the snowy petticoat You guessed the feet were bare, By the slippers near her on the floor, — A dainty little pair. She loved the low and tender tones The wearied summer yields, When out of her wheaten leash she slips And strays into frosty fields. And better than th' time that all The air with music fills, She loved the little sheltered nest Alive with yellow bills. But why delay my tale, to make A poem in her praise ? Enough that truth and virtue shone In all her modest ways. 'T was noon-day when the housewife said, " Now, . Margaret, leave undone Your task of spinning-work, and set Your wheel out of the sun ; BALLADS. 37 " And tie your slippers on, and take The cedar-pail with bands Yellow as gold, and bear to the field (Jool water for the hands ! " And Margaret set her wheel aside. And breaking off her thread. Went forth into the harvest-field With her pail upon her head, — Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood. With shining yellow bands, Through clover reaching its red tops Almost into her hands. Her ditty flowing on the air. For she did not break her song, And the water dripping o'er th' grass, From her pail as she went along, — Over the grass that said to her, Trembling through all its leaves, " A bright rose for Some harvester To bind among his sheaves ! " And clouds of gay green grasshoppers Flew up the way she went, And beat their wings against their sides. And chirped their discontent. 3S BALLADS. And the blackbird left the piping of His amorous, airy glee, And put his head beneath his wing, — An evil sign to see. The meadow-herbs, as if they felt Some secret wound, in showers Shook down their bright buds till her way Was ankle-deep with flowers. But Margaret never heard th'- voice That sighed in th' grassy leaves, " A bright rose for some harvester To bind among his sheaves ! " Nor saw the clouds of grasshoppers Along her path arise, Nor th' iaisy hang her head aside And shut her golden eyes. - She never saw the blackbird when He hushed his amorous glee, And put his head beneath his wing, — That evil sign to see. Nor did she know the meadow-herbs Shook down their buds in showers To choke her pathway, though her feet Were ankle-deep in flowers.- BALLADS. 39 But humming still of slighted love, That shook at every note The softly shining hair that fell In ripples round her throat, She came 'twixt winrows heaped as high, And higher than her waist. And under a bush of sassafras The cedar-pail she placed. And with the drops like starry rain A-glittering in her hair, She gave to every harvester His cool and grateful share. But there was one with eyes so sweet Beneath his shady brim, That thrice within the cedar-pail She dipped her cup for him ! What wonder if a young man's heart Should feel her beauty's charm, And in his fancy clasp her like The sheaf within his arm ; What wonder if his tender looks. That seemed the sweet disguise Of sweeter things- unsaid, should make A picture in her eyes ! 40 BALLADS. What \ronder if the single rose That graced her cheek erewhile. Deepened its cloudy crimson, till It doubled in his smile ! Ah me ! the hoi:fsewife never said, Again, when Margaret spun, — " Now leave your task awhile, and set Your wheel out of the sun ; " And tie your slippers on, and take The pail with yellow bands, And bear into the harvest-field Cool water for the hands." For every day, and twice a-day. Did Margaret break her thread. And singing, hasten to the field. With her pail upon her head, — Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood, And shining yellow bands, — For all her care was now to bear Cool water to the hands. What marvel if the young man's love Unfolded leaf by leaf. Until within his arms ere long He clasped her like a sheaf! BALLADS. 41 WLat marvel if 't was Margaret's heart With fondest hopes that beat, While th' young man's fancy idle lay As his sickle in the wheat. That, while her thought flew, maiden-like. To years of marriage bliss. His lay like a bee in a flower, shut up Within the moment's kiss ! What marvel if his love grew cold, And fell off leaf by leaf, And that her heart was choked to death, Like the rose within his sheaf. When autumn filled her lap with leaves, Yellow, and cold, and wet. The bands of th' pail turned black, and th' wheei On the porch-side, idle set. And Margaret's hair was combed and tied Under a cap of lace, And th' housewife held the baby up To kiss her quiet face ; And all the sunburnt harvesters Stood round the door, — each one Telling of some good word or deed That she had said or done. 6 4-' BALLADS. Nay, there was one that pulled about His face his shady brim, As if it were his kiss, not Death's, That made her eyes so dim. And while the tearful women told That when they pinned her shroud, One tress from th' ripples round her neck Was gone, he wept aloud ; And answered, puUing down his brim Until he could not see. It was some ghost that stole the tress, For that it was not he ! 'T is years since on the cedar-pail The yellow bands grew black, — 'T is years since in the harvest-field They turned th' green sod back To give poor Margaret room, and all Who chance that way to pass. May see at the head of her narrow bed A bush of sassafras. Yet often in the time o' th' year When the hay is mown and spread, There walks a maid in th' midnight shade With a pail upon her head. BALLADS. 4S THE BEST JUDGMENT. Gkt up, my little handmaid, And see what you will see ; The stubble-fields and all the fields Are white as they can be. Put on your crimson cashmere, And hood so soft and warm. With all its woollen linings. And never heed the storm. For you must find the miller In the west of Wertburg-town, Arid bring me meal to feed my cows, Before the sun is down. Then woke the little handmaid, From sleeping on her arm, And took her crimson cashmere. And hood with woollen warm ; find bridle, with its buckles Of silver, from the wall. And rode until the golden sun Was sloping to his fall. 14 BALLADS. Tlien on the miller's door-stone, In the west of Wertburg-town, She dropt the bridle from her hands, And quietly slid down. And when to her sweet face her beast Turned round, as if he said, " How cold I am ! " she took her hood And put it on his head. Soft spoke she to the miller, " Nine cows are stalled at home. And hither for three bags of meal, To feed them, I am come." Now when the miller saw the price She brought was not by half Enough to buy three bags of meal. He filled up two with chaff. The night was wild and wndy, The moon was thin and old, .\s home the little handmaid rode, All shivering with the cold. Beside the river, black with ice. And through the lonesome wood; The snow upon her hair the while A-gathering like a hood. BALLADS. 45 And when beside the roof-tree Her good beast neighed aloud, Her pretty crimson cashmere Was whiter than a shroud. " Get down, you silly handmaid," The old dame cried, " get down, — You 've been a long time riding From the west of Wertburg-town I " And from her oaken settle Forth hobbled she amain, — Alas ! the slender little hands Were frozen to the rein. Then came the neighbors, one and all, With melancholy brows. Mourning because the dame had lost The keeper of her cows. And cursing the rich miller, In blind, misguided zeal, Because he sent two bags of chaff And only one of meal. Dear Lord, how little man's award The right or wrong attest, And he who judges least, I think, Is he who judges best. 46 BALLADS. HUGH THORNDYKE. Egalton's liills are sunny, And brave with oak and pine. And Egalton's sons and daugliters Are tall and straight and fine. Tlie harvests in the summer Cover the land like a smile. For Egalton's men and women Are busy all the while. 'T is merry in the mowing To see the great swath fall. And the little laughing maidens Raking, one and all. Their heads like golden lilies Shining over the hay, And every one among them As sweet as a rose in May.. And yet despite the favor Which Heaven doth thus allot, Egalton has its goblin, As what good land has not? BALLADS. 47 Hugh Thorndyke — (peace be witli him, He is not living now) — Was tempted by this creature One day to leave his plow, And sit beside the furrow In a shadow cool . and sweet, For the lying goblin told him That he would sow his wheat. And told him this, moreover. That if he would not mind. His house should burn to ashes. His children be struck blind ! So, trusting half, half frightened. Poor Hugh with many a groan Waited beside the furrow. But the wheat was never sown. And when the fields about him Grew white, — with very shame He told his story, giving The goblin all the blame. Now Hugh's wife loved her husband, And when he told her this, She took his brawny hands in hers And gave them each a kiss. 48 BALLADS. Saying, we ourselves this goblin Shall straightway lay to rest, — The more he does his worst, dear Hugh, The more we '11 do our best ! To work they went, and all turned out Just as the good wife said, And Hugh was blest, — his corn that year. Grew higher than his head. They sing a song in Egalton Hugh made there, long ago. Which says that honest love and work Are all we need below. Still from the unsatisfying quest To know the final plan, I turn my soul to what is best In nature and in man. BALLADS. 49 FAITHLESS. Seven great windows looking seaward, Seven smooth columns white and high ; Here it was we made our bright plans, Mildred Jocelyn and I. Soft and sweet the water murmured By yon stone wall, low and gray, 'T was the moonlight and the midnight Of the middle of the May. On the porch, now dark and lonesome, Sat we as the hours went by. Fearing nothing, hoping all things, Mildred Jocelyn and I. Singing low and pleasant ditties. Kept the tireless wind his way. Through the moonlight and the midnight, Of the middle of the May. Not for sake of pleasant ditties, Such as winds may sing or sigh, Sat we on the porch together, Mildred Jocelyn and I. 50 BALLADS. Shrilly crew the cock so watchful, Answering to the watch-dog's bay, In the moonlight and the midnight Of the middle of the May. Had the gates of Heaven been open We would then have passed them by. Well content with earthly pleasures, Mildred Jocelyn and I. I have seen the bees thick-flying, — Azure-winged and ringed with gold ; I have seen the sheep from washing Come back snowy to the fold ; And her hair was bright as bees are, Bees with shining golden bands ; And no wool was ever whiter Than her little dimpled hands. Oft we promised to be lovers, Howe'er fate our faith should try ; Giving kisses back for kisses, Mildred Jocelyn and T. Tears, sad tears, be stayed from falling j Ye can bring no faintest ray From the moonlight and the midnight Of the middle of the May. BALLADS. If some friend would come and tell me, " On your Mildred's eyes so blue Grass has grown, but on her death-bed She was saying prayers for you ; " Here beside the smooth white columns I should not so grieve to-day, For the moonhght and the midnight Of the middle of the May. ^x-^sco^a^.a--' Do not look for wrong and evil — You will find them if you do ; As you measure for your neighbor He will measure back to you. Look for goodness, look for gladness, You will meet them all the while; If you bring a smiling visage To the glass, you meet a smile. 52 BALLADS. MY FADED SHAWL. TELL you a story, do j'ou say ? Wliatever my wits re- member ? Wei], going down to the woods one day Through the winds o' the wild November, [ met a lad, called Char- ley. the crest o' the Krumley ridge. And I was a farmer's daughter. And under the hill by the Krumley bridge Of the crazy Krumley water. Lived this poor lad, Charley. Right well I knew his ruddy cheek, And step as light as a feather. Although we never were used to speak, And never to play together, I and this poor lad Charley. BALLADS. ftS So, when 1 saw him hurrying down My path, will you believe me ? I knit my brow to an ugly frown, — Forgive me, O forgive me ! Sweet shade of little Charley. The dull clouds dropped their skirts of snom On the hills, and made them colder; I was only twelve years old, or so, And may be a twelvemonth older Was Charley, dearest Charley. A faded shawl, with flowers o' blue. All tenderly and fairly Enwrought by his mother's hand, I knew, He wore that day, my Charley, My little love, my Charley. His great glad eyes with light were lit Like the dewy light o' the morning ; His homespun jacket, not a whit Less proudly, for my scorning, He wore, brave-hearted Charley. I bore a pitcher, — 't was our pride, — At the fair my father won it, And consciously I turned the side With the golden lilies on it, To dazzle the eyes o' Charley. . 54 BALLADS. This pitcher, and a milk-wliite loaf, Piping hot from the platter, When, where the path turned sharply off To the crazy Krumley water, I came upon my Charley. He smiled, — my pulses never stirred From their still and steady measures, Till the wind came flapping down like a bird And caught away my treasures. "Help me, Charley! Charley! My loaf, my golden lilies gone ! " My heart was all a-flutter ; For I saw them whirling on and on To the frozen Krumley water, And then I saw my Charley, The frayed and faded shawl from his neck Unknot, with a quick, wise cunning. And speckled with snow-flakes, toss it back, That he might be free for runninsr. My good, great-hearted Charley. I laid it softly on my arm, I warmed it in my bosom. And traced each broider-stitch to the form Of its wilding model blossom, For sake of my gentle Charley. BALLADS. &5 Away, away! like a shadow fleet! The air was thick and Winding ; The icy stones were under his feet, And the way was steep and winding. Come back ! come back, my Charley 1 He waved his ragged cap in the air, My childish fears, to scatter ; Dear Lord, was it Charley ? Was he there. On th' treacherous crust o' th' water? No more ! 't is death ! my Charley. The thin blue glittering sheet of ice Bends, breaks, and falls asunder ; His arms are lifted once, and twice ! My God ! he is going under ! He is drowned! he is dead! my Charley. The wild call stops, — the blood runs chill; I dash the tears from my lashes. And strain my gaze to th' foot o' th' hill, — Who flies so fast through the rushes ? My drowned love ? my Charley ? My brain is wild, — I laugh, I cry, — The chill blood thaws and rallies ; What holds he thus, so safe and high ? My loaf? and my golden lilies ? Charley ! my sweet, sweet Charley ! 56 BALLADS. Across my mad brain word on word Of tenderness went whirling ; I kissed him, called him my little bird O' th' woods, my dove, my darling, — My true, true love, my Charley. In what sweet phrases he replied I know not now — no matter — This only, that he would have died In the crazy Krumley water To win my praise, — dear Charley ! He took the frayed and faded shawl, For his sake warmed aU over, And wrapped me round and round with all The tenderness of a lover, — My best, my bravest Charley ! And when his shoes o' the snows were full, — Ay, full to their tops, — a-smiling He said they were lined with a fleece o' wool, The pain o' th' frost beguiling. Was ever a lad like Charley? So down the slope o' th' Krumley ridge. Our hands locked fast together, And over the crazy Krumley bridge, We went through the freezing weather, — I and my drownM Charley. BALLADS. 67 The cornfields all of ears were bare ; But the stalks, so bright and brittle, And the black and empty husks were there ITor the mouths of the hungry cattle. We passed them, I and Charley, And passed the willow-tree that went With the wind, as light as a feather, And th' two proud oaks with their shoulders bent Till their faces came together, -^ Whispering, I said to Charley : The hollow sycamore, so white, The old gum, straight and solemn. With never the curve of a root in sight j But set in the ground like a column, — I, prattling to my Charley. We left behind the sumach hedge, And the waste of stubble crossing, Came at last to the dusky edge Of the woods, so wildly tossing, — I and my quiet Charley. Ankle-deep in the leaves we stood, — The leaves that were brown as leather, And saw the choppers chopping the wood, — Seven rough men together, — I and my drooping Charley. BALLADS. 1 see liini now as I saw liim stand With my loaf — lie had hardly won it — And the beautiful pitcher in his hand, With the golden lilies on it, — My little saint, — my Charley. The stubs were burning here and there, The winds the fierce flames blowing. And the arms o' th' choppers, brown and bare, Now up, now down are going, — I turn to them from Charley. Right taerrily the echoes ring From the sturdy work a-doing. And as the woodsmen chop, they sing Of the girls that they are wooing. what a song for Charley ! This way an elm begins to lop, And that, its balance losing. And the squirrel comes from his nest in the top, And sits in the boughs a-musing. What ails my little Charley? The loaf from out his hand he drops. His eyelid flutters, closes ; He tries to speak, he whispers, stops, — His mouth its rose-red loses, — One look, just one, my Charley ! BALLADS. 59 And now his white and frozen cheek Each wild-eyed chopper fixes, And never a man is heard to speak As they set their steel-blue axes, And haste to the help o' Charley! Say, what does your beautiful pitcher hold ? Come tell us if you can, sir ! The chopper's question was loud and bold, But never a sign nor answer : All fast asleep was Charley. The stubs are burning low to th' earth,' The winds the fierce flames flaring. And now to the edge of the crystal hearth The men in their arms are bearing The clay-cold body of Charley. O'er heart, o'er temple those rude hands go, Each hand as light as a brother's. As they gather about him in the snow, Like a company of mothers, — My dead, my darling Charley. Before them all, (my heart grew bold,) From off my trembling bosom, I unwound the mantle, fold by fold. All for my blighted blossom. My sweet white flower, — my Charley. ''O BALLADS. I have tokens large, I have tokens small Of all my life's lost pleasures, But that poor frayed and faded shawl Is the treasure of my treasures, — The first, last gift of Charley. CARE. Care is like a husbandman Who doth guard our treasures, And the while, all ways he can, Spoils our harmless pleasures. Loving hearts and laughing brows. Most he seeks to plunder. And each furrow that he ploughs Turns the roses under. BALLADS. 61 OLD CHUMS. Is it you, Jack ? Old boy, is it really you ? I should n't have known you but that I was told You might be expected ; — pray, how do you do ? But what, under heaven, has made you so old? Your hair ! why, you 've only a little gray fuzz ! And your beard 's white ! but that can be beautifully dyed; And your legs are n't but just half as long as they was ; And then — stars and garters ! your vest is so wide ! Is this your hand ? Lord, how I envied you that In the time of our courting, — so soft, and so small, And now it is callous inside, and so fat, — Well, you beat the very old deuce, that is all. Turn round ! let me look at you I is n't it odd, How strange in a few years a fellow's chum grows I Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a pod, And what are these lines branching out from yoiu nose ? B2 .BALLADS. Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down, And all the old roses are under the plough ; Why, Jack, if we 'd happened to meet about town, I would n't have known you from Adam, I vow ! You 've had trouble, have you ? I 'm sorry ; but, John, All trouble sits lightly at your time of life. How 's Billy, my namesake ? You don't say he 's gone To the war, John, and that you have buried youi wife ? Poor Katharine ! so she has left you — ah -me ! I thought she would live to be fifty, or more. What is it you tell me ? She was fifty-three ! no. Jack ! she was n't so much, by a score I Well, there 's little Katy, — was that her name, John ? She '11 rule your house one of these days like a queen. That baby ! good Lord ! is she married and gone ? With a Jack ten years old ! and a Katy fourteen ! Then I give it up ! Why, you 're younger than I By ten or twelve years, and to think you 've ccmie back A sober old graybeard, just ready to die ! 1 don't understand how it is — do you. Jack ? I 've got all my faculties yet, sound and bright ; Slight failure my eyes are beginning to hint ; BALLADS. 63 But still, witli my spectacles on, and a light 'Twixt them and the page, I can read any print. My hearing is dull, and my leg is more spare, Perhaps, than it was when 1 beat 'you at ball ; My breath gives out, too, if I go up a stair, — But nothing worth mentioning, nothing at all I My hair is just turning a little, you see. And lately I 've put on a broader-brimmed hat Than I wore at your wedding, but you will agree, Old fellow, I look all the better for that. I 'm sometimes a little rheumatic, 't is true, And my nose is n't quite on a straight line, they say ; For all that, I don't think I 've changed much, do you ? And I don't feel a day older. Jack, not a day. -oc\S)((L«ao- Apaet from the woes that are dead and gone, And the shadow of future care, The heaviest yoke of the present hour Is easy enough to bear. 64 BALLADS. THE SHOEMAKER. Now the hickory with its hum Cheers the wild and rainy weather, And the shoemaker has come With his lapstone, last, and leather. With his head as white as wool, With the wrinkles getting bolder, And his heart with news as full As the wallet on his shoulder. How the children's hearts will beat. How their eyes will shine with pleasure As he sets their little feet, Bare and rosy, in his measure. And how, behind his chair, They will steal grave looks to summon, As he ties away his hair From his forehead, like a woman. When he tells the merry news How their eyes will laugh and glisten, While the mother binds the shoes And they gather round and listen. BALLADS. 65 But each one, leaning low On his lapstone, will be crying, As he tells how little Jo, With a broken back, is dying. Of the way he came to fall In the flowery April weather. Of the new shoes on the wall That are hanging, tied together. How the face of little Jo Has grown white, and they who love him See the shadows come and go. As if angels flew above him. And the old shoemaker, true To the woe of the disaster, Will uplift his apron blue To his eyes, then work the faster. 66 BALLADS. TO THE WIND. Steer hither, rough old mariner, Keeping your jolly crew Beating about in the seas of life,— Steer hither, and tell me true About my little son, Maximus, Who sailed away with you ! Seven and twenty years ago He came to us, — ah me ! The snow that fell that whistling night Was not so pure as he. And I was rich enough, I trow. When I took him on my knee. I was rich enough, and when I met A man, unthrift and lorn. Whom I a hundred times had met With less of pity than scorn, I opened my purse, — it was well for him That Maximus was born I BALLADS. 67 We have five boys at home, erect And straight of limb, and tall, Gentle, and loving all -that God Has made, or great or small, But Maximus, our youngest born, Was the gentlest of them all ! Yet was he brave, — they all are brave, Not one for favor or frown That fears to set his strength against The bravest of the town, But this, our little Maximus, Could fight when he was down. Six darling boys ! not one of all. If we had had to choose. Could we have singled from the rest To sail on such a cruise, But surely little Maximus Was not the one to lose ! His hair divided into slips. And tumbled every way, — His mother always called them curls. She has one to this day, — And th' nails of his hands were thin and red As the leaves of a rose in May. 68 BALLADS. Steer hither, rough mariner, and bring Some news of our little Jad, — If he be anywhere out of th' grave It will make his mother glad, Tho' he grieved her more with his waywardness Than all the boys she had. I know it was against himself, For he was good and kind, That he left us, though he saw our eyes With tears, for his sake, blind, — how can you give to such as he, Your nature, wilful wind ! What comfort, when with clouds of woe The heart is burdened, and must weep, To feel that pain must end, — to know, " He giveth his beloved sleep," When in the mid-day march. we meet The outstretched shadows of the night, The promise, how divinely sweet, " At even-time it shall be light." LITTLE CYRUS. Emily Mayfield all the day Sits and rocks her cradle alone, And never a neighbor comes to say How pretty little Cyrus has grown. Meekly Emily's head is hung, Many a sigh from her bosom breaks, And ne'er such pitiful tune was sung As that her lowly lullaby makes. 70 BALLADS. Near where the village schoolhouse stands. On the grass by the mossy spring, Merry children are linking hands, But little Cyrus is not in the ring. " They miglit make room for me, if they tried,' He thinks as he listens to call and shout, And his eyes so pretty are open wide, Wondering why they have left him out. Nightly hurrying home they go, Each, of the praise he has had, to boast But never an honor can Cyrus show. And yet he studies his book the most. Little Cyrus is out in the hay, — Not where the clover is sweet and red. With mates of his tender years at play. But where the stubble is sharp, instead, And every flowerless shrub and tree That takes the twinkling noontide heat, Is dry and dusty as it can be ; There with his tired, sunburnt feet Dragging wearily, Cyrus goes. Trying to sing as the others do. But never the stoutest hand that mows Says, "It is work too hard for you, BALLADS. 71 Little Cyrus, your hands so small Bleed with straining to keep your place, And the look that says I must bear it all Is sadder than tears in your childish face: So give me your knotty swath to mow, And rest awhile on the shady sward. Else your body will crooked grow, Little Cyrus, from working hard." If he could listen to words like that. The stubble would not be half so rough To his naked feet, and his ragged hat Would shield him from sunshine well enough. But ne'er a moment the mowers check Song or whistle, to think of him. With blisters burning over his rieck. Under his straw hat's ragged brim. So, stooping over the field he goes, With none to pity if he complain. And so the crook in his body grows, And he never can stand up straight again. The cattle lie down in the lane so still, — The scythes in the apple-tree shine bright. And Cynis sits on the ashen sill Watching the motes, in the streaks of light, BALLADS. yuietly slanting out of the sky, Over the hill to the porch so low. Wondering if in the world on high There will be any briery fields to mow. Emily Mayfield, pale and weak, Steals to his side in the light so dim, And the single rose in his swarthy cheek Grows double, the while she says to him, — Little Cyrus, 't is many a day Since one with just your own sweet eyes, And a voice as rich as a bird's in May, (Gently she kisses the boy and sighs,) Here on the porch when the work was done, Sat with a young girl, (not like me,) Her heart was light as the wool she spun. And her laughter merry as it could be; Her hair was silken, he used to say. When they sat on the porch-side, "woful when,' And I know the clover you mowed to-day Was not more red than her cheeks were then. He told her many a story wild. Like this, perhaps, which I tell to you, And she was a woman less than child. And thought whatever he said was true. BALLADS. 73 From home and kindred, — ah me, ah me ! With only her faith in his love, she fled, 'T was all like a dreaming, and when she could see She owned she was sinfiil and prayed to be dead. But always, however long she may live, Desolate, desolate, she shall repine. And so with no love to receive or to give, Her lace is as sad and as wrinkled as mine. Little Cyrus, trembling, lays His head on his mother's knee to cry, And kissing his sunburnt cheek, she says, " Hush, my darling, it was not I." OuB God is love, and that which we miscall Evil, in this good world that He has made, Is meant to be a little tender shade Between us and His glory, — that is all ; And he who loves the best his fellow man Is loving God, the holiest way he can. 10 74 BALLADS. MORNING. Wake, Dillie, my darling, and kiss me. The daybreak is nigh, — I can see, through the half-open curtain, A strip of blue sky. Yon lake, in her valley-bed lying, Looks fair as a bride. And pushes, to greet the sun's coming, The mist sheets aside. The birds, to the wood-temple flying, Their matins to chant. Are chirping their love to each other, With wings dropt aslant. Not a tree, that the morning's bright edges With silver illumes, But trembles and stirs with its pleasure Through all its green plumes. Wake, Dillie, and join in the praises All nature doth give ; Clap hands, and rejoice in the goodness That leaves you to live. BALLADS. For what is the world in her glory To that which thou art ? Thank God for the soul that is in you, — Thank God for your heart I The world that had never a lover Her bright face to kiss, — With her splendors of stars and of noontides How poor is her bliss I Wake, Dillie, — the white vest of morning With crimson is laced ; And why should delights of God's giving Be running to waste I Full measures, pressed down, are awaiting Our provident use ; And is there no sin in neglecting As well as abuse ? The cornstalk exults in its tassel. The flint in its spark, — And shall the seed planted within me Rot out in the dark ? Shall I be ashamed to give culture To what God has sown? When nature asks bread, shall I oiFer A serpent, or stone ? 76 BALLADS. For could I out-weary its yearnings By fasting, or pain, — Would life have a better fulfilment, Or death have a gain ? Nay, God will not leave us unanswered In any true need ; His will may be writ in an instinct, As well as a creed. And, Dillie, my darling, believe me. That life is the best. That, loving here, truly and sweetly, With Him leaves the rest. Its head to the sweep of the whirlwind The wise willow suits, — While the oak, that 's too stubborn for bending, Comes up by the roots. Such lessons, each day, round about us, Our good Mother writes, — To show us that Nature, in some way, Avenges her slights. BALLADS. 77 THE SUMMER STORM. At noon-time 1 stood in the door-way to see The spots, burnt like blisters, as white as could be, Along the near meadow, shoved in like a wedge Betwixt the high-road, and the stubble-land's edge. The leaves of the elm- tree were dusty and brown. The birds sat with shut eyes and wings hanging down The corn reached its blades out, as if in the pain Of crisping and scorching it felt for the rain. Their meek faces turning away from the sun, The cows waded up to their flanks in the run. The sheep, so herd-loving, divided their flocks, And singly lay down by the sides of the rocks. At sunset there rose and stood black in the east A cloud with the forehead and horns of a beast, That quick to the zenith went higher and higher, With feet that were thunder and eyes that were fire. Then came a hot sough, like a gust of his breath, And the leaves took the tremble and whiteness of death, — The dog, to his master, from kennel and kin, Game whining and shaking, with back crouching in. 78 BALLADS. At twilight the darkness was fearful to see: "Make room," cried the children, "0 mother, for me! As climbing her chair and her lap, with alarm, And whisper, — " Was ever there seen such a storm ! " At morning, the run where the cows cooled their flanks Had washed up a hedge of white roots from its banks ; The turnpike was left a blue streak, and each side The gutters like rivers ran muddy and wide. The barefooted lad started merry to school, And the way was the nearest that led through the pool ; The red-bird wore never so shining a coat, Nor the pigeon so glossy a ring on her throat. The teamster sat straight in his place, for. the nonce. And sang to his sweetheart and team, both at once ; And neighbors shook hands o'er the fences that day, And talked of their homesteads instead of their hay. BALLADS. 79 IF AND IF. If I were a painter, I could paint The dwarfed and straggling wood, And the hillside where the meeting-house With the wooden belfry stood, A dozen steps from the door, — alone, On four square pillars of rough gray stone. We schoolboys used to write our names With our finger-tips each day In th' dust o' th' cross-beams, — once it shone, I have heard the old folks say, (Praising the time past, as old folks will,) Like a pillar o' fire on the side o' th' hill. I could paint the lonesome lime-kilns, And the lime-burners, wild and proud. Their red sleeves gleaming in the smoke Like a rainbow in a cloud, — Their huts by the brook, and their mimicking crew - Making believe to be lime-burners too! 80 BALLADS. I could paint the brawny wood-cutter, With the patches at his knees, — He 's been asleep these twenty years, Among his friends, the trees : The day that he died, the best oak o' the wood Came up by th? roots, and he lies where it stood. I could paint the blacksmith's dingy shop, — Its sign, a pillar of smoke ; The farm-horse halt, the rough-haired colt, And the jade with her neck in a yoke ; The pony that made to himself a law. And would n't go under the saddle, nor draw ! The poor old mare at the door-post. With joints as stiff as its pegs, — Her' one white eye, and her neck awry, — Trembling the flies from her legs. And the thriftless farmer that used to stand And curry her ribs with a kindly hand. I could paint his quaint old-fashioned house. With its windows, square and small, And the seams of clay running every way Between the stones o' the wall: The roof, with furrows of mosses green, And new bright shingles set between. BALLADS. 81 The oven, bulging big behind, And the narrow porch before. And the weather-cock for ornament On the pole beside the door ; And th' row of milk-pans, shining bright As silver, in the summer light. And I could paint his girls and boys, Each and every one, Hepzibah sweet, with her little bare feet, And Shubal, the stalwa:rt son. And wife and mother, with home-spun gown, And roses beginning to shade into brown. I could paint the garden, with its paths Cut smooth, and running straight, — The gray sage bed, the poppies red. And the lady-grass at the gate, — The black warped slab with its hive of bees. In the corner, under the apple-trees. I could paint the fields, in the middle hush Of winter, bleak and bare. Some snow like a lamb that is caught in a bush, Hanging here and there, — The mildewed haystacks, all a-lop, And the old dead stub with the crow at the top, n 82 BALLADS. The cow, with a board across her eyes, And her udder dry as dust, Her hide so brown, her horn turned down. And her nose the color of rust, — The walnut-tree so stiff and high, . With fts black bark twisted all awry. The hillside, and the small space set With broken palings round, — The long loose grass, and the little grave With the head-stone on the ground. And the willow, like the spirit of grace Bending tenderly over the place. The miller's face, half smile, half frown. Were a picture I could paint. And the mill, with gable steep and brown. And dripping wheel aslant, — The weather-beaten door, set wide. And the heaps of meal-bags either side. The timbers cracked to gaping seams, The swallows' clay-built nests. And the rows of doves that sit on the beams With plump and glossy breasts, — The bear by his post sitting upright to eat. With half of his clumsy legs in his feet. BALLADS. 83 I could paint the mill-stream, cut in two By the heat o' the summer skies, And the sand-bar, with its long brown back, And round and bubbly eyes, And the bridge, that hung so high o'er the tide, Creaking and swinging from side to side. The miller's pretty little wife, In the cottage that she loves, — Her hand so white, and her step so light, And her eyes as brown as th' dove's, Her tiny waist, and belt of blue, And her hair that almost dazzles you. I could paint the White-Hawk tavern, flanked With broken and wind-warped sheds. And the rock where the black clouds used to sit, And trim their watery heads With little sprinkles of shining light. Night and morning, morning and night. The road, where slow and wearily. The dusty teamster came, — The sign on its post and the round-faced host, And the high arched door, aflame With trumpet-flowers, — the well-sweep, high. And the flowing water-trough, dose by. 84 BALLADS. If I were a painter, and if my hand Were cunning, as it is not, I could paint you a picture that would stand When all the rest were forgot; But why should I tell you what it would be? I never shall paint it, nor you ever see. We are the mariners', and God the Sea, And though we make false reckonings, and run Wide of a righteous course, and are undone, Out of his deeps of love, we cannot be. For by those heavy strokes we misname ill. Through the fierce fire of sin, through tempering doubt, Our natures more and more are beaten out To perfecter reflections of His will 1 AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. O GOOD painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw ? Ay ? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — The picture must not be over-bright, — Yet all in the golden and gracious hght Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn. Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. When the wind can hardly find breathing-room Under their tassels, — cattle near. Biting shorter the short green grass. And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 80 BALLADS. With bluebirds twittering all around, — (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) — These, and the house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old. With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide, — Heads and shoulders clear outside. And fair young faces all ablush : Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same way. Out of a wilding, wayside bush. Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon you must paint for me : Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face That are beaming on me all the while, I need not speak these foolish words : Yet one word tells you all I would say, — She is my mother: you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir : one like me, — The other with a clearer . brow, BALLADS. 87 And the light of his adventurous eyes Plashing with boldest enterprise : At ten years old he went to sea, — God knoweth if he be- living now, — He sailed in the good ship " Commodore," — ■. Nobody ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on lier deck : I watched him till he shrank to a speck. And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother's knee : That beauteous head, if it did go down. Carried sunshine into the sea ! Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rusthng, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door. And over the hay-stack's pointed top. All of a tremble and ready to drop, The first half-hour, the great yellow star, That we, with staring, ignorant eyes. Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies 88 BALLADS. By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, — Dead at the top, —just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day. Afraid to go home. Sir ; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat : The berries- we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still. At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think. Sir, if you try. You can paint the look of a lie ? If you can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me : I think 't was solely mine, indeed : But that's no matter, — paint it so ; The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — Looking not on the nest-full of eggs. Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces down to our lies. And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it. BALLADiy. 89 You, Sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree, — The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her knee i But, oh, that look of reproachful woe ! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, [f you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 12 90 BALLADS. FIFTEEN AND FIFTY. Come, darling, put your frown aside ! I own my fault, 'tis true, 'tis true. There is one picture that I hide, Even away from you ! Why, then,' I do not love you ? Nay, You wrong me there, my pretty one: Remember you are in your May ; My Summer days are done. My autumn days are come, in truth, And blighting frosts begin to fall ; You are the sunny light of youth, That glorifies it all. Even when winter clouds shall break In storms, I shall not mind, my dear. For you within my heart shall make The springtime of the year ! In short, life did its best for me, When first our paths together ran ; But I had lived, you will agree, One life, ere yours began. BALLADS. 91 I must have smiled, I must have wept, Ere mirth or moan could do you wrong; But come, and see the picture, kept Hidden away so long ! The walk will not be strange nor far, — Across the meadow, toward the tree From whose thick top one silver star Uplifting slow, you see. So, darling, we have gained the height Where lights and shadows softly meet; Rest you a moment, — ftill in sight. My picture lies complete. A hill-side dark, with woods behind, A strip of emerald grass before, — A homely house ; some trees that blind Window, and wall, and door. A singing streamlet, — either side Bordered with flowers, — geraniums gay, And pinks, with red mouths open wide For sunshine, all the day. A tasselled cornfield on one hand, And on the other, meadows green, With angles of bright harvest bend Wedged sunnily between. 92 BALLADS. A world of smiling ways and walks, The hop-vines twisting through the pales, The crimson cups o' the hollyhocks, The lilies, in white veils ; The porch with morning-glories gay, And sunken step, the well-sweep tall. The barn, with roof 'twixt black and gray, And warpt, wind-shaken wall ; The garden with the fence of stone. The lanfe so dusky at the close. The door-yard gate all overgrown With one wild smothering rose ; The honeysuckle that has blown His trumpet till his throat is red, And the wild swallow, mateless flown Under the lonesome shed; The corn, with bean-pods showing through. The fields that to the sunset lean, The crooked paths along the dew, Telling of flocks unseen. The bird in scarlet-colored coat Flying about the apple-tree ; The new moon in her shallow boat. Sailing alone, you see ; BALLADS. 93 The aspen at the window-pane, — The pair of bluebirds ■ on the peach, — The yellow waves of ripening grain, — You see them all and each. The shadows stretching to the door. From far-off hills, and nearer trees ; I cannot show you any more, — The landscape holds but these. And yet, my darling, after all, 'Tis not my picture you behold ; Your house is ruined near to fall, — Your flowers are dew and mould. I wish that you could only see, While the glad garden shines its best, The little rose that was to me The queen of all the rest. The bluebirds, — he with scarlet wings, — The silver brook, the sunset glow, To me are but the signs of things The landscape cannot show. That old house was our home — not ours! You were not born — how could it be ? That window where you see the flowers, Is where she watched for me, 94 BALLADS. So pale, so patient, night by night, Her eyes upon this pathway here. Until at last I came in sight, — Nay, do not frown, my dear, That was another world ! and so Between us there can be no strife ; I was but twenty, you must know, And she my baby-wife ! Twin violets by a shady brook Were like her eyes, — their beauteousness Was in a rainy, moonlight look Of tears and tenderness. Her fingers had a dewy touch ; Grace was in all her modest ways ; Forgive my praising her so much, — She cannot hear my praise. Beneath the window where you see The trembling, tearful flowers, she lay, Her arms as if they reached for me, — Her hair put smooth away. The closed mouth still smiling sweet. The waxen eyelids, drooping low. The marriage-slippers on the feet, — The marriage-dress of snow ! BALLADS. 95 And still, as in my dreams, I do, I kiss the sweet white hands, the eyes ; My heart with pain is broken anew, My soul with sorrow dies. It was, they said, her spirit's birth, — That she was gone, a saint to be ; Alas ! a poor, pale piece of earth Was all that I could see. In tears, my darling ! that fair brow With jealous shadows overrun ? A score of flowers upon one bough May bloom as well as one I This ragged bush, from spring to fall, Stands here with living glories lit ; And every flower a-blush, with all That doth belong to it I Look on it ! learn the lesson then, — No more than we evoke, is ours ! The great law holdeth good with men. The same as with the flowers. And if that lost, that sweet white hand Had never blessed me with its light. You had not been, you understand, More than you are to-night. &6 BALLADS. This foolish pride that women have To play upon us, — to enthrall, To ahsorb, doth hinder what they crave, - Their being loved at all ! Never the mistress of the arts They practise on us, still again And o'er again, they wring our hearts With pain that giveth pain ! They make their tyranny a boast, And in their petulance will not see That he is always bound the most, Who in the' most is free ! They prize us more for what they screen Prom censure, than for what is best ; And you, my darling, at fifteen. Why, you are like the rest ! Your arras would find me now, though I Were low as ever guilt can fall; And that, my little love, is why I love you, after all 1 Smiling ! " the pain is worth the cost. That wins a homily so wise ? " Ah, little tyrant, I am lost, When thus you tyrannize. BALLADS. 97 JENNY DUNLEATH. Jenny Du]>fLEATH coming back to the town? What! coming back here for good, and for all? Well, that 's the last thing for Jenny to do, — I 'd go to the ends of the earth, — would n't you ? Before I 'd come back ! She '11 be pushed to the walL Some slips, I can tell her, are never lived down, And she ought to know it. It 's really true. You think, that she 's coming ? How dreadfully bold ! But one don't know what will be done, nowadays, And Jenny was never the girl to be moved By what the world said of her. What she approved, She would do, in despite of its blame or its praise. She ought to be wiser by this time — let 's see ; Why, sure as you live, she is forty years old! The day I was married she stood up with me. And my Kate is twenty : ah yes, it must be That Jenny is forty, at least — forty-three, It may be, or four. She was older, I know, A good deal, when she was my bridesmaid, than I, And that 's twenty ye^s, now, and longer, ago ; So if she intends to come back and deny 13 98 BALLADS. Her age, as 't is likely she will, I can show The plain honest truth, by the age of my Kate, And I will, too I To see an old maid tell a he, Just to seem to be young, is a thing that I hate. You thought we were friends ? No, my dear, not at all I 'T is true we were friendly, as friendliness goes, But one gets one's friends as one chooses one's clothes, And just as the fashion goes out, lets them fall. I will not deny we were often together About the time Jenny was in her high feather ; And she was a beauty ! No rose of the May Looked ever so lovely as she on the day I was married. She, somehow, could grace Whatever thing touched her. The knots of soft lace On her little white shoes, — the gay cap that half hid 'Her womanly forehead, — the bright hair that slid Like sunshine adown her bare shoulders, — the gauze That rippled about her sweet arms, just because 'T was Jenny that wore it, — the flower in her belt, — No matter what color, 't was fittest, you felt. If she sighed, if she smiled, if she played with her fan, A sort of religious coquettishness ran Through it all, — a bewitching and wildering way, All tearfully tender and graciously gay. If e'er you were foolish in word or in speech. The approval she gave with her serious eyes Would make your own foolishr^ss seem to you wise ; So all from her magical presence, and each, BALLADS. 98 Went happy away : 't was her art to confer A self-love, that ended in your loving her. And so she is coming back here ! a mishap To her friends, if she have any friends, one would say Well, well, she can't take her old place in the lap Of holiday fortune : her head must be gray ; And those dazzling cheeks I I would just like to see How she looks, if I could, without her seeing me. To think of the Jenny Dunleath that I knew, A dreary old maid, with nobody to love her, — Her hair silver-white and no roof-tree above her, — One ought to have pity upon her, — 't is true ! But I never liked her; in truth, I was glad In my own secret heart when she came to her fall ; When praise of her meekness was ringing the loudest I always would say she was proud as the proudest; That meekness was only a trick that she had, — She was too proud to seem to be proud, that was all. She stood up with me, I was saying: that day Was the last of her going abroad for long years ; I never had seen her so bright and so gay. Yet, spite of the lightness, I had my own fears That all was not well with her : 't was but her pride Made her sing the old songs when they asked her to sing, For when it was done with, and we were aside. 100 BALLADS. A look wan and weary came over her brow, And still I can feel just as if it were now, How she slipped up and down on my finger, the ring, And so hid her face in my bosom and cried. When the fiddlers were come, and young Archibald Mill Was dancing with Hetty, I saw how it was ; Nor was I misled when she said she was ill. For the dews were not standing so thick in the grass As the drops on her cheeks. So you never have heard How she fell in disgrace with young Archibald ! No ? I won't be the fii'st, then, to whisper a word, — Poor thing ! if she only repent, let it go ! Let it go ! let what go ? My good madam, I pray, Whereof do I stand here accused? I would know, — ; I am Jenny Dunleath, that you knew long ago, A dreary old maid, and unloved, as you say : God keep you, my sister, from knowing such woe ! Forty years old, madam, that I agree. The roses washed out of my cheeks by the tears; And counting my barren and desolate years By the bright little heads dropping over your knee, You look on my sorrow with scorn, it appears. Well, smile, if you can, as you hold up in sight Your matronly honors, for all men to see ; But I cannot discern, madam, what there can be To move your proud mirth, in the wildness of night BALLADS. 101 Falling round me ; no hearth for my coming alight, — No rosy-red cheeks at the windows for me. My love is my shame, — in your love you are crowned, — But as we are women, our natures are one ; By need of its nature, the dew and the sun Belong to the poorest, pale flower o' the ground. And think you that He who created the heart Has struck it all helpless and hopeless apart From these lesser works? Nay, I hold He has bound Our rights with our needs in so sacred a knot, We cannot undo them with any mere lie ; Nay, more, my proud lady, — the love you have got. May belong to another as dreary as I ! You have all the world's recognition, — your bond, — But have you that better right, lying beyond? — Agreement with Conscience? — that sanction whereby You can live in the face of the crudest scorns ? Ay, set your bare bosom against the sharp thorns Of jealousy, hatred, — against all the harms Bad fortune can gather, — and say. With these arms About me, I stand here to live and to die ! I take you to keep for my patron and saint, And you shall be bound by that sweetest constraint Of a liberty wide as the love that you give ; And so to the glory of God we will live. Through health and through sickness, dear lover and friend. Through light and through darkness, — througli all, to the end! 102 BALLADS. ]^et it go I Let what go ? Make me answer, I pray You were speaking just now of some terrible fall, — My love for young Archibald Mill, — is that all? I loved him with all my young heart, as you say, — Nay, what is more, madam, I love him to-day, — My cheeks thin and wan, and my hair gray on gray ! And so I am bold to come back to the town. In hope that at last I may lay my bones down, And have the green grasses blow over my face. Among the old hills where my love had its birth I If love were a trifle, the morning to grace, And fade when the night came, why, what were it worth ? He is married ! and I am come hither too late ? Your vision misleads you, — so pray you, untie That knot from your sweet brow, — I come here to die, And not to make moan for the chances of fate ! I know that all love that is true is divine. And when this low incident, Time, shall have sped, I know the desire of my soul shall be mine, — That, weary, or wounded, or dying, or dead, The end is secure, so I bear the estate — Despised of the world's favored women — and wait. BALLADS. 103 TEICKSEY'S RING. WHAT a day it was to us, — My wits were upside down, When cousin Joseph Nicholas Came visiting from town I His curls they were so smooth and bright, His frills they were so fine, 1 thought perhaps the stars that night Would be ashamed to shine. But when the dews had touched the grass. They came out, large and small, As if our cousin Nicholas Had not been there at all I Our old house never seemed to me So poor and mean a thing As then, and just because that he Was come a-visiting ! I never thought the sun prolonged His light a single whit Too much, till then, nor thought he wronged My face, by kissing it. 104 BALLADS. But now I sought tr- pull my dress Of faded homespun down, Because my cousin Nicholas Would see my feet were brown. The butterflies — bright airy things — From off the lilac buds 1 scared, for having on their wings The shadows of the woods. I thought my straight and jet black hair Was almost a disgrace, Since Joseph Nicholas had fair Smooth curls about his face. I wished our rosy window sprays Were laces, dropping down. That he might think we knew the ways Of rich folks in the town. I wished the twittering swallow had A finer tune to sing, Since such a stylish city lad Was come a-visiting. I wished the hedges, as they swayed, Were each a solid wall. And that our grassy lane were made A market street withal. BALLADS. 105 I wished the drooping heads of rye, Set fiill of silver dews, Were silken tassels all to tie The ribbons of his shoes ! And when, by homely household slight. They called me Tricksey True, I thought my cheeks would blaze, in spite Of all that I could do. Tricksey ! — that name would surely be A shock to ears polite ; In short I thought that nothing we Could say or do was right. For injured pride I could have wept, Until my heart and I Fell musing how my mother kept So equable and high. She did not cast her eyelids down. Ashamed of being poor ; To her a gay young man from town, Was no discomfiture. She reverenced honor's sacred laws As much, ay more than he. And was not put about because He had more gold than she ; 14 106 BALLADS. But held her house beneath a hand As steady and serene, As though it were a palace, and As though she were a queen. And when she set our silver cup Upon the cloth of snow, For Nicholas, I lifted up My timid eyes, I know ; And saw a ring, as needs I must, Upon his finger shine ; how I longed to have it just A minute upon mine ! 1 thought of fairy folk that led Their lives in sylvan shades, And brought fine things, as I had read. To little rustic maids. And so I mused within my heart, How I would search about The fields and woodlands, for my part. Till I should spy them out. And so when down the western sky The sun had dropped at last, Right softly and right cunningly From out the house I passed. BALLADS. 107 It was as if awake I dreamed, All Nature was so sweet. The small round dandelions seemed Like stars beneath my feet. Fresh greenness as I went along The grass did seem to take, And birds beyond the time of song Kept singing for my sake. The dew o'erran the lily's cup, The ground-moss shone so well, That if the sky were down or up. Was hard for me to tell. I never felt my heart to sit So lightly on its throne ; Ah, who knew what would come of it, With fairy folk alone ! An hour, — another hour went by. All harmless arts I tried, And tried in vain, and wearily My hopes within me died. No tent of moonshine, and no ring Of dancers could I find, — The fairy rich folk and their king For once would be unkind ! 108 BALLADS. My spirit, nameless fear oppressed ; My courage went adrift, As all out of the low dark west The clouds began to lift, I lost my way within the wood, — The path I could not guess. When, Heaven be praised, befi^re me stood My cousin Nicholas ! Right tenderly within his arm My shrinking hand he drew ; He spoke so low, " these damps will harm My little Tricksey True." I know not how it was : my shame In new delight wa,s drowned ; His accent gave my rustic name Almost a royal sound. He bent his cheek against my face, — He whispered in my ear, " Why came you to this dismal place ? Tell me, my httle dear ! " Betwixt the boughs that o'er us hung The light began to fall ; His praises loosed my silent tongue, — At last I told him all. BALLADS. 109 I felt his lips my forehead touch ; I shook and could not stand ; The ring I coveted so much Was shining on my hand ! We talked ahout the little elves And fairies of the grove, And then we talked about ourselves. And then we talked of love. 'T was at the ending of the lane, — The garden yet to pass, I offered back his ring again To my good Nicholas. " Dear Tricksey, don't you understand. You foolish httle thing," He said, " that I must have the hand, As well as have the ring ? " " To-night — just now ! I pray you wait ! The hand is httle worth ! " " Nay darling — now ! we 're at the gate I " And so he had them both ! IRiSTOPHER) j ETGHBORED by a maple wood, Dim and dusty, old and low ; Thus our little schoolhouse stood, - Two and twenty years ago. On the roof of clapboards, dried Smoothly in the summer heat. Of the hundred boys that tried, Never one could keep his feet. Near the door the cross-roads were, A stone's throw, perhaps, away, And to read the sign-board there, Made a pastime every day. He who turned the index down. So it pointed on the sign To the nearest market-town, Was, we thought, a painter fine ; And the childish wonder rose, As we gazed with puzzled looks On the letters, good as those Printed in our spelling-books. BALLADS. 11 1 Near it was a well, — how deep I With its bucket warped and dry, Broken curb, and leaning sweep, And a plum-tree growing by, Which, with low and tangly top. Made the grass so blight and cool. Travellers would sometimes stop. For a half-hour's rest — in school, Not an eye could keep the place Of the lesson then, — intent Each to con the stranger's face. And to see the road he went. Scattered are we far and wide, — Careless, curious children then ; Wanderers some, and some have died ; Some, thank God, are honest men. But, as playmates, large or small. Noisy, thoughtfiil, or demure, I can see them, one and aJl, The great world in miniature. Common flowers, with common names. Filled the woods and meadows round : Dandelions with their flames Smothered flat against the ground ; 112 BALLADS. Mullein stocks, with gray braids set Full of yellow ; thistles, speared ; Violets, purple near to jet ; Crowfoot, and the old-man's-beard. And along the dusty way. Thick as prints of naked feet, Iron-weeds and fennel gay Blossomed in the summer heat. Hedges of wild blackberries, Pears, and honey-locusts tall, Spice-wood, and " good apple-trees," Well enough we knew them all. But the ripest blackberries. Nor the mulleins topped with gold. Peach nor honey-locust trees, Nor the flowers, when all are told. Pleased us like the cabin, near Which a silver river ran, And where lived, for many a year, Christopher, the crazy man. Hair as white as snow he had. Mixing with a beard that fell Down his breast ; if he were mad, Passed our little wits to tell. BALLADS. 113 In his eyes' unfathomed blue Burned a ray so clear and bright, Oftentimes we said we knew It would shame the candlelight. Mystic was the life he led ; Picking herbs in secret nooks, — Finding, as the old folks said, " Tongues in trees and books in brooks.*' Waking sometimes in the gloom Of the solemn middle night. He had seen his narrow room Full of angels dressed in white ; So he said in all good faith. And one day, with tearful eye, Told us that he heard old Death Sharpening his scythe, close by. Whether it were prophecy. Or a dream., I cannot say ; But good little Emily Died the evening of that day. In the woods, where up and down We had searched, and only seen Adder's-tongue, with dull, dead brown, Mottled with tho heavy green ; 114 BALLADS. May-apples, or wild birds sweet, Going through the shadows dim. Spirits, with white, noiseless feet, Walked, he said, and talked with him. " What is all the tojling for, And the spinning ? " he would say ; " See the lihes at my door, — Never dressed a queen as they. " He who gives the ravens food For our wants as well will care ; O my children ! He is good, — Better than your fathers are." So he lived from year to year, Never toiling, mystery-clad, — Spirits, if they did appear. Being all the friends he had. Alternating seasons sped. And there fell no night so rough. But his cabin fire, he said. Made it light and warm enough. Soft and slow our steps would be. As the silver river ran, Days when we had been to see Christopher, the crazy man. BALLADS. 115 Soft and slow, to number o'er The delights he said he had; Wondering always, more and more, Whether he were wise or mad. On a hill-side next the sun, Where the schoolboys quiet keep, And to seed the clovers run. He is lying, fast asleep. But at last, (to Heaven be praise,) Gabriel his bed will find, Giving love for lonely days. And for visions, his right mind. Sometimes, when I think about How he lived among the flowers, Gently going in and out. With no cares nor fretful hours, — Of the deep serene of light. In his blue, unfathomed eyes, — Seems the childish fancy right, That could half believe him wise. 116 BALLADS. THE FERRY OF GALLAWAY. In the stormy waters of Gallaway My boat had been idle the livelong day, Tossing and tumbling to and fro, For the wind was high and the tide was low. The tide was low and the wind was high, And we were heavy, my heart and I, For not a traveller all the day Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway. At set o' th' sun, the clouds outspread Like wings of darkness overhead, When, out o' th' west, my eyes took heed Of a lady, riding at full speed. The hoof-strokes struck on the flinty hill Like silver ringing on silver, till I saw the veil in her fair hand float. And flutter a signal for my boat. The waves ran backward as if 'ware Of a presence more than mortal fair, And my little craft leaned down and lay With her side to th' sands o' th' Gallaway. BALLADS. tn " Haste, good boatman ! haste ! " she cried, " And row me over the other side ! " And she stript from her finger the shining ring, And gave it me for the ferrying. " Woe 's me ! my Lady, I may not go. For the wind is high and th' tide is low, And rocks like di-agons lie in the wave, — Slip back on your finger the ring you gave ! " " Nay, nay I for the rocks will be melted down. And the waters, they never will let me drown. And the wind a pilot will prove to thee. For my dying lover, he waits for me ! " Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur She put in my hand, but I answered her : " The wind is high and the tide is low, — I must not, dare not, and will not go ! " Her face grew deadly white with pain, And she took her champing steed by th' mane. And bent his neck to th' ribbon and spur That lay in my hand, — but I answered her : " Though you should proffer me twice and thxtoe Of ring and ribbon and steed, the price, — The leave of kissing your lily-like hand ! I never could row you safe to th' land." 118 BALLADS. " Then God have mercy ! " she faintly cried, " For my lover is dying the other side ! O cruel, cruellest Gallaway, Be parted, and make me a path, I pray ! " Of a sudden, the sun shone large and bright As if he were staying avray the night. And the rain on the river fell as sweet As the pitying tread of an angel's feet. And spanning the. water from edge to edge A rainbow stretched like a golden bridge, And I put the rein in her hand so fair, And she sat in her saddle, th' queen o' th' air. And over the river, from edge to edge. She rode on the shifting and shimmering bridge, And landing safe on the farther side, — " Love is thy conqueror, Death ! " she cried. -<^C\SKI!>*=>- OuK unwise purposes are wisely crossed ; Being small ourselves, we must essay small things : Th' adventurous mote, with wide, outwearied wings Crawling across a water-drop, is lost. BALLADS. lli* REVOLUTIONARY STORY. " Good mother, what quaint legend are you reading, In that old-fashioned book ? Beside your door I Ve been this half-hour pleading All vainly for one look. " About your chair the little birds fly bolder Than in the woods they fly, With heads dropt slantwise, as if o'er your shoulder They read as they went by ; "Each with his glossy collar rufiling double Around his neck so slim, ; Even as with that atmosphere of trouble, Through which our blessings swim. " Is it that years throw on us chillier shadows. The longer time they, run, That, with your sad face fronting yonder meadows, You creep into the sun ? " I '11 sit upon the ground and hear your story." Sadly she shook her head. And, pushing back the thin, white veil of glory 'Twixt her and heaven, she said : 120 BALLADS. " Ah ! wondering child, I Itnew not of your pleading ; My thoughts were chained, indeed. Upon my book, and yet what you call reading I have no skill to read. " There was a time once when I had a lover ; Why look you in such doubt? True, I am old now — ninety years and over : " A crumpled flower fell out From 'twixt the book-leaves. " Seventy years they Ve pressed it: 'T was like a living flame, When he that plucked it, by the plucking blessed it : " I knew the smile that came, And flickered on her lips in wannish . splendor, Was lighted at that flower, For even yet its radiance, faint and tender, Reached to its primal hour. "God bless you! seventy years since it was gathered?' " Ay, I remember well ; " And in her old hand, palsy-struck, and withered. She held it up to smell. " And is it true, as poets say, good mother, That love can never die ? And that for all it gives unto another It grows the richer ? " " Ay, BALLADS. 121 " The wild wall-brier, from spring till summer closes, All the great world around, Hangs by its thorny arms to keep its roses From off the low, black ground ; And love is like it : sufferings but try it ; Death but evokes the might That, all too mighty to be thwarted by it. Breaks through into the light." " Then frosty age may wrap about its bosom The light of fires long dead ? " Kissing the piece of dust she called a blossom, She shut the book, and said : "• You see yon ash-tree with its thick leaves, blowing The blue side out? (Great Power, Keep its head green !) My sweetheart, in the mowing, Beneath it found my flower. "A mile off all that day the shots were flying. And mothers, from the door. Looked for the sons, who, on their faces lying, Would come home never more. " Across the battle-field the dogs went whining ; I saw, from where I stood. Horses with quivering flanks, and strained eyes, shining Like thin skins fiill of blood. 16 122 BALLADS. " Brave fellows we liad then : there was my neighbor, — The British lines he saw ; Took his old scythe and ground it to a sabre, And mowed them down hke straw ! " And there were women, then, of giant spirit, — Nay, though the blushes start, The garments their degenerate race inherit Hang loose about the heart. "Where was I, child? how is my story going?" " Why, where by yonder tree With leaves so rough your sweetheart, in the mowing. Gathered your flower ! " " Ah me ! " My poor lad dreamed not of the red-coat devil, That, just for pastime, drew To his bright epaulet his musket level. And shot him through and through. " Beside him I was kneeling the next minute ; From the red grass he took The shattered hand up, and the flower was in it You saw within my book." " He died." " Then you have seen some stormy weather ? " " Ay, more of foul than fair ; And all the snows we should have shared together Have fallen on my hair." BALLADS. 123 "And has your life been worth the living, mother, With all its sorrows ? " " Ay, I 'd live it o'er again, were there no other, For this one memory." 1 answered soft, — I felt the place was holy, — One maxim stands approved : " They know the best of Hfe, however lowly. Who ever have been loved." ^^c^e^cn^S'*^ Just here and there with some poor little ray Of lovely sort, the web of life is crossed ; Where a good impulse found in action play, — Where a true word was said: the rest is lost 124 BALLADS. Hope in our hearts doth only stay Like a traveller at an inn, Who riseth up at the break of day His journey to begin. Faith, when her soul has known the blight Of noisy doubts and fears, Goes thenceforward clad in the light Of the still eternal years. Truth is Truth : no more in the prayers Of the righteous Pharisee ; No less in the humblest sinner that wears This poor mortality. But Love is greatest of all : no loss Can shadow its face with gloom, — As glorious hanging on the cross As breaking out of the tomb. C5ougj)t5i anti %fimim. THANKSGIVING. For the sharp conflicts I have had with sin. Wherein I have been wedged and pressed Nigh unto death, I thank Thee, with the rest Of my befallings, Lord, of brighter guise, And named by mortals, good, Which to my hungry heart have given food, Or costly entertainment to my eyes. For I can only see. With spirit truly reconciled to Thee, In the sad evils with our lives that blend, A means, and not an end: Since Thou wert free To do thy will — knewest the bitter worth Of sin, and all its possibility. Ere that, by thy decree, 128 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. The ancient silence of eternity- Was broken by tlie music of man's birth. Theiefore I lay my brows Discrowned of youth, within thy gracious hands, Or rise while daybreak dew is on the boughs To strew thy road with sweets, for thy commands Do make the current of my life to run Through lost and cavernous ways, Bordered with cloudy days. In its slow working out into the sun. HUls, clap your hands, and all ye mountains, shout ; Hie, fainting hart, to where the waters flow ; Children of men, put off your fear and doubt ; The Lord who chasteneth, loveth you, for, lo ! The wild herb's wounded stalk He cares about, And shields the ravens when the rough M-inds blow ; He sendeth down the drop of. shining dew To light the daisy from her house of death, And shall He, then, forget the like of you, ye, of little faith ! He speaketh to the willing soul and heart By dreams, and in the visions of the night, And happy is the man who, for his part, Rejoiceth in the light Of all His revelations, whether found In the old books, so sacredly upbound, THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 129 And clasped with golden clasps, or whether writ Through later instillations of His power, Where he that runneth still perceiveth it lUuminating every humble flower That springeth from the ground. His testimony all the time is sure ; The smallest star that keepeth in the night His silver candle bright, And every deed of good that anywhere Maketh the hands of holy women white ; All sweet religious work, all earnest prayer. Of uttered, or unutterable speech ; Whatever things are peaceable and pure. Whatever things are right, These are His witnesses, ay, all and each I Thrice happy is the man who doth obey The Lord of Love, through love ; who fears to break The righteous law for th' law's righteous sake ; And who, by daily use of blessings, gives Thanks for the daily blessings he receives; His spirit grown so reverent, it dares Cast the poor shows of reverence away, Believing they More glorify the Giver, who partake Of His good gifts, than they who fast and make Burnt ofierings and Pharisaic prayers. 17 130 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. The wintry snows that blind The air, and bhght what things were glorified By summer's reign, we do not think unkind When that we see them changed, afar and wide. To rain, that, fretting in the rose's face, Brings out a softer grace. And makes the troops of rustic daffodils Shake out their yellow skirts along the hills, And all the valleys blush from side to side. And as we climb the stair Of rough and ugly fortune, by the props Of faith and charity, and hope and prayer, To the serene and beauteous mountain-tops Of our best human possibility, Where haunts the spirit of eternity, The world below looks fair, — Its seeming inequalities subdued. And level, all, to purposes of good. I thank thee, Gracious Lord, For the divine award Of strength that helps me up the heavy heights Of mortal sorrow, where, through tears forlorn, My eyes get glimpses of the authentic lights Of love's eternal morn. For thereby do I trust That our afflictions spring not from the dust, THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 131 And tliat they are not sent In arbitrary chastisement, Nor as avengers to put out the light And let our souls loose in some damndd night That holds the balance of thy glory, just ; But rather, that as lessons they are meant, And as the fire tempers the iron, so Are we refined by woe. I thank Thee for my common blessings, still Rained through thy will Upon my head ; the air That knows so many tunes which grief beguile, Breathing its light love to me everywhere. And that will still be kissing all the while. I thank Thee that my childhood's vanished days Were cast in niral ways. Where I beheld, with gladness ever new, That sort of vagrant dew Which lodges in the beggarly tents of such Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain to touch, And with rough-bearded burs, night after night, Upgathered by the fiiorning, tender and true, Into her clear, chaste hght. Such ways I learned to know That free will cannot go Outside of mercy ; learned to bless His name 132 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Wliose revelations, ever thus renewed Along the varied year, in field and wood, His loving care proclaim. I thank Thee that the grass and the red rose Do what they can to tell How spirit through all forms of matter flows ; For every thistle by the common way Wearing its homely beauty, — for each spring That sweet and homeless, runneth where it will, - For night and day. For the alternate seasons, — everything Pertaining to life's marvellous miracle. Even for the lowly flower That, living, dwarfed and bent Under some beetling rock, in gloom profound, Far from her pretty sisters of the ground. And shut from sun and shower, Seemeth endowed with human discontent. Ah ! what a tender hold She taketh of us in our own despite, — A sadly-solemn creature. Crooked, despoiled of nature. Leaning from out the shadows, dull and cold, To lay her little white face in the light. The chopper going by her rude abode. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 132 Thinks of his own rough hut, his old wife's smile, And of the bare young feet That run through th' frost to meet His coming, and forgets the weary load Of sticks that bends his shoulders down the while. I thank thee, Lord, that Nature is so wise, So capable of painting in men's eyes Pictures whose airy hues Do blend and interfuse With all the darkness that about us lies, — That clearly in our hearts Her law she writes, Reserving cunning past our mortal arts, Whereby she is avenged for all her slights. And I would make 'thanksgiving For the sweet, double living. That gives the pleasures that have passed away, The sweetness and the sunshine of to-day. I see the furrows ploughed and see them planted, See the young cornstalks rising green and fair ; Mute things are friendly, and I am acquainted With all the luminous creatures of the air ; And w^ith the cunning workers of the ground That have their trades born with them, and with all The insects, lai'ge and small. That fill the Summer with a wave of sound. 134 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. I watch the wood-bird line Her pretty nest, with eyes that never tire, And watch the sunbeams trail their wisps of fire Along the bloomless bushes, till they shine. The violet, gathering up her tender blue From th' dull ground, is a godd sight to see ; And it delighteth me To have the mushroom push his round head through The dry and brittle stubble, as I pass, His smooth and shining coat, half rose half fawn. But just put on ; And to have April slip her showery grass Under my feet, as she was used to do. In the dear Spring-times gone. I make the brook, my Nile, And hour by hour beguile. Tracking its devious course Through briery banks to its mysterious source, That I discover, always, at my will, — A little silver star. Under the shaggy forehead of some hill, From travelled ways afar. Forgetting wind and flood, I build my house of unsubstantial sand. Shaping the roof upon my double hand. And setting up the dry and sliding grains, THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 135 With infinite pains, In the similitude Of beam and rafter, — then W here to the ground the dock its broad leaf crooks, I hunt long whiles to find the little men That I have read of in my story-books. Often, in lawless wise, Some obvious work of duty I delay. Taking my fill Of an uneasy liberty, and still Close shutting up my eyes, As though it were not given me to see The avenging ghost of opportunity Thus slighted, far away, I Knger when I know That I should forward go ; Now, haply for the katydid's wild shrill, Now listening to the low. Dull noise of mill-wheels — counting, now, the row Of clouds about the shoulder of the hill. My heart anew rejoices In th' old familiar voices That come back to me hke a lullaby ; Now 'tis the church-bell's call, A.nd now a teamster's whisth;, — now, perhaps, The silvery lapse 136 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Of waters in among the reeds that meet ; And now, down-dropping to a whispery fall, Some milkmaid, chiding with love's privilege, Through the green wall Of the dividing hedge, And the so sadly eloquent reply Of the helated cow-boy, low and sweet. I see, as in a dream, The farmer plodding home behind his team. With all the tired shadows following, And see him standing in his threshing-floor, The hungry cattle gathered in a ring About the great barn-door. I see him in the sowing. And see him in the mowing. The air about him thick with gray- winged moths; The day's work nearly over. And the long meadow ridged with double swaths Of sunset-light and clover. When falls the time of solemn Sabbath rest, In all he has of best I see him going (for he never fails) To church, in either equitable hand A shining little one, and all his band Trooping about him like a flock of quails. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 137 With necks bowed low, and hid to half their length Under the jutting load of new-made hay, I see the oxen give their liberal strength Day after day. And see the mower stay His scythe, and leave a patch of grass to spread Its shelter round the bed Of the poor frighted ground-bird in his way. I see the joyous vine, And see the wheat set up its rustling spears, And see the Sun with golden fingers sign The promise of fiiU ears. I see the slender Moon Time after time grow old and round in th' face, And see the Autumn take the Summer's place. And shake the ripe nuts down, In their thick, bitter hulls of green and brown. To make the periods of the school-boy's tune ; I see the apples, with their russet cheeks Shaming the wealth of June ; And see the bean-pods, gay with purple freaks. And all the hills with yellow leaves o'erblown, As through the fading woods I walk alone. And hear the wind o'erhead Touching the joyless boughs and making moan, Like some old crone. Who on her withered fingers counts her dead. 18 IBs THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. I hear the beetle's hum, and see the gnats Sagging along the air in strings of jet, And from their stubs I see the weak-eyed bats Flying an hour before the Sun is set. Picture on picture crowds, And by the gray and priestlike silence led, Oomes the first star through evening's steely gates And chides the day to bed Within the ruddy curtains of the clouds ; . So gently com'st thou, Death, To him who waits. In the assurance of our blessed faith. To be acquainted with thy quiet arms, His good deeds, great and small, Builded about him like a silver wall. And bearing back the deluge of alarms. The mother doth not tenderer appear When, from her heart her tired darling laid. She trims his cradle all about with shade. And will not kiss his sleepy eyes for fear. I see the windows of the homestead bright With the warm evening-light, And by the winter-fire I see the gray-haired sire Serenely sitting, Forgetful of the work-day toil and care, The old wife by his elbow, at her knitting ; THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 139 The cricket on the hearth-stone singing shrill, And the spoiled darling of the house at will Climbing the good man's chair, A furtive glimpse to catch Of her fair face in his round silver watch, That she in her high privilege must wear, And listen to the music that is in it, Though only for a minute. I thank thee, Lord, for every saddest cross ; Gain comes to us through loss. The while we go, Bhnd travellers holding by the wall of time, And seeking out through woe The things that are eternal and sublime. Ah ! sad are they of whom no poet writes Nor ever any story-teller hears, — The childless mothers, who on lonesome nights Sit by their fires and weep, having the chores Done for the day, and time enough to see All the wide floors Swept clean of playthings ; they, as needs must be, Have time enough for tears. But there are griefs more sad Than ever any childless mother had, — you know them, who do smother Nature's cries Under poor masks 140 THOUGHTS AND THKOlilKS. Of smiling, slow despair, — Who put your white and unadorning hair Out of your way, and keep at homely tasks, Unblest with any praises of men's eyes. Till Death comes to you with his piteous care, And to unmarriageable beds you go. Saying, " It is not much ; 't is well, if so We only be made fair And looks of love await us when we rise." My cross is not as hard as theirs to bear. And yet alike to me are storms, or calms ; My life's young joy. The brown-cheeked farmer-boy. Who led the daisies with him like his lambs, — Carved His sweet picture on my milking-pail, And cut my name upon his thrashing-flail. One day stopped singing at his plough ; alas ! Before that summer-time was gone, the grass Had choked the path which to the sheep-field led. Where I had watched him tread So oft on evening's trail, — A shining oat-sheaf balanced on his head, And nodding to the gale. Rough wintry weather came, and when it sped, The emerald wave Swelling above my little sweetheart's grave. With such bright, bubbly flowers was set about, THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 141 I thought he blew them out, And so took comfort that he was not dead. For I was of a rude and ignorant crew, And hence beheved whatever things I saw Were the expression of a hidden law ; And, with a wisdom wiser than I knew, Evoked the simple meanings out of things By childhke questionings. And he they named with shudderings of fear Had never, in his life, been half so near As when I sat all day with cheeks unkissed, And hstened to the whisper, very low. That said our love above death's wave of woe Was joined together like the seamless mist. God's yea and nay Are not so far away, I said, but I can hear them when I please ; Nor could I understand Their doubting faith, who only touch His hand Across the blind, bewildering centuries. And often yet, upon the shining track Of the old faith, come back My childish fancies, never quite subdued; And when the sunset shuts up in the wood The whispery sweetness of uncertainty. 142 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. And Night, with misty locks that loosely drop About his ears, brings rest, a welcome boon, Playing his pipe with many a starry stop That makes a golden .snarling in his tune ; I see my little lad TJnder the leafy shelter of the boughs, Driving his noiseless, visionary cows, Clad in a beauty I alone can see : Laugh, you, who never had Your dead come back, but do not take from me The harmless comfort of my foolish dream, That these, our mortal eyes. Which outwardly reflect the earth and skies Do introvert upon eternity : And that the shapes you deem Imaginations, just as clearly fall ; Each from its own divine original. And through some subtle element of light, Upon the inward, spiritual eye. As do the things which round about them lie. Gross and material, on the external sight. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES 143 THE BRIDAL VEIL. We 'eb mamed, they say, and you think you have won me, — Well, take this white veil from my head, and look on me : Here 's matter to vex you, and matter to grieve you, Here 's doubt to distrust you, and faith to believe you, — I am all as you see, common earth, common dew ; Be wary, and mould me to roses, not rue I Ah 1 shake out the filmy thing, fold after fold, And see if you have me to keep and to hold, — Look close on my heart — see the worst of its sinning — It is not yours to-day for the yesterday's winning — The past is not mine — I am too proud to borrow — You must grow to new heights if I love you to-morrow. We 're married ! I 'm plighted to hold up your praises, As the turf at your feet does its handful of daisies ; That way lies my honor, — my pathway of pride, But, mark you, if greener grass grow either side, I shall know it, and keeping in body with you, Shall -walk in my spirit with feet on the dew I 144 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. We 're married ! Oh, pray that our love do not fail 1 I have wings flattened down and hid under my veil : They are subtle as light — you can never undo them, And swift in their flight — you can never pursue them, And spite of all clasping, and spite of all bands, I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from your hands. Nay, call me not cruel, and fear not to take me, I am yours for my lifetime, to be what you make me, — To wear my white veil for a sign, or a cover, As you shall be proven my lord, or my lover ; A cover for peace that is dead, or a token Of bliss that can never be written or spoken. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 145 THE SPECIAL DARLING. Along the grassy lane one day, Outside the dull old-fashioned town, A dozen children were at play ; From noontide till the even-fall, Curly-heads flaxen and curly-heads brown Were busily bobbing up and down Behind the blackberry-wall. And near these merry-makers wild A piteous little creature was, With face unlike the face of a child, — Eyes fixed, and seeming frozen still, And legs all doubled up in th' grass. Disjointed from his will. No dream deceived his dreary hours. Nor made him merry nor made him grave: He did not hear the children call, Tumbling under the blackberry-wall, With shoulders white with flowers ; But sat with great wide eyes one way. And body limberly asway. Like a water-plant in a wave. He did not hear the little stir The ants made, working in their hills, 146 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Nor see the pale, gray daffodils Lifting about him their dull points, Njr yet the curious grasshopper Transport his green and angular joints From bush to bush. Poor simple boy, — His senses cheated of their birth, He might as well have grown in th' earth, For all he knew of joy. Near where the children took their fill Of play, outside the dull old town, And neighbored by a wide-flanked hill, Where mists hke phantoms up and down Moved all the time, a homestead was, With window toward the plot of grass Where sat this child, and oft and again Tender eyes peered through the pane. Whose glances stOl were dim, Till leaping over the blackberry-wall. Curly-heads flaxen, brown and all, They rested at last on him. Ah, who shall say but that such love Is the type of His who made us all. And that from the Kingdom up above The eyes that note the sparrow's fall, O'er the incapable, weak and small. Watch with tenderest care : Such is my hope and prayer. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 147 A DEEAM OF THE "WEST. Sunset ! a hush is in the air, — Their gray old heads the mountains bare, As if the winds were saying prayer. The woodland, with its broad, green wing, Shuts up the insect-whispering. And lo ! the Sea gets up to sing. The last red splendor fades and dies. And shadows one by one arise. To light the candles of the skies. wildflowers, wet with silver dew ! O woods, with starlight shining through I My heart is in the West, with you. How well I know each shrub and tree. Each climbing vine and brier I see ; Like friends they seem to welcome me. Musing, I go along the streams. Sweetly believing in my dreams, For Fancy like a prophet seems. H8 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Beside me soft steps tread the sod, As in the twilights gone they trod, And I unlearn my doubts, thank God. Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears. And that bad carelessness that sears, And makes me older than my years. I hear a dear, familiar tone, A loving hand clasps close my own. And earth seems made for me alone. If I my fortunes could have planned, I would not have let go that hand, But they must fall who learn to stand And how to blend life's varied hues. What ill to find, what good to lose. My Father knoweth best to choose. ON SEEING A DROWNING MOTH. PoQK little moth ! thy summer sports were done, Had I not happened by this pool to lie ; But thou hast pierced my conscience very sore With thy vain -flounderings, so come ashore In the safe hollow of my helpful hand, — Rest thee a little on the warm, dry sand. Then crawling out into the friendly sun, As best thou mayest, get thy wet wings dry. 150 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Ay, it has touched my conscience, little moth. To see thy bright wings made for other use. Haply for just a moment's chance abuse, Dragging thee, thus, to death ; yet am I loth To heed the lesson, for I fain would lie Along the margin of this water low And watch the sunshine run in tender gleams Down the gray elders — watch those flowers of light ■ If flowers they be, and not the golden dreams Left; in her grassy pillows by the night,— The dandehons, that trim the shadows so, And watch the wild flag, with her eyes of blue Wide open for the sun to look into, ^ — Her green skirts laid along the wind, and she. As if to mar fair fortune wantonly. Wading along the water, half her height. Fain would I He, with arms across my breast, As quiet as yon wood-duck on her nest. That sits the livelong day with rufiled quills. Waiting to see the little yellow bills Breach the white walls about them, — would that I Could find out some sweet charm wherewith to buy A too uneasy conscience, — then would Rest Gather and fold me to itself; and last, Forgetting the hereafter and the past. My soul would have the preseht for its guest, And grow immortal. So, my little fool. Thou 'rt back upon the water ! Lord ! how vain THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 151 The strife to save or man or moth from pain Merited justly, — having thy wild way To travel all the air, thou comest here To try with spongy feet the treacherous pool ; Well, thou at least hast made one truth more clear, — Men make their fate, and do not fate obey. 132 THOUGHTS AND THEORlhS. GOOD AND EVIL. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones. Julius C^sae:. Once when the messenger that stays For all, beside me stood, I mused on what great Shakspeare says Of evil and of good. And shall the evil I have done Live after me ? I said ; Wheik lo I a splendor like the sun Shone round ahout my bed. And a sweet spirit of the skies Near me, yet all apart. In whispers like the low wind's sighs, Spake to my Hstening heart ; Saying, your poet, reverenced thus, For once hath been unwise; The good we do lives after us, The evil 't is that dies ! THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 153 Evil is earthy, of the earth, — A thing of pain and crime, That scarcely sends a shadow forth Beyond the hounds of time. But good, in substance, dwells above This discontented sphere. Extending only, through God's love. Uncertain shadows here. 164 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. STROLLER'S SONG. The clouds all round the sky are black, As it never would shine again; But I '11 sling my wallet over my back, ■And trudge in spite of the rain ! And if there rise no star to guide My feet when day is gone, I 'U shift my wallet the other side. And trudge right on and on. For this of a truth I always note, And shape my course thereby, That Nature has never an overcoat To keep her furrows dry. And how should the hills be clothed with grain. The vales with flowers be crowned, But for the chain of the silver rain That draws them out of the ground ! THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 156 So I will trudge with heart elate, And feet with courage shod, For that which men call chance and fate Is the handiwork of God. There 's time for the night as well as the morn, For the dark as the shining sky ; The grain of the corn and the flower unborn Have rights as well as I. 156 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. A LESSON. One Autumn-time I went into the woods When Nature grieves, And wails the drying up of the bright floods Of Summer leaves. The rose had drawn the green quilt of the grass Over her head, And, taking off her pretty, rustling dress, Had gone to bed. And, while the wind went ruffling through her bower To do her harm, She lay and slept away the frosty hour, All safe and warm. The little bird that came when May was new, And sang her best. Had gone, — I put my double hand into Her chilly nest. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 157 Then, sitting down beneath a naked tree, I looked about, — Saying, in these, if there a lesson be, I '11 spy it out. And presently the teaching that was meant I thought I saw, — That I, in trial, should patiently consent To God's great law. 168 THOUGHTS AND THEOMIES. ON seei:ng a wild bird. Beautiful symbol of a freer life, Knowing no purpose, and yet true to one; Would I could learn thy wisdom, I who run This way and that, striving against my strife. No fancy vague, no object half unknown, Diverts thee from thyself. By stops and starts I live the while by little broken parts A thousand lives, ' — not one of all, my own. Thou sing'st thy full heart out, and low or high Flyest at pleasure ; who of us can say He lives his inmost self e'en for a day, And does the thing he would? alas, not I. We hesitate, go backward, and return, And when the earth with living sunshine gleams We make a darkness round us with our dreams. And wait for that which we ourselves should earn. For we shall work out answers to our needs If we have continuity of wUl To hold our shifting purposes until They germinate, and brincr forth fniit in doods. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 159 We ask and hope too much, — too lightly press Toward the end sought, and haply learn, at length, That we have vainly dissipated strength Which, concentrated, would have brought success. But Truth is sure, and can aflPord to wait Our slow perception, (error ebbs and flows ;) Ser essence is eternal, and she knows The world must swing round to her, soon or lat«. 160 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. EICH, THOUGH POOK Red in the east the morning broke, And in three chambers three men woke ; One through curtains wove that night In the loom of the spider, saw the light Lighting the rafters black and old. And sighed for the genii to make them gold. One in a chamber, high and fair. With panelled ceiHngs, enamelled rare, On the purple canopy of his bed Saw the light with a sluggard's dread, And buried his sullen and sickly face Deep in his pillow fringed with lace. One, from a low and grassy bed. With the golden air for a coverlet; No ornaments had he to wear But his curling beard and his coal-black hair; His wealth was his acres, and oxen twain. And health was his cheerful chamberlain. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 16] Night fell stormy — " Woe is me I " Sighed so wearily two of the three ; " The com I planted to-day will sprout," Said one, " and the roses be blushing out ; And his heart with its joyful hope o'erran : Think you he was the poorest man? 81 162 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. SIXTEEN. Suppose your hand with power supphed, — Say, would you slip it 'neath my hair, And turn it to the golden side Of sixteen years ? Suppose you dare ? And I stood here with smihng mouth, Red cheeks, and hands all softly white, Exceeding beautiftil with youth, And that some sly, consenting sprite, Brought dreams as bright as dreams can be. To keep the shadows from my brow, And plucked down hearts to pleasure me, As you would roees from a bough; What could I do then ? idly wear — While all my mates went on before — The bashftil looks and golden hair Of sixteen years, and nothing more ' Nay, done with youth is my desire. To Time I give no false abuse. Experience is the marvellous fire That welds our knowledge into use. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 163 And all its fires of heart, or brain, Where purpose into power was wrought, I 'd bear, and gladly bear again. Rather than be put back one thought. So sigh no more, my gentle friend, That I have reached the time of day When white hairs come, and heart-beats send No blushes through the cheeks astray. For, could you mould my destiny As clay within your loving hand, I 'd leave my youth's sweet company, And suffer back to where I stand. 164 THOUGHTS AJVD THEORIES. PEAYER FOR LIGHT. O WHAT is Thy- will toward us mortals, Most Holy and High? Shall we die unto life while we 're living ? Or live while we die ? Can, we serve Thee and wait on Thee only In cells, dark and low ? Must the altars we build Thee be built with The stones of our woe ? Shall we only attain the great measures Of grace and of bliss In the life that awaits us, by cruelly Warring on this ? Or, may we still watch while we work, and Be glad while we pray? So reverent, we cast the poor shows of Our reverence away I Shall the nature Thou gav'st us, pronouncing it Good, and not ill. Be- warped by our pride or our passion Outside of Thy will ? THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 16£ Shall the sins which we do in our blindness Thy inercy transcend, And drag us down deeper and deeper Through worlds without end ? Or, are we stayed back in sure limits, And Thou, high above, O'erruling our trials for our triumph, Our hatreds for love? And is each soul rising, though slowly, As onward it fares. And are life's good things arid its evil The steps in the stairs ? All day with my heart and my spirit, In fear and in awe, I strive to feel out through my darkness Thy light and Thy law. And this, when the sun from his shining Goes sadly away, And the moon looketh out of her chamber^ Is all I can say ; That He who foresaw of transgression The might and the length. Has fashioned the law to exceed not Our poor human strength ! 1«6 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES THE UNCUT LEAF. Yov think I do not love you 1 Why, Because I have my secret grief? Because in reading I pass by, Time and again, the uncut leaf? One rainy night you read to me In some old book, I know not what. About the woods of Eldersie, And a great hunt — I have forgot What all the story was — ah, well, It touched me, and I felt the pain With which the poor dumb creature fell To his weak knees, then rose again. And shuddering, dying, -turned about, Lifted his antlered head in pride. And from his wounded face shook out The bloody arrows ere he died I That night I almost dared, I think. To cut the leaf, and let the sun Shine in upon the mouldy ink, — You ask me why it was not done. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 167 Because I rather feel than know The truth which every soul receives From kindred souls, that long ago You read me through the double leaves 1 So pray you, leave my tears to blot The record of my secret grief, And though I know you know, seem not Ever to see the uncut leaf. 168 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. THE MIGHT OF TRUTH. We are proclaimed, even against our wills — If we are silent, then our silence speaks — Children from tumbhng on the summer-hills Come home with roses rooted in their cheeks. I think no man can make his lie hold good, — One way or other, truth -is understood. The stiU sweet influence of a life of prayer Quickens their hearts who never bow the knee, — So come fresh draughts of living inland air To weary homesick men, far out at sea. Acquaint thyself with God, O- man, and lo I His light shall, like a garment, round thee flow. The selfishness that with our lives has grown. Though outward grace its fiill expression bar, Will crop out here and there like belts of stone From shallow soil, discovering what we are. The thing most specious cannot stead the true, — Who would appear clean, must be clean all through. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 169 In vain doth Satan say, " My heart is glad, I wear of Paradise the morning gem ; " While on his brow, magnificently sad, Hangs hke a crag his blasted diadem. Still doth the truth the hollow lie invest. And all the immortal ruin stands confessed. 170 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. COUNSEL. Though sin hath marked thy brother's brow. Love him in sin's despite, But for his darkness, haply thou Hadst never known the light. Be thou an angel to his life. And not a demon grim, — Since with himself he is at strife, O be at peace with him. Speak gently of his evil ways And all his pleas allow, For since he knows not why he strays From vktue, how shouldst thou? Love him, though all thy love he slights, For ah, thou canst not say But that his prayerless days and nights Have taught thee how to pray. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. XU Outside themselves all things have laws, The atom and the sun, — Thou art thyself, perhaps, the cause Of sins which he has done. If guiltless thou, why surely then Thy place is by his side, — It was for sinners, not just men, That Christ the Saviour died. THE LITTLE BLA.CKSMITH. We heard his hammer all day long On the anvil ring and ring, But he always came when the sun went down To sit on the gate and sing. His little hands so hard and brown Crossed idly on his knee, And straw-hat lopping over cheeks As red as they could be ; THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 173 His blue and faded jacket trimmed With signs of work, — his feet All bare and fair upon the grass, He made a picture sweet. For still his shoes, with iron shod. On the smithy-wall he hung; As forth he came when the sun went down. And sat on the gate and sung. The whistling rustic tending cows, Would keep in pastures near. And half the busy villagers Lean from their doors to hear. And from thci time the bluebirds came And made the hedges bright. Until the stubble yellow grew, He never missed a night. The hammer's stroke on the anvil filled His heart with a happy ring. And that was why, when the sun went down, He came to the gate to sing. 174 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. TWO TRAVELLERS. Two travellers, meeting by the way, Arose, and at the peep of day Brake bread, paid reckoning, and they say Set out together, and so trode Till where upon the forking road A gray and good old man abode. There each began his heart to strip, And all that light companionship That cometh of the eye and lip Had sudden end, for each began To ask the gray and good old man Whither the roads before them ran. One, as they saw, was shining bright. With such a great and gracious light. It seemed that heaven must be in sight. " This," said the old man, " doth begin Full sweetly, but its end is in The dark and desert-place of sin. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 175 " And this, that seemeth all to lie In gloomy shadow, — by-and-by, Maketh the gateway of the sky. " Bide ye a little ; fast and pray, And 'twixt the good and evil way, Choose ye, my brethren, this day." And as the day was at the close The two wayfaring men arose. And each the road that pleased him chosa One took the pathway that began So brightly, and so smoothly ran Through flowery fields, — deluded man 1 Ere long he saw, alas I alas ! AU darkly, and as through a glass, Flames, and not flowers, along the grass. Then shadows round about him fell. And in his soul he knew full well His feet were taking hold on hell. "o He tried all vainly to retrace His pathway; horrors blocked the place, And demons mocked him to his face. 176 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Broken in spirit, crushed in pride. One morning by the highway-side He fell, and all unfriended, died- The other, after fast and prayer. Pursued the road that seemed less fair, And peace went with him, unaware. And when the old man saw where lay The traveller's choice, he said, " I pray, Take this to help you on the way ; " And gave to him a lovely book, Wherein for guidance he must look. He told him, if the path should crook. And so, through labyrinths of shade. When terror pressed, or doubt dismayed, He walked in armor all arrayed. So, over pitfalls travelled he, And passed the gates of harlotry, Safe with his heavenly company. And when the road did low descend. He ibnnd a good inn, and a friend, Aiid made a comfortable end. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 177 THE BLIND TRAVELLER. A POOR blind man •was travelling one day, The guiding staif from out his hand was gone, And the road crooked, so he lost his way. And the night fell, and a great storm came on. He was not, therefore, troubled and afraid, Nor did he vex the silence with his cries, But on the rainy grass his cheek he laid. And waited for the morning sun to rise. Saying to his heart, — Be still, my heart, and wait, For if a good man happen to go by, He will not leave us to our dark estate And the cold cover of the storm, to die ; But he will sweetly take us by the hand, And lead us back into the straight highway ; Full soon the clouds will have evanished, and All the wide east be blazoned with the day. 23 nS THOUGHTS AND THEORlEh. And we are like that blind man, all of us, — Benighted, lost! But while the storm doth fall Shall we not stay our sinking hearts up, thus, — Above us there is One who sees it all ; And if His name be Love, as we are told. He will not leave us to unequal strife ; But to that city with the streets of golj Bring us, and give us everlasting life. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 179 THE BLACKBIRD. " I could not think so plain a bird Could sing so fine a song." One on another against the wall Pile up the books, — I am done with them all I I shall be wise, if I ever am wise, Out of my own ears, and of my own eyes. One day of the woods and their balmy light, — One hour on the top of a breezy hill, Where in the sassafras all out of sight The blackbird is splitting his slender bill For the ease of his heart I Do you think if he said I will sing like this bird with the mud-colored back And the two little spots of gold over his eyes, Or like to this shy little creature that flies So low to the ground, with the amethyst rings About her small throat, — all alive when she sings With a glitter of shivering green, — for the rest, Gray shading to gray, with the sheen of her breast Half rose and half fawn, — 180 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Or like this one so proud. That flutters so restless, and cries out so loud, With stiff horny beak and a topknotted head, And a lining of scarlet laid under his wings, — Do you think, if he said, " I 'm ashamed to be black I " That he could have shaken the sassafras-tree As he does with the song he was bom to ? not he 1 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 181 MY GOOD ANGEL. Very simple are my pleasures, — O good angel, stay with me, While I number what they be, — Easy 't is to count my treasures. Easy 't is, — they are not many : Friends for love and company, O good angel grant to me ; Strength to work ; and is there any Man or woman, evil seeing In my daily walk and way. Grant, and give me grace to pray For a less imperfect being. Grant a larger light, and better, To inform my foe and me, So we quickly shall agree ; Grant forgiveness to my debtor. 182 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Make my heart, I pray, of kindness Always full, as clouds of showers ; Keep my mortal eyes from blindness; I would see the sun and flowers. From temptation pray deliver ; And, good angel, grant to me That my heart be grateful ever : Herein all my askings be. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 183 MOEE LIFE. When spring-time prospers in the grass, And fills the vales with tender bloom, And light winds whisper as they pass Of sunnier days to come : In spite of all the joy she brings To flood and field, to hUl and grove, This is the song my spirit sings, — More light, more life, more love I And when, her time ftdfiUed, she goes So gently from her vernal place. And meadow wide and woodland glows With sober summer grace : When on the stalk the ear is set, With all the harvest promise bright. My spirit sings the old song yet, — More love, more life, more light I 184 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. When stubble takes the place of grain. And shrunken streams steal slow along, And all the faded woods complain Like one who suffers wrong ; When fires are lit, and everywhere The pleasures of the household rife, My song is solemnized to prayer, — More love, more light, more life ! THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 186 CONTRADICTORY. We contradictory creatures Have something in us alien to our birth, That doth suffuse us with the infinite, While downward through our natures Run adverse thoughts, that only find delight In the poor, perishable things of earth. Blindly we feel about Our little circle, — ever on the quest Of knowledge, which is only, at the best, Pushing the boundaries of our ignorance out. But while we know all things are miracles, And that we cannot set A.n ear of corn, nor tell a blade of grass The way to grow, our vanity o'erswells The limit of our «wisdom, and we yet Audaciously o'erpass This narrow promontory Of low, dark land, into the unseen glory, And with unhallowed zeal Unto our fellow-men God's judgments deal. 24 186 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Sometimes along the gloom We meet a traveller, striking hands with whom, Maketh a little sweet and tender light To bless our sight, And change the clouds around us and above Into celestial shapes, — and this is love. Morn Cometh, trailing storms, Even while she wakes a thousand grateful psalms. And with her golden calms All the wide valley fills; Darkly they lie below The purple fire, — the glow. Where, on the high tops of the eastern hills, She rests her cloudy arms. And we are like the morning, — heavenly light Blowing about our heads, and th' dumb night Before us and behind us ; ceaseless ills Make up our years ; and as from off the hills The white mists melt, and leave them bare and rougli, So melt from us the fancies of our youth Until we stand against the last black truth Naked, and cold, and desolate enough. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 187 THIS IS ALL. Teying, trying — always trying — Falling down to save a fall ; Living by the dint of dying, — This is all ! Giving, giving — always giving — Gathering just abroad to cast ; Dying by the dint of living At the last ! Sighing, smiling — smiling, sighing - Sun in shade, and shade in sun ; Dying, living — living, dying — Both in one ! Hoping in our very fearing, Striving hard against our strife ; Drifting in the stead of steering, — This is life I 188 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Seeming to believe in seeming, Half disproving, to approve ; Knowing that we dream, in dreaming, This is love ! Being in our weakness stronger, — Living where there is no breath ; Feeling harm can harm no longer, — This is death THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 186 IN VAIN. Down the peach-tree sHd The milk-white drops of th' dew, All in that merry time of th' year When the world is made anew. The daisy dressed in white, The paw-paw flower in brown, And th' violet sat by her lover, tli' brook, With her golden eyelids down. Gayly its own best hue Shone in each leaf and stem, — Gayly the children rolled on th' grass, With their shadows after them. I said, Be sweet for me, little wild flowers ! for I Have larger need, and shut in myself, 1 wither and waste and die I 190 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Pity me, sing for me I I cried to the tuneful bird ; My heart is full of th' spirit of song. And I cannot sing a word! Like a buried stream that longs Through th' upper world to run, And kiss the dawn in her rosy mouth, And lie in th' light of th' sun ; So in me, is my soul, Wasting in darkness the hours, Ever fretted and sullen and sad With a sense of its unused powers. In vain ! each little flower Must be sweet for itself, nor part With its white or brown, and every bird Must sing from its own full heart. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 191 BEST, TO THE BEST. The wind blows where it listeth, Out of the east and west, And the sinner's way is as dark as death, And life is best, to the best. The touch of evil corrupteth ; Tarry not on its track ; The grass where the serpent crawls is stirr^ As if it grew on his back. To know the beauty of cleanness The heart must be clean and sweet ; We must love our neighbor to get his love, — As we measure, he will mete. Cold black crusts to the beggar, A cloak of rags and woe ; And tlie furrows are warm to the sower's feet. And his bread is white as snow. 192 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Can blind eyes see the even, As he hangs on th' days' soft close, Like a lusty boy on his mother's neck, Bright in the face as a rose? The grave is cold and cruel, — Rest, pregnant with unrest ; And woman must moan and man must groau ; But life is best, to the best. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 193 THOENS. I DO not think the Providence unkind That gives its had things to this life of ours; They are the thorns wherehy we, travellers blind, Feel out our flowers. I think hate shows the quality of love, — That wrong attests that somewhere there is right ! Do not the darkest shadows serve to prove The power of light ? On tyrannous ways the feet of Freedom press ; The green bough broken oflF, lets simshine in ; And where sin is, aboundeth righteousness. Much more than sin. Man cannot be all selfish ; separate good Is nowhere found beneath the shining sun All adverse interests, truly understood. Resolve to one ! 25 194 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. I do believe all worship doth ascend, — Whether from temple floors by heathen trod, Or from the shrines where Christian praises blend,- To the true God, Blessed forever: that His love prepares The raven's food ; the sparrow's fall doth see ; And, simple, sinful as I am. He cares Even for me. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 195 OLD ADAM. The wind is blowing cold from the west, And your liair is gray and thin ; Come in, old Adam, and shut the door, — Come in, old Adam, come in ! " The wind is blowing out o' the west, Cold, cold, and my hair is thin ; But it is not there, that face so fair. And why should I go in ? " The wind is blowing cold from the west ; The day is almost gone ; The cock is abed, the cattle fed, And the night is coming on ! Come in, old Adam, and shut the door, And leave without your care. " Nay, nay, for the sun of my life is down. And the night is everywhere." The cricket chirps, and your chair is set Where the fire shines warm and clear ; 196 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Gome in, old Adam, and you will forget It is not the spring o' the year. Come in ! the wind blows wild from the west, And your hair is gray and thin. " 'T is not there now, that sweet, sweet brow, And why should I go in ? " THE FARMEE'S DAUGHTER. Her voice was tender as a lullaby, Making you think of milk-white dews that creep Among th' mid-May violets, when they lie, All in the yellow moonlight fast asleep. Ay, tender as that most melodious tone The lark has, when within some covert dim With leaves, he talks with morning all alone. Persuading her to rise and come to him. Shy in her ways ; her father's cattle knew — No neighbor half so well — her footstep light. For by the pond where mint and mallows grew Always she came and called them home at night 198 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. A sad, low pond that cut the field in two Wherein they ran, and never billow sent To play with any breeze, but still withdrew Into itself, in wrinkled, dull content. A.nd here, through mint and mallows she would stray, Musing the wliile she called, as it might be On th' cold clouds, or winds that with rough gray Shingled the landward slope of the near sea. God knows ! not I, on what she mused o' nights Straying about the pond : she had no woe To think upon, they said, nor such delights As maids^ are wont to hide. I only know We do not know the weakness or the worth Of any one : th' Sun as he will may trim His golden lights ; he cannot see the earth He loves, but on the side she turns to him. I only know that when this lonesome pond Lifted the buried lilies from its breast One warm, wet day (I nothing know beyond). It lifted her white face up with the rest. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 199 A PRAYER. I HAVE been little used to frame Wishes to speech and call it prayer ; To-day, my Father, in Thy name, I ask to have my soul stript bare Of all its vain pretence, — to see Myself, as I am seen by Thee. I want to know how much the pain And passion here, its powers abate ; To take its thoughts, a tangled skein. And stretch them out all smooth and straight; To track its wavering course through sin And sorrow, to its origin. I want to know if in the night Of evil, grace doth so abound, That from its darkness we draw light, As flowers do beauty from the ground ; Or, if the sins of time shall be The shadows of eternity. 200 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. I want, though only for an hour, To be myself, — to get more near The wondrous mystery and power Of love, whose echoes floating here, Between us and the waiting grave, Make all of light, of heaven, we have. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 201 ALONE. What shall I do when I stand in my place, Unclothed of this garment of cloud and dust, Unclothed of this garment of selfish lust, With my Maker, face to face ! What shall I say for my worldly pride? What for the things I have done and not done ? There will be no cloud then over the sun, And no grave wherein to hide. No time for waiting, no time for prayer, — No friend that with me my life-path trod To help me, — only my soul and my God, And all my sins laid bare. No dear human pity, no low loving speech, About me that terrible day shall there be , Remitted back into myself, I shall see All aweetest things out of reach. But why should I tremble before th' unknown, And put off the blushing and shame ? Now, — to-day I The friend close beside me seems far, far away, And I stand at God's judgment alone ! 26 •202 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES SOMETIMES. Sometimes for days Along the fields that I of time have leased, I go, nor find a single leaf increased ; And hopeless, graze With forehead stooping downward like a heast. O heavy hours ! My life seems all a failure, and I sigh. What is there left for me to do, hut die ? So small my powers That I can only stretch them to a cry I But whUe I stretch What strength I have, though only to a cry, I gain an utterance that men know me by ; Create, and fetch A something out of chaos, — that is I. Good comes to pass We know not when nor how, for, looking to What seemed a barren waste, there starts to view Some bunch of grass, Or snarl of violets, shining with the dew. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 203 I do believe The very impotence to pray, is prayer; The hope that all will end, is in despair, And while we grieve. Comfort abideth with us, unaware. 20-1 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. THE SEA-SIDE CAVE. 'A bird of the air shall cany the voice, and that which hath wiags shall tell the matter." At he dead of night by the side of the Sea I met my gray-haired enemy, — The glittering light of his serpent eye Was all I had to see him by. At the dead of night, and stormy weather We went into a cave together, — Into a cave by the side of the Sea, And — he never came out with me ! The flower that up through the April mould Comes like a miser dragging his gold, Never made spot of earth so bright As was the ground in the cave that night. Dead of night, and stormy weather ! Who should see us going together Under the black and dripping stone Of the cave from whence I came alone I THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 206 Next day as my boy sat on my knee He picked the gray hairs off from me, And told with eyes brimful of fear How a bird in the meadow near Over her clay-built nest had spread Sticks and leaves all bloody red, Brought from a cave by the side of the Sea Where some murdered man must be. 206 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. JANUARY. The year has lost its leaves again. The world looks old and grim ; God folds his robe of glory thus, That we may see but Him. And all his stormy messengers, That come with whirlwind breath, Beat out our chaff of vanity, And leave the grains of faith. We will not feel, while summer waits Her rich dehghts to share, What sinners, miserably bad, — How weak and poor we are. We tread through fields of speckled flowers As if we did not know Our Father made them beautiful. Because He loves us so. We hold his splendors in our hands As if we held the dust. And deal his judgment, as if man Than God could be more just. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 207 Wo seek, in prayers and penances, To do the martyr's part, Remembering not, the promises Are to the pure in heart. From evil and forbidden things, Some good we think to win. And to the last analysis Experiment with sin. We seek no oil in summer time Our winter lamp to trim. But strive to bring God down to us, More than to rise to Him. And when that He is nearest, most Our weak complaints we raise, Lacking the wisdom to perceive The mystery of his ways. For, when drawn closest to himself. Then least his love we mark ; The very wings that shelter us From peril, make it dark. Sometimes He takes his hands from us, When storms the loudest blow. That we may learn how weak, alone,— How strong in Him, we grow. 208 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Through the cross iron of our free will And fate, we plead for light, As if God gave us not enough To do our work aright. We will not see, but madly take The wrong and crooked path, And in our own hearts light the fires Of a consuming wrath. The fashion of his Providence Our way is so above. We serve Him most who take the most Of his exhaustless love. We serve Him in the good we do, The blessings we embrace, Not hghting farthing candles for The palace of his grace. He has no need of our poor aid His purpose to pursue ; 'T is for our pleasure, not for his, That we his work must do. Then blow, O wild winds, as ye list. And let the world look grim, — God folds his robe of glory thus That we may see but Him. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 209 THE MEASURE OF TIME. A BREATH, like the wind's breath, may carry A name far and wide, But the measure of time does not tally With any man's pride. 'T is not a wild chorus of praises. Nor chance, nor yet fate, — 'T is the greatness bom with him, and in -him, That makes the man great. And when in the calm self-possession That birthright confers, The man is stretched out to her measure, Fame claims him for hers. Too proud to fall back on achievement. With work in his sight, His triumph may not overtake him This side of the night. And men, with his honors about them, His grave-mound may pass, Nor dream what a great heart lies under Its short knotty grass. 27 210 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. But though he has lived thus unprospered, And died thus, alone, His face may not always be hid by A handbreadth of stone. The long years are wiser than any Wise day of them all, And the hero at last shall stand upright, — The base image fall. The counterfeit may for a season Deceive the wide earth, But the lie, waxing great, comes to labor. And truth has its birth. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 211 IDLE FEAES. In my lost childhood old folks said to me, " Now is the time and season of your bliss ; All joy is in the hope of joy to be, Not in possession ; and in after years You will look back with longing sighs and tears To the young days when you from care were free." It was not true ; they nurtured idle fears ; I never saw so good a day as this ! And youth and I have parted : long ago I looked into my glass, and saw one day A little silver line that told me so : At first I shut my eyes and cried, and then I hid it under girhsh flowers, but when Persuasion would not make my mate to stay, I bowed my faded head, and said, " Amen I " And all my peace is since she went away. My window opens toward the autumn woods ; I see the ghosts of thistles walk the air O'er the long, level stubble-land that broods ; Beneath the herbless rocks that jutting lie. 212 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Summer has gathered her white family Of shrinking daisies ; all the hills are bare, And in the meadows not a limb of buds Through the brown bushes showeth anywhere. Dear, beauteous season, we must say good-bye, And can afford to, we have been so blest, And farewells suit the time ; the year doth lie With cloudy skirts composed, and pallid face Hid under yellow leaves, with touching grace, So that her bright-haired sweetheart of the sky The image of her prime may not displace. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 21S HINTS. Two thirsty travellers chanced one day to meet Where a spring bubbled from the burning sand; One drank out of the hollow of his hand, And found the water very cool and sweet. The other waited for a smith to beat And fashion for his use a golden cup ; And while he waited, fainting in the heat. The sunshine came and drank the fountain up I In a green field two little flowers there were. And both were fair in th' face and tender-eyed ; One took the light and dew that heaven supplied, And all the summer gusts were sweet with her. The other, to her nature false, denied That she had any need of sun and dew, And hung her silly head, and sickly grew, And frayed and faded, all untimely died. 214 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. A vine o' th' bean, that had been early wed To a tall peach, conceiving that he hid Her glories from the world, unwisely slid Out of his arms, and vainly chafing, said : " This fellow is an enemy of mine. And dwarfs me with his shade " : she would not see That she was made a vine, and not a tree, And that a tree is stronger than a vine. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 216 TO A STAGNANT EIVEE. KIVEK, why lie with your beautiful face To the hill ? Can you move him away from his place ? You may moan, — you may clasp him with soft arms forever, — He will still be a flinty hill, — you be a river. 'T is wilful, 't is wicked to waste in despair The treasure so many are dying to share , The gifts that we have. Heaven lends for right using. And not for ignoring, and not for abusing. Let the moss have his love, and the grass and the dew, — By God's law he cannot be mated with you. His friend is the stubble, his life is the dust. You are not what you would, — you must be what you must. If into his keeping your fortune you cast, 1 tell you the end will be hatred at last, Or death through stagnation ; your rest is in motion ; The aim of your being, the cloud and the ocean. 216 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Love cannot be love, with itself set at strife ; To sin against Nature is death and not life. You may freeze in the shadow or seethe in the sun, But the oil and the water will not be at one. Your pride and your peace, when this passion is crossed Will pay for the struggle whatever it cost ; But though earth dissolve, though the heavens should fall, To yourself, your Creator, be true first of all. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 217 COUNSEL. Seek not to walk by borrowed light. But keep unto thine own : Do what thou doest with thy might, And trust thyself alone 1 Work for some good, nor idly lie Within the human hive ; And, though the outward man should die, Keep thou the heart alive I Strive not to banish pain and doubt. In pleasure's noisy din ; The peace thou seekest for without Is only found within. If fortune disregard thy claim, By worth, her slight attest j Nor blush and hang the head for shame When thou hast done thy best. 28 218 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. What thy experience teaches true, Be vigilant to heed ; The wisdom that we suffer to, Is wiser than a creed. Disdain neglect, ignore despair, On loves and friendships gone Plant thou thy feet, as on a stair, And mount right up and on ! THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 219 LATENT LIFE. Though never shown by word or deed, Within us lies some germ of power, As lies unguessed, within the seed. The latent flower. And under every common sense That doth its daily use fulfil, There lies another, more intense, And beauteous stUl. This dusty house, wherein is shrined The soul, is but the counterfeit Of that which shall be, more refined. And exquisite. The light which to our sight belongs. Enfolds a light more broad and clear ; Music bjit intimates the songs We do not hear. The fond embrace, the tender kiss Which love to its expression brings, Are but the husk the chrysalis Wears on its wings. 220 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. The vigor falling to decay, Hopes, impulses that fade and die, Are but the layers peeled away From life more high. When death shall come and disallow These rough and ugly masks we wear. I think that we shall be as now, — Only more fair. And He who makes his love to be Always around me, sure and calm, Sees what is possible to me, Not what I am. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 221 HOW AND WHERE. How are we living? Like herbs in a garden that stand in a row, And have nothing to do but to stand there and grow? Our powers of perceiving So dull and so dead, They simply extend to the objects about us, — The moth, having all his dark pleasure without us, — The worm in his bed 1 K thus we are living, And fading, and falling, and rotting, alas I — Like the grass, or the flowers that grow in the grass, — Is life worth our having? The insect a-humming, — The wild bird is better, that sings as it flies, — The ox, that turns up his great face to the skies, When the thunder is coming. Where are we living? In passion, and pain, and remorse do we dwell, — Creating, yet terribly hating, our hell? No triumph achieving ? 222 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. No grossness refining ? The wild tree does more ; for his coat of rough barks He trims with green mosses, and checks with the marks Of the long summer shining. We 're dying, not living: Our senses shut up, and our hearts faint and cold ; Upholding old things just because they are old; Our good spirits grieving. We sufifer our springs Of promise to pass without sowing the land, And hungry and sad in the harvest-time standi Expecting good things 1 THE FELLED TREE. They set me up, and bade me stand Beside a dark, dark sea. In the befogged, low-lying land, Of this mortality. I slipped my roots round the stony soil Like rings on the hand of a bride. And my boughs took hold of the summer's smile And grew out green and wide. 224 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Crooked, and shaggy on all sides, I was homeliest of trees, But the cattle rubbed their speckled hides Against my knotty knees; And lambs, in white rows on the grass. Lay down within my shade ; So I knew, all homely as I was, For a good use I was made. And my contentment served me well ; My heart grew strong and sweet, And my shaggy bark cracked off and fell In layers at my feet. I felt when the darkest storm was rife The day of its wrath was brief, And that I drew from the centre of life The life of my smallest leaf. At last a woodman came one day With axe to a sharp edge ground. And hewed at my heart till I stood a-sway, But I never felt the wound. I knew immortal seed was sown Within me at my birth, And I fell without a single groan. With my green face to the earth. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 225 Now all men pity me, and must, Who see me lie so low, But the Power that changes me to dnat Is the same that made me grow. 29 2*M THOUGHTS AND TUEORlEii. A DREAJL I DREAMED I had a plot of ground, Once when I chanced asle^^p to drop. And that a green hedge fenced it round; Cloudy with roses at the top. I saw a hundred mornings rise, — So far a httle dream may reach, — And Spring with Summer in her eyes Making the chiefest charm of each. A thousand vines were cKmbing o'er The hedge, I thought, but as I tried To pull them down, forevermore The flowers dropt off the other side I Waking, I said, these things are signs Sent to instruct us that 't is ours Duly to keep and dress our vines, — Waiting in patience for the flowers. And when the angel feared of all Across my hearth its shadow spread • The rose that climbed my garden wall Has bloomed the other side, I said. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 227 WOEK. Down and up, and up and down, Over and over and over ; Turn in the little seed, dry and brown, Tuin out the bright red clover. Work, and the sun your work will share, And the rain in its time will fall ; For Nature, she worketh everywhere, And the grace of God through all. With hand on the spade and heart in the sky, Dress the ground, and till it ; Turn in the little seed, brown and dry, Turn out the golden millet. Work, and your house shall be duly fed ; Work, and rest shall be won ; I hold that a man had better be dead Than alive, when his work is done ! Down and up, and up and down. On the hill-top, low in the valley; Turn in the little seed, dry and brown, Turn out the rose and lily. 228 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. Work with a plan, or without a plan, And your ends they shall be shaped true ; Work, and learn at first hand, like a man, — The best way to know, is to do ! Down and up till life shall close, Ceasing not your praises ; Turn in the wild white winter snows, Turn out the sweet spring daisies. Work, and the sun your work will share. And the rain in its time will fall ; For Nature, she worketh everywhere. And the grace of God through all. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 229 COMFOET. Boatman, boatman ! my brain is wild, As wild as the stormy seas ; My poor little child, my sweet little child, Is a corpse upon my knees. No holy choir to sing so low, No priest to kneel in prayer, No tire- woman to help me sew A cap for his golden hair. Dropping his oars in the rainy sea, The pious boatman cried. Not without Him who is life to thee Could the little child have died I His grace the same, and the same His power, " Demanding our love and trust. Whether He makes of the dust a flower. Or changes a flower to dust. On the land and the water, all in all, The strength to be still or pray. To blight the leaves in their time to fall, Or light up the hills with May. 230 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. FAITH AND WORKS. Not what we think, but what we do. Makes saints of us : all stiff and cold. The outlines of the corpse show through The cloth of gold. And in despite the outward sin, — Despite belief with creeds at strife, — The principle of love within Leavens the life. For, 't is for fancied good, I claim, That men do wrong, — not wrong's desire ; Wrapping themselves, as 't were, in flame To cheat the fire. Not what God gives, but what He takes, Uplifts us to the holiest height ; On truth's rough crags life's current breaks To diamond light. From transient evil I do trust That we a final good shall draw ; That in confusion, deatli, and dust, Are light and law. THOUGHTS AND THEOltlEH. 231 That He whose glory shines among The eternal stars, descends to mark This fooUsh little atom swung Loose in the dark. But though I should not thus receive A sense of order and control, My God, I could not disbelieve My sense of soul. For though, alas ! I can but see A hand's breadth backward, or before, I am, and since I am, must be Forevermore. 232 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. THE RUSTIC PAINTER. His sheep went idly over the hills, — Idly down and up, — As he sat and painted his sweetheart's face On a little ivory cup. All round him roses lay in the grass That were hardly out of buds ; For sake of her mouth and cheek, I knew He had murdered them in the woods. The ant, that good little housekeeper. Was not at work so hard; And yet the semblance of a smile Was all of his reM'ard : And the golden-belted gentleman That travels in the air. Hummed not so sweet to the clover-buds As he to his picture there. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 233 The while for his ivory cup he made An easel of his knee, And painted his little sweetheart's face Truly and tenderly. Thus we are marking on all our work Whatever we have of grace ; As the rustic painted his ivory cup With his little sweetheart's face. 234 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. ONE OF MANY. I KNEW a man — I know him still In part, in all I ever knew, — Whose life runs counter to his will. Leaving the things he fain would ao, Undone. His hopes are shapes of sands, That cannot with themselves agree ; As one whose eager, outstretched hands Take hold on water — so is he. Fame is a bauble, to his ken ; Mirth cannot move his aspect grim ; The holidays of other men Are only battle-days to him. He locks his heart within his breast, Believing life to such as he Is but a change of ills, at best, — A crossed and crazy tragedy. His cheek is wan ; his limbs are faint With fetters which they never wore ; No wheel that ever crushed a saint, But breaks Ms body o'er and o'er. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 235 Though woman's grace he never sought By tender look, or word of praise, He dwells upon her in his thought, Witli all a lover's lingering phrase. A very martyr to the truth, All that 's best in him is belied ; Humble, yet proud withal; in sooth His pride is his disdain of pride. He sees in what he does amiss A continuity of ill ; The next life dropping out of this. Stained with its many colors still. His kindliest pity is for those Who are the slaves of guilty lusts ; And virtue, shining till it shows Another's frailty, he distrusts. Nature, he holds, since time began Has been reviled, — misunderstood ; And that we first must love a man To judge him, — be he bad or good. Often his path is crook'd and low, And is so in his own despite ; For still the path he meant to go Runs straight, and level with the right. 236 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. No heart has he to strive with fate For less things than our great men gone Achieved, vcho, with their single weight, Turned time's slow wheels a century on. His waiting silence is his prayer ; His darkness is his plea for light ; And loving all men everywhere, He lives, a more than anchorite. O friends, if you this man should see, Be not your scorn too hardly hurled , Believe me, whatsoe'er he be, There be more like him in the world. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 237 THE SHADOW. One summer night, The full moon, 'tired in her golden cloak, Did beckon me, I thought ; and I awoke, And saw a light, Most soft and fair, Shine in the brook, as if, in love's distress, The parting sun had shear'd a dazzling tress, And left it there. Toward the sweet banks Of the bright stream straightly I bent my way ; And in my heart good thoughts the while did stay, Giving God thanks. The wheat-stocks stood Along the field like little fairy men, And mists stole, white and bashful, through the glen, As maidens would. In rich content My soul was growing toward immortal height, When, lo! I saw that by me, through the light, A shadow went. 238 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. I stopped, afraid : It was the bad sign of some evil done ; That stopping, too, right swiftly did I run ; So did the shade. At length I drew Ciose to the bank of the delightful brook, ^Vnd sitting in the moonshine, tum'd to look ; It sat there too. Ere long I spied A weed with goodly flowers upon its top ; And when I saw that such sweet things did drop Black shadows, cried, — Lo ! I have found, Hid in this ugly riddle, a good sign ; My life is twofold, earthly and divine, — Buried and crown'd. Sown darkly ; raised Light within light, when death from mortal soil Undresses me, and makes me spiritual : — Deal- Lord, be praised. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 235 THE UNWISE CHOICE. T\\f> young men, when I was poor, Came and stood at my open door ; One said to me, " I have gold to give ; " And one, " I will love you while I live ! " " My sight was dazzled ; woe 's the day ! And I sent the poor young man away.; Sent him away, I know not where, And my heart went with him, unaware. He did not give me any sighs, But he left his picture in my eyes ,- And in my eyes it has always been : I have no heart to keep it in ! Beside the lane with hedges sweet, Where we parted, never more to meet, He pulled a flower of love's own hue. And where it had been came out two 1 240 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. And in th' grass where he stood, for years, The dews of th' morning looked like tears. Still smiles the house where I was bom Among its fields of wheat and com. Wheat and corn that strangers bind, — I reap as I sowed, and I sowed to th' wind. As one who feels the truth break through His dream, and knows his dream untrue, I live where splendors shine, . and sigh. For the peace that splendor cannot buy ; Sigh for the day I was rich tho' poor, And saw th' two young men at my door ! THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. ^41 SIGNS OF GRACE. Come thou, my heavy soul, and lay Thy sorrows all aside. And let us see, if so we may, How God is glorified. Forget the storms that darkly beat, Forget the woe and crime, And tie of consolations sweet A posie for the time. Some blessed token everywhere Doth grace to men allow ; The daisy sets her silver share Beside the rustic's plough. The wintry wind that naked strips The bushes, stoopeth low. And round their rugged arms enwraps The fleeces of the snow. The blackbird, idly whistling till The storm begins to pour, Finds ever with his golden bill A hospitable door. 31 242 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. From love, and love's protecting power. We cannot go apart ; The shadows round the fainting flower Rebuke the drooping heart. Our strivings are not reckoned less, Although we fail to win ; The lily wears a royal dress, And yet she doth not spin. So, Soul, forget thy evil days, Thy sorrow lay aside. And strive to see in all His ways How God is glorified. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 248 PROVIDENCE. " From seeming evil, still educing good." The stone upon the wayside seed that fell, And kept the spring rain from it, kept it too From the bird's mouth; and in that silent cell It quickened, after many days, and grew, Till, by-and-by, a rose, a single one. Lifted its little face into the sun. It chanced a wicked man approached one day, And saw the tender, piteous look it wore : Perhaps one like it somewhere far away Grew in a garden-bed, or by the door That he in childish days had played around'. For his knees, trembling, sunk upon the ground. Then, o'er this piece of bleeding earth, the tears Of peilitence were wrung, until at last The golden key of love, that sin for years In his unquiet soul had rusted fast, Was loosened, and his heart, that very hour. Opened to God's good sunshine, like a flower. 244 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. THE LIVING PEESENT. Friends, let us slight no pleasant spring That bubbles up in life's dry sands, And yet be careful what good thing We touch with sacrilegious hands. Our blessings should be sought, not claimed,- Cherished, not watched with jealous eye ; Love is too precious to be named, Save with a reverence deep and high. In all that lives, exists the power To avenge the invasion of its right ; We cannot bruise and break our flower, And have our flower, alive and bright. Let us think less of what appears, — More of what is ; for this, hold I, It is the sentence no man hears That makes us Hve, or makes us die. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 246 Trust hearsay less ; seek more to prove And know if things be what they seem ; Not sink supinely in some groove, And hope and hope, and dream and dream. Some days must needs be full of gloom, Yet must we use them as we may ; Talk less about the years to come, — Live, love, and labor more, to-day. What our hand findeth, do with might; Ask less for help, but stand or fall. Each one of us, in life's great fight, As if himself and God were all. 246 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. ONE DUST. Thou, under Satan's fierce control, Shall Heaven its final rest bestow? I know not, but I know a soul That might have fallen as darkly low. I judge thee not, what depths of ill Soe'er thy feet have found, or trod; I know a spirit and a will As weak, but for the grace of God. Shalt thou with fiill-day laborers stand, Who hardly canst have praned one vine? I know not, but I know a hand With an infirmity like thine. Shalt thou who hast with scofiers part. E'er wear the crown the Christian wears? I know not, but I know a heart As flinty, but for tears and prayers. THOUGHTS' AND THEORIES. ^1 Have mercy, O Thou Crucified I For even while I name Thy name, I know a tongue that might have lied Like Peter's, and am bowed with shame. Fighters of good fights, — just, unjust, — The weak who faint, the firail who fall, -^ Of one blood, of the self-same dust. Thou, God of love, hast made them all. THE WEAVER'S DREAM. He sat al] alone in his dark little room, His fingers aweary with work at the loom, His eyes seeing not the fine threads, for the tears, As he carefully counted th^ months and the years He had been a poor weaver. Not a traveller went on the dusty highway. But he thought, " He has nothing to do but be gay ; " No matter how burdened or bent he might be. The weaver believed him more happy than he. And sighed at his weaving. He saw not the roses so sweet and so red That looked through his window ; he thought to be dead THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 249 And carried awav from his dark little room, Wrapt up in the linen he had in his loom, Were better than weaving. Just then a white angel came out of the skies, And shut up his senses, and sealed up his eyes, And bore him away from the work at his loom In a vision, and left him alone by the tomb Of his dear little daughter. " My darKng I " he cries, " what a blessing was mine I How I sinned, having you, against goodness divine I Awake ! O my lost one, riiy sweet one, awake I And I never, as long as I live, for your sake, Will sigh at my weaving ! " The sunset was gilding his low little room When the weaver awoke from his dream at the loom, And close at his knee saw a dear little head Alight with long curls, — she was living, not dead, — His pride and his treasure. He winds the fine thread on his shuttle anew, (At thought of his blessing 't was easy to do,) And sings as he weaves, for the joy in his breast^ Peace cometh of striving, and labor is rest : Grown wise was the weaver. 32 260 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. NOT NOW. The path of- duty I clearly trace, I stand with conscience face to face, And all her pleas allow ; Calling and crying the while for grace, — " Some other time, and some other place : O, not to-day ; not now ! " I know 't is a demon boding iE, I know I have power to do if 1 will, And I put my hand to th' plough ; I have fair, sweet seeds in my barn, and lo ! When all the furrows are ready to sow. The voice says, " O, not now ! " My peace I sell at the price of woe ; In heart and in spirit I suffer so. The anguish wrings my brow ; But still I linger and cry for grace, — " Some other time, and some other place : O, not to-day ; not now 1 " THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 261 I talk to my stubborn heart and say, The work I must do I will do to-day; I will make to. the Lord a vow: And I will not rest and I will not sleep Till the vow I have vowed I rise and keep ; And the demon cries, " Not now ! " And so the days and the years go by, And so I Register lie upon lie. And break with Heaven my vow ; For when I would boldly take my stand, This terrible demon stays my hand, — > " O, not to-day : not now I " 262 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. CRAGS. There was a good and reverend man Whose day of life, serene and bright, Was wearing hard upon the gloom Beyond which we can see no light. And as his vision back to morn, And forward to the evening sped, He bowed himself upon his staff. And with his heart communing, said : From mystery on to mystery My way has been ; yet as I near The eternal shore, against the sky These crags of truth stand sharp and clear. Where'er its hidden fountain be, Time is a many-colored jet Of good and evil, hght and shade, And we evoke the things we get. The hues that our to-morrows wear Are by our yesterdays forecast; Our future takes into itself The true impression of our past. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 258 The attrition of conflicting thoughts To clear conclusions, wears the groove ; The love that seems to die, dies not, But is absorbed in larger love. We cannot cramp ourselves, unharmed, In bonds of iron, nor of creeds ; The rights that rightfully belong To man, are measured by his needs. The daisy is entitled to The nurture of the dew and light ; The green house of the grasshopper Is his by Nature's sacred right. 254 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. MAN. In -what a tingly fashion man doth dwell : He hath but to prefer His want, and Nature, hke a servitor, Maketh him answer with some miracle. And yet his thqughts do keep along the gromid, And neither leap nor run, Though capable to climb above the sun ; He seemeth free, and yet is strangely bound. What name would suit his case, or great or small? Poor, but exceeding proud ; Importunate and still, humble and loud ; Most wise, and yet most ignorant, withal. The world that lieth in the golden air. Like a great emerald, Knoweth the law by which she is upheld, And in her motions keepeth steady there. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 2i?6 But in his foolishness proud man defies The law, wherewith is bound The peace he seeks, and fluttering inoth-like round Some dangerous light, experimenting, dies. And all his subtle reasoning can obtain To tell his fortune by. Is only that he liveth and must die, And dieth in the hope to live again. 256 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES, TO SOLITUDK I AM weary of the working, Weary of the long day's heat ; To thy comfortable bosom, Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet? Weary of the long, blind struggle For a pathway bright and high, — Weary of the dimly dying Hopes that never quite all die. Weary searching a bad cipher For a good that must be meant ; Discontent with being weary, — Weary with my discontent. I am weary of the trusting Where my trusts but torments prove ; Wilt thou keep faith with me? wilt thou Be my true and tender love ? THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 257 I am weary drifting, driving Like a helmless bark at sea ; Kindly, comfortable spirit, Wilt thou give thyself to me ? Give thy birds to sing me sonnets ? Give thy winds my cheeks to kiss ? And thy mossy rocks to stand for The memorials of our bliss ? I in reverence will hold thee, Never vexed with jealous ills, Though thy wild and wimpling waters Wind about a thousand hills. 33 258 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. THE LAW OF LIBERTY. This extent hath freedom's grouni, — In my freedom I am bound Never any soul to wound. Not my own : it is not mine, Lord, except to make it thine. By good works through grace divine. Not another's: Thou alone Keepest judgment for thine own ; Only unto Thee is known What to pity, what to blame ; How the fierce temptation came: What is honor, what is shame. Right is bound in this — to win Good till injury begin ; That, and only that, is sin. Selfish good may not befall Any man, or great or small ; Best for one is best for all. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 259 And who vainly doth desire Good through evil to acquire, In his bosom taketh fire. Wronging no man, Lord, nor Thee Vexing, I do priay to be In my soul, my body, free. Free to freely leave behind When the better things I find, Worser things, howe'er enshrined. So that pain may peace enhance, And through every change and chance, I upon myself, advance. 260 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. ]VIT CKEED. I HOLD that Christian grace abounds Where charity is seen ; that when We climb to Heaven, 't is on the rounds Of love to men. I hold all else, named piety, A selfish scheme, a vain pretence ; Where centre is not — can there be Circumference ? This I moreover hold, and dare Affirm where'er my rhyme may go, — Whatever things be sweet or fair, Love makes them so. Whether it be the lullabies That charm to rest the nursling bird, Or that sweet confidence of sighs And blushes, made without a word. Whether the dazzling and the flush Of softly sumptuous garden bowers, Or by some cabin door, a bush Of ragged flowers. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 261 'T is not the wide phylactery, Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers. That make us saints : we judge the tree By what it bears. And when a man can live apart From works, on theologic trust, I know the blood about his heart Is dry as dust. 262 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. OPEN SECRETS. The truth lies round about us, all Too closely to be sought, — So open to our vision that 'T is hidden to our thought. We know not what the glories Of the grass, the flower, may be ; We needs must struggle for the sight Of what we always see. Waiting for storms and whirlwinds, And to have a sign appear. We deem not God is speaking in The still small voice we hear. In reasoning proud, blind leaders of The blind, through life we go. And do not know the things we see, Nor see the things we know. THODGHTS AND THEORIES. 263 Single and indivisible, We pass from change to change, Familiar with the strangest things, And with familiar, strange. We make the light through which we see The light, and make the dark; To hear the lark sing, we must be At heaven's gate with the lark. 264 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. THE SADDEST SIGHT. As one that leadeth a blind man In a city, to and fro, Thought, even so, Leadeth me still wherever it will' Through scenes of joy and woe. 1 have seen Lear, his white head crowned With poor straws, playing King ; And, wearying Her cheeks' young flowers " with true-love showers,' I have heard Ophelia sing. I have been in battles, and I have seen Stones at the martyrs hurled, — Seen th' flames curled Round foreheads bold, and lips whence rolled The litanies of the world. But of all sad sights that ever I saw, The saddest under the sun. Is a little one, Whose poor pale face was despoiled of grace Ere yet its life begun. THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. 265 No glimpse of the good green Nature To gladden with sweet surprise The staring eyes, That only have seen, close walls between, A hand-breadth of the slues. Ah, never a bird is heard to sing At the windows under ground, The long year round ; There, never the morn on her pipes of corn Maketh a cheerful sound. Oh, little white cloud of witnesses Against your parentage, May Heaven assuage The woes that wait on your dark estate, — Unorphaned orphanage. S4 266 THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. THE BRIDAL HOUR. " The moon's gray tent is up : another hour, And yet another one will bring the time To which, through many cares and checks, so slowly. The golden day did climb. "Take all the books away, and let no noises Be in the house while softly I undress My soul from broideries of disguise, and wait for My own true love's caress. " The sweetest sound would tire to-night ; the dewdropa Setting the green ears in the corn and wheat. Would Hi ike a discord in the heart attuned to The bridegroom's coming feet. " Love I blessed Love ! if we could hang our walls with The splendors of a thousand rosy Mays, Surely they would not shine so well as thou dost. Lighting our dusty days. "Without thee, what a dim and woful story Our years would be, oh, excellence sublime I Slip of the life eternal, brightly growing In the low soil of time ! " THOUGHTS AND THEORIES 267 IDLE. I HEAED the gay spring coming, I saw the clover blooming, Red and white along the meadows, — Red and white along the streams ; I heard the bluebird singing, I saw the green grass springing. All as I lay a-dreaming, — A-dreaming idle dreams. I heard the ploughman's whistle, I saw the rough burr thistle In the sharp teeth of the harrow, — Saw the summer's yellow gleams In the walnuts, in the fennel, In the mulleins, lined with flannel, All as I lay a-dreaming, — A-dreaming idle dreams. I felt the warm, bright weather; Saw the harvest, — saw them gather Com and millet, wheat and apples, — Saw the gray barns with their seams ■238 TH OUGHTS AND THEORIES. Pressing wide, — the bare-armed shearers, ■ The ruddy water-bearers, — All as I lay a-dreaming, — A-dreaming idle dreams. The bluebird and her nestling Flew away ; the leaves fell rustling. The cold rain killed the roses, The sun withdrew; his beams ; No creature cared about me, The world could do without me. All as I lay a-dreaming, — A-dreaming idle dreams. pmnss. THE SURE WITNESS. The solemn wood had spread Shadows around my head, — " Curtains they are," I said, " Hung dim and still about the house of prayer Softly among the limbs. Turning the leaves of hymns, I heard the winds, and asked if God were there. No voice replied, but while I listening stood, Sweet peace made holy hushes through the wood. With ruddy, open hand, I saw the wild rose stand Beside the green gate of the summer hills, And pulling at her dress, I cried, " Sweet hermitess. Hast thou beheld Him who the dew distils ? " No voice replied, but while I listening bent. Her gracious beauty made my heart content. 272 HYMNS. The moon in splendor shone, — " She walketh Heaven alone, And seeth all things," to myself I mused ; " Hast thou beheld Him, then. Who hides himself from men In that great power through Nature interfused ? " No speech made answer, and no sign appeared, But in the silence I was soothed and cheered. Waking one time, strange awe Thrilling my soul, I saw A kingly splendor round about the night ; Such cunning work the hand Of spinner never planned, — The finest wool may not be washed so white. " Hast thou come out of Heaven ? " I asked ; and lo The snow was all the answer of the snow. Then my heart said, " Give o'er ; Question no more, no more ! The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower. The illuminated air, The pleasure after prayer. Proclaim the unoriginated Power ! The mystery that hides Him here and there. Bears the sure witness He is everywhere." EYMNS. 278 LOVE IS LIFE. Our days are few and fiill of strife ; Like leaves our pleasures fade and fall ; But Thou who art the aU in all, Thy name is Love, and love is Life ! We walk in sleep and think we see ; Our little lives are clothed with dreams ; For that to us which substance seems Is shadow, 'twixt ourselves and Thee. We are immortal now, and here. Chances and changes, night and day, Are landmarks in the eternal way ; Our fear is all we have to fear. Our lives are dew-drops in Thy sun ; Thou breakest them, and lo ! we see A thousand gracious shapes of Thee, — A thousand shapes, instead of one. The soul that drifts all darkly dim Through floods that seem outside of grace, Is only surging toward the place Which Thou hast made and meant for him. 35 274 HYMNS. For this we hold, — ill could not be Were there no power beyond the ill; Our wills are held within Thy will ; The ends of goodness rest with Thee. Fall storms of winter as you may, The dry boughs in the warm spring rain Shall put their green leaves forth again, And surely we are more than they. Thy works, O Lord, interpret Thee, And through them all Thy love is shown ; Flowing about us like a sea, Yet steadfast as the eternal throne. Out of the light that runneth through Thy hand, the lily's dress is spun ; Thine is the brightness of the dew. And thine the glory of the sun. HYMNS. 3T6 TIME. What is time, O, glorious Giver, With its restlessness and might, But a lost and wandering river Working back into the light? Every gloomy rock that troubles Its smooth passage, strikes to life Beautiful and joyous bubbles That are only born through strife. .Overhung with mist-like shadows, Stretch its shores away, away, To the long, delightful meadows Shining with immortal May : Where its moaning reaches never, Passion, pain, or fear to move. And the changes bring us ever Sabbaths and new moons of love. 276 HYMNS. CONSOLATION. O FKiENDS, we are drawing nearer home As day by day goes by ; Nearer the fields of fadeless bloom, The Joys that never die. Ye doubting souls, from doubt be free, — Ye mourners, mourn no more, For every wave of Death's dark sea Breaks on that blissful shore. God's ways are high above our ways, — So shall we learn at length. And tune our lives to sing His praise With all our mind, might, strength. About our devious paths of ill He sets His stem decrees, And works the wonders of His will Through pains and promises. Strange are the mysteries He employs. Yet we His love will trust. Though it should blight our dearest joys. And bruise us into dust. HYMNS. 277 SUPPLICATION. Thou, who all my life hast crowned With better things than I could .ask, Be it to-day my humble task To own from depths of grief profound, The many sins, which darken through What little good I do. 1 have been too much used, I own. To tell my needs in fretful words ; The clamoring of the silly birds. Impatient till their wings be grown. Have Thy forgiveness. 0, my blessed Lord, The like to me accord. Of grace, as much as will complete Thy will in me, I pray Thee for; Even as a rose shut in a drawer That maketh all about it sweet, I would be, rather than the cedar fine : Help me, thou Power divine. With charity fill Thou my heart. As Summer fills the grass with dews, 27S HYMNS. And as th' year itself renews In th' sun, when Winter days depart, Blessed forever, grant Thou me To be renewed in Thee. Why should our spirits be opprest When days of darkness fall ? Our Father knoweth what is best. And He hath made them all. He made them, and to all their length Set parallels of gain ; We gather from our pain the strength To rise above our pain. All, all beneath the shining sun Is vanity and dust ; Help us, O high and holy One, To fix in Thee our trust ; And in the change, and interfuse Of change, with every hour. To recognize the shifting hues Of never-changing Power. HYMNS. 279 WHITHER. All the time my soul is calling, " Whither, whither do I go ? " For my days like leaves are falling From my tree of life below. Who will come and be my lover ! Who is strong enough to save. When 'that I am leaning over The dark silence of the grave ? Wherefore should my soul be calling, " Whither, whither do I go ? " For my days like leaves are falling In the hand of God, I know. As the seasons touch their ending. As the dim years fade and flee, Let me rather still be sending Some good deed to plead for me. Then, though none should stay to weep me. Lover-like, within the shade. He will hold me, He will keep me, And I wiU not be afraid. 280 HYMTfS. SURE ANCHOR. Out of the heavens come down to me, O Lord, and hear my earnest prayer On life above the life I see Fix Thou my soul, and keep it there. The richest joys of earth are poor ; The fairest forms are all unfair ; On what is peaceable and pure Set Thou my heart, and keep it there. Pride builds her house upon the sand ; Ambition treads the spider's stair ; On whatsoever things will stand Set Thou my feet, and keep them there. The past is vanished in the past ; The future doth a shadow wear ; On whatsoever things are fast Fix Thou mine eyes, and keep them there. HYMNS. 281 In spite of slander's tongue, in spite Of burdens grievous hard to bear, To whatsoever things are right Set Thou my hand, and keep it there. Life is a little troubled breath. Love but another name for care ; Lord, anchor Thou my hope and faith In things eternal, — only there. 36 282 HYMNS. KEMEMBEK. In thy time, and times of mourning. When grief doeth all. she can To hide the prosperous sunshine, Rememher this, man, — " He setteth an end to darkness." Sad saint, of the world forgotten, Who workest thy work apart. Take thou this promise for comfort, And hold it in thy heart, — " He searcheth out all perfection " O foolish and faithless sailor. When the ship is driven away, When the waves forget their places. And the anchor will not stay, — " He weigheth the waters by measure." O outcast, homeless, bewildered, Let now thy murmurs be still. Go in at the gates of gladness And eat of the feast at will, — " For wisdom is better than riches." HYMNS. 283 O diligent, diligent sower, Who sowest thy seed in vain, When the corn in the ear is withered. And the young flax dies for rain, — " Through rocks He cutteth out rivers-" 284 HYMNS. LYRIC. Thou givest, Lord, to Nature law. And she in turn doth give Her poorest flower a right to draw Whate'er she needs to live. The dews upon her forehead fall, The sunheams round her lean. And dress her humble form with all The glory of a queen. In thickets wild, in woodland bowers, By waysides, everywhere, The plainest flower of aU the flowers Is shining with Thy care. And shall I through my fear and doubt Be less than, one of these, And come from seeking Thee without Thy blessed influences? Thou who hast crowned my life with powers So large, — so high above The fairest flower of all the flowers, Forbid it by Thy love. HVMNS. 286 SUNDAY MOENING. O DAI to sweet religious thought So wisely set apart, Back to the silent strength of life Help thou my wavering heart. Nor let the obtrusive hes of sense My meditations draw From the composed, majestic realm Of everlasting law. Break down whatever hindering shapes 1 see, or seem to see, And make my soul acquainted with Celestial company. Beyond the wintry waste of death Shine fields of heavenly light ; Let not this incident of time Absorb me from their sight. 286 HYMNS. I know these outward forms wherein So iinieh my hopes I stay, Are but the shadowy hints of that Which cannot pass away. That just outside the work-day path By man's volition trod, Lie the resistless issues of The things ordained of God. HYMNS. 287 IN THE DAKK. Out of the earthly years we live . How small a profit springs ; I cannot think but life should give Higher and better things. The very ground whereon we tread Is clothed to please our sight ; I cannot think that we have read Our dusty lesson right. So little comfort we receive, Except through what we see, I cannot think we half believe Our immortality. W.e disallow and trample so The rights of poor, weak men, I cannot think we feel and know They are our brethren. So rarely our affections move Without a selfish guard, I cannot think we know that love Is all of love's reward. 288 HYMNS. To him who smites, the cheek is turned With such a slow consent, I cannot think that we have learned The holy Testament. Blind, ignorant, we grope along A path misunderstood. Mingling with folly and with wrong Some providential good. Striving with vain and idle strife In outward shows to live, We famish, knowing not that life Has better things to give. HTMNS. 289 PARTING SONG. The long day is closing, Ah, why should you weep ? 'T is thus that God gives His beloved ones sleep. I see the wide water So deep and so black, — Love waits me beyond it, — I would not go back! I would not go back Where its joys scarce may gleam, ■ Where even in dreaming We know that we dream; For though life filled for me All measures of bliss, Has it anything better Or sweeter than this ? I would not go back To the torment of fear, — To the wastes of uncomfort When home is so near. 37 290 HYMNS. Each night is a prison-bar Broken and gone, — Each morning a golden gate, On, — farther on 1 On, on toward the city So shining and fair ; And He that hath loved me- Died for me — is there. STMJUS. 291 MOURN NOT. O MOTTRNER, mourn not vanished light, But fix your fearful hopes above ; The watcher, through the long, dark night, Shall see the daybreak of God's love. A land all green and bright and fair. Lies just beyond this vale of tears, And we shall meet, immortal there. The pleasures of our mortal years. He who to death has doomed our race. With steadfast faith our souls has armed, And made us children of His grace To go into the grave, unharmed. The storm may beat, the night may close. The face may change, the blood run chill. But His great love no limit knows. And therefore we should fear no ill. 292 HYMNS. Dust as we are, and steeped in guilt, How strange, how wondrous, how divine, That He hath for us mansions built, Where everlasting splendors shine. Our days with beauty let us trim. As Nature trims with flowers the sod ; Giving the glory all to Him, — Our Friend, our Father, and our God. HYMNS. 2t*5J THE HEAVEN THAT'S HERE. Mt God, I feel Thy wondrous might In Nature's various shows, — The whirlwind's breath, — the tender light Of the rejoicing rose. For doth not that same power enfol Whatever things are new. Which shone about the saints of old And struck the seas in two ? Ashamed, I veil my fearful eyes From this, Thy earthly reign ; What shall I do when I arise From death, but die again ! What shall I do but prostrate fall Before the splendor there, That here, so dazzles me through all The dusty robes I wear. Life's outward and material laws, — Love, sunshine, all things bright, — Are curtains which Thy mercy draws To shield us from that light. 2{»4 HYMNS. I falter when I try to seek The world which these conceal ; I stammer when I fain would speak The reverence "that I feel. I dare not pray to Thee to give That heaven which shall appear; My cry is, Help me, Thou, to live "Within the heaven that 's here. HYMNS. 29/1 THE STEEAM OF LIFE. The stream of life is going dry ; Thank God, that more and more I see the golden sands, which I Could never see before. The banks are dark with graves of friends ; Thank God, for faith sublime Li the eternity that sends Its shadows into time. The flowers are gone that with their glow Of sunshine filled the grass ; Thank God, they were but dim and low Reflections in a glass. The autumn winds are blowing chill; The summer warmth is done ; Thank God, the little dew-drop still Is drawn into the sun. Strange stream, to be exhaled so fast In cloudy cares and tears ; Thank God, that it should shine at last Along the immortal years. 296 HYMNS. DEAD AND ALIVE. Till I learned to love Thy name. Lord, Thy grace denying, I was lost in sin and shame, Dying, dying, dying! Nothing could the world impart ; Darkness held no morrow ; In my soul and in my heart Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow ! AU the blossoms came to blight ; Noon was dull and dreary ; Night and day, and day and night, Weary, weary, weary ! When I learned to love Thy name, Peace beyond all measure Came, and in the stead of shame. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure I HYMNS. 297 Winds may beat, and storms may fall, Thou, the meek and lowly, Reignest, and I sing through all, — Holy, holy, holy! Life may henceforth never be Like a dismal story, For beyond its bound I see Glory, glory, glory! 88 2ftR HYMNS. INVOCATION. Come down to us, help and heal us, Thou that once life's pathway trod, Knowing all its gloom and glory, — Son of man, and Son of God. Come down to us, help and heal us, When our hopes before us flee ; Thou hast been a man of sorrows, Tried and tempted, even as we. By the weakness of our nature. By the burdens of our care. Steady up our fainting courage, — Save, O save us from despair 1 By the still and strong temptation Of consenting hearts within ; By the power of outward evil, Save, O save us from our sin ! By the infirm and bowed together, — By the demons far and near, — By all sick and sad possessions. Save, O save us from our fear 1 HYMNS. H99 From the dim and dreary doubting That with faith a warfare make, Save us, through Thy sweet compassion, — Save us, for Thy own name's sake. And when all of life is finished To the last low fainting breath. Meet us in the awful shadows. And deliver us from death. mo HYMNS. LITE OF LIFE. To Him who is the Life of life, My soul its vows would pay; He leads the flowery seasons on, And gives the storm its way. The winds run backward to their caves At His divine command, — And the great deep He folds within The hollow of His hand. He clothes the grass, He makes the rose To wear her good attire ; The moon He gives her patient grace, And all the stars their fire. He hears the hungry raven's cry. And sends her young their food, And through our evil intimates His purposes of good. HYMNS. 301 He stretches out the north, He binds The tempest in His care ; The mountains cannot strike their roots So deep He is not there. Hid in the garment of His works, We feel His presence still With us, and through us fashioning The mystery of His will. 802 HYMNS. MERCIES. Lest the great glory from on high Should make our senses swim, Our blessed Lord hath spread the sky Between ourselves and Him. He made the Sabbath shine before The work-days and the care, And set about its golden door The messengers of prayer. Across our earthly pleasures fled He sends His heavenly light, Like morning streaming broad and red Adown the skirts of night. He nearest comes when most His face Is wrapt in clouds of gloom ; The firmest pillars of His grace Are planted in the tomb. Oh shall we not the power of sin And vanity withstand, When thus our Father holds us in The hollow of His hand? HYMNS. 803 PLEASURE AND PAIN. Pleasure and pain walk hand in hand, Each is the other's poise ; The borders of the silent land Are fiiU of troubled noise. While harvests yellow as the day In plenteous billows roU, Men go about in blank dismay, Hungry of heart and soul. Like chance-sown weeds they grow, and drift On to the drowning main; Oh, for a lever that would lift Thought to a higher plane I Sin is destructive : he is dead Whose soul is lost to truth ; While virtue makes the hoary head Bright with eternal youth. There is a courage that partakes Of cowardice ; a high And honest-hearted fear that makes The man afraid to lie. 804 HYMNS. When no low thoughts of self intrude, Angels adjust our rights ; And love that seeks its selfish good Dies in its own dehghts. How much we take, — how little give, — Yet every life is meant Tq help all lives; each man should live For all men's betterment. HYMNS. 305 IVITSTERIES. Clouds, with a little light between ; Pain, passion, fear, and doubt, — What voice shall tell me what they mean ? I cannot find them out ! Hopeless my task is, to begin. Who fail with all my power, To read the crimson lettering in The modest meadow flower. Death, with shut eyes and icy cheek, Bearing that bitter cup ; Oh, who is wise enough to speak. And break its silence up ! Or read the evil writing on The wall of good, for, oh. The more my reason shines upon Its lines, the less I know Or show how dust becomes a rose, And what it is above All mysteries that doth compose Discordance into Love. 39 806 HYMNS. I only know that Wisdom planned, And that it is my part To trust, who cannot understand The beating of my heart. HYMNS. 307 LYRIC. Thou givest, Lord, to Nature law, And slie in turn doth give Her poorest flower a right to draw Whate'er she needs to live. The dews upon her forehead fall, The sunbeams round her lean, And dress lier humble form with all The glory of a queen. In thickets wild, in woodland bowers, By waysides, everywhere, The plainest flower of all the flowers Is shining with Thy care. And shall I, through my fear and doubt, Be less than one of these. And come from seeking Thee without Thy blessed influences ? Thou who hast crowned my life with powers So large, — so high above The fairest flower of all the flowers, — Forbid it by Thy love. 308 HYMifS. TKUST. Away with all life's memories, Away with hopes, away ! Lord, take me up into Thy love. And keep me there to-day. I cannot trust to mortal eyes My weakness and my sin ; Temptations He alone can judge, Who knows what they have heen. But I can trust Him who provides The thirsty ground with dew, And round the wounded beetle builds His grassy house anew. .For the same hand that smites with pain. And sends the wintry snows. Doth mould the frozen clod again Into the summer rose. My soul is melted by that love. So tender and so true ; I can but cry, My Lord and God, What wilt Thou have me do? HYMNS. 809 My blessings all come back to me, And round about me stand ; Help me to climb their dizzy stairs Until I touch Thy hand. 310 HYMNS. ALL, IN ALL. Aweary, wounded unto death, — Unfavored of men's eyes, I have a house not made with hands, Eternal, in the skies. A house where but the steps of faith Through the white hght have trod, Steadfast among the mansions of The City of our God. There never shall the sun go down From the lamenting day ; There storms shall never rise to beat The hght of love away. There living streams through deathless flowers Are flowing free and wide ; There souls that thirsted here below Drink, and are satisfied. I know my longing shall be filled When this weak, wasting clay Is folded like a garment from My soul, and laid away. HYMNS. 811 I know it by th' immortal hopes That wrestle down my fear, — By all the awM mysteries That hide heaven &om us here. Oh, what a blissful heritage On such as I to fall ; Possessed of Thee, my Lord and God, I am possessed of all. 812 HYMNS. THE PURE m HEAET. " Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." I ASKED the angels in my prayer, With bitter tears and pains, To show mine eyes the kingdom where The Lord of glory reigns. I said. My way with doubt is dim. My heart is sick with fear ; Oh come, and help me build to Him A tabernacle here ! The storms of sorrow wildly beat, The clouds with death are chill ; I long to hear His voice so sweet, Who whispered, " Peace ; be still I " The angels said, God^giveth you His love, — what more is ours ? And even as the gentle dew Descends upon the flowers, HYMNS. 813 His grace descends ; and, as of old, He walks with man apart, Keeping the promise, as foretold. With all the pure in heart. Thou needst not. ask the angels where His habitations be; Keep thou thy spirit clean and fair, And He shall dwell with thee. 40 314 UYMNS. UNSATISFIED. Come out from heaven, Lord, and be my guide, Come, I implore ; To my dark questionings unsatisfied, Leave me no more, — No more, O Lord, no more I Forgetting how my nights and how my days Run sweetly by, — Forgetting that Thy ways above our ways Are all so high, — I cry, and ever cry — Since that Thou leavest not the wildest glen. For flowers to wait, How leavest Thou the hearts of living men So desolate, — So darkly desolate? Thou keepest safe beneath the wintry snow The little seed, And leavest under all its weights of woe, The heart to bleed, And vainly, vainly plead. HYMNS. 815 In the dry root Thou stirrest up the sap; At Thy commands Cometh the rain, and all the bushes clap Their rosy hands: Man only, thirsting, stands. Is it for envy, or from wrath that springs From foolish pride. Thou leavest him to his dark questionings Unsatisfied, — Always unsatisfied? 316 HYMNK MORE LIFE. When spring-time prospers in the grass, And fills the vales with tender bloom, And light winds whisper as they pass Of sunnier days to come ; In spite of all the joy she brings To flood and field, to hill and grove. This is the song my spirit sings, — More light, more life, more love! And when, her time fulfilled, she goes So gently from her vernal place. And all the outstretched landscape glows With sober summer grace ; When on the stalk the ear is set. With all the harvest promise bright, My spirit sings the old song yet, — More love, more life, more light 1 HYMNS. 317 When stubble takes the place of grain, And shrunken streams steal slow along, And all the faded woods complain Like one who suffers wrong; When fires are lit, and everywhere The pleasures of the household rife. My song is solemnized to prayer, — More love, more light, more life ! 818 HYMNS. LIGHT AND DARKNESS. Darkness, blind darkness every way, With low illuminings of light ; Hints, intimations of the day That never breaks to full, clear light. High longing for a larger light Urges us onward o'er life's hill ; Low fear of darkness and of night Presses us back and holds us still. So while to Hope we give one hand. The other hand to Fear we lend ; And thus 'twixt high and low we stand, Waiting and wavering to the end. Eager for some ungotten good, We mind the false and miss the true; Leaving undone the things we would. We do the things we would not do. For ill in good and good in ill, The verity, the thing that seems, — They run into each other still. Like dreams in truth, like truth in dreams. HYMNS. 819 Seeing the world with sin imbued, We trust that in the eternal plan Some little drop of brightest blood Runs through the darkest heart of man. Living afar from what is near, Uplooking while we downward tend ; In light and shadow, hope and fear, We sin and suffer to the end. 320 HYMNS. SUBSTANCE. Each fearful storm that o'er us rolls, Each path of peril trod, Is but a means whereby our souls Acquaint themselves with God. Our want and weakness, shame and sin, His pitying kindness prove ; And all our lives are folded in The mystery of His love. The grassy land, the flojwering trees, The waters, wild and dim, — These are the cloud of witnesses That testify of Him. His sun is shining, sure and fast. O'er all our nights of dread ; Our darkness by His light, at last Shall be interpreted. HYMNS. 321 No promise shall He fail to keep Until we see His face ; E'en death is but a tender sleep In the eternal race. Time's empty shadow cheats our eyes, But all the heavens declare The substance of the things we prize Is there, and only there. 41 322 HYMNS. LIFE'S MTSTERT. Life's sadly solemn mystery- Hangs o'er me like a weight; The glorious longing to be free, The gloomy bars of fate. Alternately the good and ill, The light and dark, are strung -, Fountains of love within my heart, And hate upon my tongue. Beneath my feet the unstable ground. Above my head the skies; Immortal longings in my sord. And death before my eyes. No purely pure, and perfect good. No high, unhindered power ; A beauteous promise in the bud, And mildew on the flower. HYMNS. S3S The glad, green, brightness of the spring ; The summer, soft and warm; The faded autumn's fluttering gold, The whirlwind and the storm. To find some sure interpreter My spirit vainly tries ; I only know that God is love, And know that love is wise. 324 HYMNS FOR SELF-HELP. Master, I do not ask that Thou With milk and wine my table spread, So much, as for the will to plough And sow my fields, and earn my bread; Lest at Thy coming I be found A useless cumberer of the "ground. I do not ask that Thou wilt bless With gifts of heavenly sort my day. So much, as that my hands may dress The borders of my lowly way With constant deeds of good and right, Thereby reflecting heavenly light. I do not ask that Thou shouldst lift My feet to mountain-heights sublime. So much, as for the heavenly gift Of strength, with which myself may climb, Making the power Thou madest mine For using, by that use, divine. HYMNS. 325 I do not ask that there may flow Glory about me from the skies ; The knowledge that doth knowledge know ; The wisdom that is not too wise To see in all things good and fair, Thy love attested, is my prayer. 326 HYMNS. DYING HYMN. Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills, Recedes, and fades away ; Lift up your heads, ye heavenly liills ; Ye gates of death, give way ! My soul is full of whispered song ; My blindness is my sight ; The shadows that I feared so long Are all alive with light. The while my pulses faintly beat, My faith doth so abound, I feel grow firm beneath my feet The green immortal ground. That faith to me a courage gives, Low as the grave, to go; I know that my Redeemer lives : That I shall hve, I know. The palace walls I almost see. Where dwells my Lord and King ; O grave, where is thy victory ! O death, where is thy sting ! HYMNS. 327 EXTREMITIES. When the mildew's blight we see Over all the harvest spread, Humbly, Lord, we cry to Thee, Give, O give us, daily bread I But the ftill and plenteous ears Many a time we reap with tears. When the whirlwind rocks the ' land, When the gathering clouds alarm. Lord, within Thy sheltering hand, Hide, O hide us from the storm I So with trembling souls we cry, Till the cloud and noise pass by. When our pleasures fade away. When our hopes delusive prove. Prostrate at Thy feet we pray, Shield, O shield us with Thy love 1 But, our anxious plea allowed. We grow petulant and proud. 828 HYMNS. When life's little day turns dull, When the avenging shades begin, Save us, O Most Merciful, Save us, save us from our sin ! So, the last dread foe being near. We entreat Thee, through our fear. Ere the dark our light efface. Ere our pleasure fleeth far, Make us worthier of Thy grace, Stubborn rebels that we are ; While our good days round us shine, our Father, make us Thine. HYMNS. 32a HEKE AND THERE. Here is the sorrow, the sighing, Here are the cloud and the night ; Here is the sickness, the dying, There are the life and the light I Here is the fading, the wasting. The foe that so watchfully waits ; There are the hills everlasting. The city with beautiful gates. Here are the locks growing hoary, The glass with the vanishing sands ; There are the crown and the glory. The house that is made not with hands. Here is the longing, the vision, The hopes that so swiftly remove ; There is the blessed fruition. The feast, and the fulness of love. Here are the heart-strings a-tremble, And here is the chastening rod ; There is the song and the cymbal, And there is our Father and God. 330 HYMNS. THE DAWN OF PEACE. After the cloud and the whirlwind. After the long, dark night, After the dull, slow marches, And the thick, tumultuous fight, Thank God, we see the lifting Of the golden, glorious light I After the sorrowful partings, After the sickening fear. And after the bitter sealing With blood, of year to year. Thank God, the light is breaking ; Thank God, the day is here ! The land is filled with mourning For husbands and brothers slain, But a hymn of glad thanksgiving Rises over the pain ; Thank God, our gallant soldiers Have not gone down in vain 1 HYMNS. 331 The cloud is spent j the whirlwind That vexed the night is past ; And the day whose blessed dawning We see, shall surely last, Till all the broken fetters To ploughshares shall be cast 1 When over the field of battle The grass grows green, and when The Spirit of Peace shall have planted Her olives once again, Oh, how the hosts of the people Shall cry, Amen, Amen I 332 HYMNS. OCCASIONAL. Our mightiest in our midst is slain; The mourners weep around, Broken and bowed with bitter pain, And bleeding through his wound. Prostrate, o'erwhelmed, with anguish torn. We cry, great God, for aid ; Night fell upon us, even at morn. And we are sore afraid. Afraid of our infirmities. In this, our woful wOe, — Afraid to breast the bloody seas That hard against us flow. The sword we sheathed, our enemy Has bared, and struck us through ; And heart, and soul, and spirit cry, What wilt Thou have us do ! HYMNS. 333 Be with our country in this grief That lies across her path, Lest that she mourn her martyred chief With an unrighteous wrath. Give her that steadfest faith and trust That look through all, to Thee ; And in her mercy keep her just. And through her justice, free. THE END. 'm i