'y^^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. @^H{t. -1. Gnp^rijl^t T^n. UNITED STATES OF A3IERICA. '7^;^'54« ^p ® m Rp^j •'ftc j^f i4UCH exquisite proportion dost thou show — ^ Trunk, bough and leaf as fine as orderly That I have fancied thou didst, long ago. Turn from some perfect sonnet to a tree. M JUNE. ARGUERITE April and Ophelia May- April had jewels made of flawless rain, May laughed 'mid pansy- wreaths to hide death- pain — Are dead, and Earth mourns not in black or gray. June-Juliet watches her sun-knight all day From her green-pillared arbor in the grass, And birds and winds fly downward as they pass, To teach sad hearts a song, strayed ships their way. The corded dust of the sweet four-o'-clocks In curdled leaves makes richest perfume-gifts For dew and night, for which the gardens yearn ; The satin-fingered grass winds round the phlox. The jasmine sheaves thin honey in pale drifts. And rosebuds all to loveliest love-gifts turn. i8 AT THE GATE OE JUNE. These days a spotless Hand Turns garnered sky-gold to myriad drops Of honey, to sweeten the sweet rose-tops At the gate of June. These nights, o'er all the land, Pulse dew and brooks, and fairy queens meet, Holding pink-clover wands, pansy-chains sweet, At the gate of June. 19 IN THE GRASS. I N the green grasp of the grass How many fair things there are ! The valley-Hly, dawn-dew, The daisy's summer-born star ; Buttercups, mint, star of moss. Soft, swaying ferns, meek as slaves. And— bitter tears through a thousand years !- The countless sweet baby-graves ! BAB Y'S FIRST PEARL. ASLEEP, each little tot is fain To find in Dreamland's gentle seas A pearl— white gem of useful gain, That babies seek, grown folk to please. Wouldst see this pearl ? Then wait, and hear, Some morn, a smiling mother say : Why, Baby has a tooth— the dear ! It must have come since yesterday !" BEAUTY'S BITTER CUP, * ^ T T TOULD I were that sweet jacqueminot out there !' \\ Beauty glanced at her garden with a sigh — "Since no maid's cheeks can show a red as fair. And roses never dream that they must die." " Would I were some scarred leper in a grave, Having a soul," sighed the fair jacqueminot, " Rather than my rose-self, that may not waive The doom of dust to which the soulless go !" GRIEF AS GUEST. BROOKWAYS were warm, the wildbird's note Pierced like swift pain the swaying rose, When to me, in a spirit boat, A pale child came. My house he chose As dwelling-place, and_then my heart. I named him Love. I was not wise ; For, when he grew of me a part. It was as Grief, the Prince of Sighs. 23 GRIEF'S EMPTY HANDS. ("^ RIEF said to Hope : " I have a favor, friend, ■y To ask. It is— that thou wilt seek, with me. Space for a garden which may equally Be ours to own, to beautify and tend. And let who will flow'rs for the garden send, In sign of friendliness ; so shall I see If it be true that mankind hath for me No gift of love, nor aught but tears to spend." When Grief and Hope had walled their garden-ground. They made it known to men, and soon there came Rich gifts of flow'rs unmarred by worm or thorn ; But 'mid the blooms not one for Grief was found : All were sweet Hope's. Then Grief, in very shame, Fled far from Hope, the world's dispraise to mourn. 24 BEYOND MOTH AND RUST. A MOTH veered o'er a battlefield— 'Tvvas hours ere dawn-light — Until it reached the rusting shield On a pearl-pale young knight. The knight lay there, yet he, I know, Was in another land, Where moth and rust will never grow, And war and death are banned. 25 THE IRISH SNAKE. NO vipers coil in Ireland's grass, you say. As true that is as if by Truth .'twere said. And yet, believe, on her sweet soil doth stay A deadlier snake than ever fanged and fled. Its semblance man's ; its heart a bitter stone, Cold in the bitter, cold blood of its breast ; Traitor its name. . . . O Christ ! hear Ireland's moan, And crush this snake that breeds to crush her best ! 26 777^ BLACK CASKET. O" *^ /^^NLY a negro." . . . Friend, your thorns of words Come never from the sweet rose-tree Of Charity, Nor any black pierce to undo, But back to you. " Only a negro." . . . Was't your Maker's thought To have the black (whom He formed too) Wake hate in you, His brother ? Never ! . . . Ah, your sneers Were best shame's tears ! "Only a negro." . . . Know, your " only " wounds The great, all-loving Christ, whose Tree Of Calvary He bore to bring His Father back Both white and black. " Only a negro." . . . Nay, not so, good friend. But the fit casket by God planned (Long ere you banned) To hold that pearl of pearls, a soul, With heav'n for goal. 27 OUR RAIN AND OUR LADY. NONE but sweet raindrops e'er leave our King's sky, Though it Hfts bitter waters from. earth's serving seas And to earth's lightest thirsting our King's swift reply Is the deep dew of rain to His rivers and trees. None but sweet answers e'er leave our King's sky, Though ofttimes grief-bitter our words as we pray ; And, our Queen but once pleading, her Son's swift reply Is the deep dew of peace for our hearts and our way. 28 THE SACRED HEART. ^^T^IS the Rose of North and South, I Of West and East ; Rich with Love's drainless dew, no drouth Can waste it in the least — This greatest Flower of June's great Feast. Its fair home is double-named — " Heaven " and " the sky ;" Its Lily- Mother God-acTclaimed To plead for souls that cry For help to the great Rose on high. 29 DIVES. (being a slight hint to his modern imitators.) THE pallid palms of Need Besought. He took no heed. . . . One day his robe of hyacinth-blue Grew heavy with Death's awful dew. And now may Charity Offer no cup, ah me ! Though 'neath the robe of hyacinth-blue Thirst's fiery sword doth pierce him through. 30 COLD AS CHARITY. AH me! the bitter thing this beggar wails, With palHd, frozen palms beseeching me : " Passer, in Christ's name, help ! My body fails For food and fire : ' lis cold as Charity /" O Sacred Heart ! 'tis such as I have made This beggar-byword of sweet Charity, By heart self-bound, by crust and coin delayed, E'en though Thy dear poor pleaded naming Thee. 31 IN WHAT PART OF THE SKY? In yon wide sky, Where is the lovehest place to rest- Its East, its zenith, or its West ? Where Christ, the King, Sits, Love beloved, on His fair throne, 'Tis there yon sky is Heaven's own. 32 A TREE'S GOOD-FRIDAY WISH. MY heart craves more than branch and breeze, A budless Tree did say ; " The meekest flower, if God should please, I'd gladly wear to-day." 'Twas Friday then. The meekest Flower (With Nails for pistil) came. The yearning Tree a while to dower : Christ is the Flower's name. 33 TO A LILY OF THE VALLEY AT EASTER. THOU art the lamb of lilies (The callas are the sheep), And thy fold is the fairy fastness Where golden grass gnats leap. The sky, too, hath a Lamb, dear, Amid its callas tall. Though His eyes ope this joyful morning Where earthly spring-birds call. 34 TO AN EMINENT BOTANIST F' *^ * J~^LOW'R o' the May ' — some poet's perfect name For the most perfect lily-bell.'* Your praise, I fear, o'erthrows your flow'r-made fame You class not lilies well. Know that in yonder sky there blooms to bless The only perfect Lily — she Whose Son the King hath passed the bitterness Of His Good-Friday Tree. = The lily of the valley, 35 TO A STATUE OF JESUS.' OMY Beloved ! whoso looks on Thee, Feels the hot, hasting tears o'erflovv his eyes, And in his breast heart-piercing stress of sighs, That Thy sad, beauteous Face so meek shouldst be ; — As if Thou saidst : " My child, canst not love Me ? Lilies thou lovest well, and that is wise ; But am I not a Flower, too, to prize — Thy saving Rose from the Good-Friday Tree ?" O Jesu ! Jesu ! do not break my heart With Thy mild pleading — Thou who hast the right To strike me dead before Thee ! Rather cry : Worm, worship Me, lest, after the deep dart Driven by Death hath reached thee, thy soul's flight Be unto anguish, not to My fair sky." At the Church of the Gesu, Philadelphia. 36 Musical Subjects. THE PERFECT QUATRAIN. 1 '^T^HE perfect quatrain — no book yet Hath that been entered in : 'Tis the rhymed strings of Music, set Upon the vioHn. 39 THE P I AN 1ST E. (to o. h.) S HE seeks the laugh of the keys, . Till Joy, with his heart's ease, Comes swiftly unto her, 'Neath her hands to sing, to stir, To voice the heart-deep smiles that run With Mozart through his music's sun. She seeks the cry of the keys. Till Grief (as winged Joy flees) Comes swiftly unto her, 'Neath her hands to sob, to stir, To voice the soul-deep tears that crowd With Chopin through his music's cloud. 40 CHOPIN'S MUSIC. /^T^HE doves wake with their moaning, and I We see but thorns and bitter sand In place of bloom and brook ; and Love lies dead, We dream — all tears in these tones o'er him shed. Then, light as lilies lengthened 'mid light grass By touch of June, a sudden laugh will pass From out the chords, — as if a child should come On a closed coffin, hiding lips too numb To kiss their own (oh ! mother-lips, death-cold !), And, fancying it a doll-house brought to hold Her toys, haste from the death-drear room to seek Her little friends and smile and name her prize. Grief never once anear her fond surmise : 'Tis from mamma; and she'll come, too, next week." Like this poor babe's, my master, the rare mirth That suns thy music is : round it grave-earth. World-sorrows and thine own press piteously, And yet it sings and sings as if death could not be. 41 WHEN ZITHERS SOUND. When zithers sound, I dream of maples in the sprino^ ; Of pearls ; of the blue blossoming Of violets ; of creaming beads of corn In husks of moss-green silk ; of a gold horn, Thin as a lilac-leaf, by fairies blown At duskfall ; of white lilies grown Where nuns and doves are ; of night-dews (Like small gray grapes by starlight) ; of clear clews In answering eyes for those who seek love's sign In their hearts' idols — all these dreams are mine, And more as moth-light : Fancy is unbound When zithers sound. 42 THE ANGELS. (PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF LOEWENSTEIN. j NOW let me tell thee, tny little one, How fair, in fair paths above the sun. Are the kind angels, with faces bright As earth and heaven in the spring light. When gentle pulsing of brook and grass Marks the mild May-hours as they pass : Their reverent eyes are clear as the air And blue as the sky ; in their gold hair Dewed, deathless flowers are twined ; and their wings Are moonlight dotted with shining rings From the stars" edges. . . . Such, little one. Are the angels by whom God's work is done. Now let me tell thee, my little one. How the angels fly. that good be done : Softly as snow wavers from cloud-height. Or the moon trails her heaven-pure light ; Softly as mignonette from Earth grows. Or scent of rose-hearts through June air flows ; Softly as parting of leaf from tree. Or the opening of doors for memory, — So softly, lightly, my little one, Fly the angels by whom God"s work is done. A Sketch BERGHEIM'S BIRD. (a sketch.) There is a certain mazourka of Ciiopin's, half laughter, half grief, that makes one think of a just-drawn cup of champagne across the bubbling brightness of which white funeral- flowers have fallen. Judith Bergheim always distinguished herself in playing it. She possessed that subtly sympathetic musical apprehension without which Chopin is a sealed book to the pianist. Never- theless, she has shelved the mazourka permanently, and were she ever forced to listen to it again, the bitterness of death would, I think, be hers. Bergheim never tired of hearing it dance beneath his wife's exquisite hands. It was not the best thing for nerves like his— sensitive as the E-string of a violin, his friends declared— but Bergheim did not think of that. Enough that it brought him visions. (For, you know, even an ornithologist, practical with nightingale as with parrot, may have visions.) Bergheim's book, "Birds of All Lands," promised to bring him fame. It had been a labor of love, and would be a pecuni- ary success. That were offset, at least, to the daily, distress- ing headaches from which he now suff"ered as the result of mental overwork. It had been pain for a purpose— a worthy one, if he did say so himself. But the strain was over at last, and he could take a much-needed rest. No more midnight oil to burn above ghost-white foolscap, the lamp's friendly flame holding the dark aloof, if not the moth. Bergheim began to wonder whether he had seen the last of the wan-faced figure that visited him nightly in his study. She always came at an hour when he was too weak from weariness to stay her and force her to tell who she was. Was her shiver- ing caused by the chill of the new-made grave from which she might have come ? Perhaps she was not a dead woman : the hyacinth blue of her robe was scarcely the color for a shroud. He wished that he knew, and that her eyes were less mourn- fully accusing. There was no reproach in them for him, though, he said to himself: those whom he had wronged were neither in the grave nor out of it. He must tell Judith about this gliding woman : one's wife could help to clear up the mystery. He had been too much engrossed in the home-stretch upon his hook to remember that Judith deserved his immediate confi- dence. Well, it was not too late yet. Hark ! There was that mazourka again ! What a drawer to delicious languor it was ! — potent beyond any opium — light- est-footed guide to the prismatic paths of Fancy. Dear Judith ! She played Chopin well— if he was a partial critic. He went over to the music-room, his eyes alight with an un- wonted gleam. Judith, busy achieving full- voiced chords, did not hear him. He tiptoed up to her, drew her beautiful head to his breast and pressed his lips against the rose in the rich olive of her cheek. Judith, smiling, shortened the piano's story to hear her husband's. It was not the every-day, yet welcome, one she had expected. Bergheim caressed her hair with unsteady hands while telling it. Perhaps, he suggested, in conclusion, she could say who the figure in hyacinth-blue was. Judith listened like one in a dream. For what seemed an age — it was in reality but a few moments — she could neither speak nor move. Then the reaction came. What horrible calamity was this that had overtaken her heart's beloved, her king of men? What had he done, that this unspeakable thing should be visited upon him? Her heart fluttered like a wounded bird, the room swam, grew black, suffocated her. She clenched her hands in her anguish. Then, like a flower stabbed by a thousand-bladed wind, she bent low over the keys, and the tiny altars of song, still warm with the fire of Chopin, bore the added heat of sudden tears. Was this to be his fate, now that fame waited upon his years of noble effort ? That strange look in his eyes ! His burning hands ! "Oh my God!" she sobbed, "have mercy! Spare him! Kill me rather! Listen! I am nothing — nothing ! A grain of sand, a ribbon of weed, is more ! Smite me instead ! God — God ! Hear me ! Just once — once, I say ! Oh, help ! mercy ! mercy ! King ! King ! He is too young — too young to go mad !" Bergheim caught her in his arms as she fell heavily from the stool. Mechanically he carried her to her chamber. Here was another mystery, like that of that midnight woman Why did Judith lie so white, so still ? She looked like marble. Had she turned to a statue ? Why did everything puzzle him so ? And his head — that pain throbbirg like a pulse — if it would cease for just a little while ! He went back to his study. Picking up a book, he turned the leaves to find something of interest. But he could not read : the letters had become black gnats and danced up and down the page. It seemed so strange. Then a confused rec- ollection of his wife's last words came back to him. " Mad !" he murmured. " Oh, no ! " with a quavering laugh, "Chopin was not mad, Judith. You must know that. He is the Sorrow of music, but he was never mad. No ! no ! never mad ! That mazourka of his — you must play it for me to-morrow, sweet- heart — to-morrow and every day. It has a message especially for me. It sings : ' There is a bird that has, as yet. gone un- noted by any ornithologist. It will seek you out before your book is printed. If you succeed in describing it accurately, your fame will be above Audubon's. But have a care that it smite you not to silence ; for it is a bird of prey, with win- try wings keen as a two-edged sword, and man is its spoil to eternity.' I want Judith to know that. I may be asleep when she comes down. Better put it on paper for her." And with failing hands he did so. Then, his poor, spent brain hopelessly entangled in a network of pain and vagary, he sank back exhausted in his chair. Upon regaining consciousness, Judith hastened in search of her husband. She found only what had been he, the scarcely dry little manuscript held tightly in his helpless hand.