Class JE^^LiiiL- Gopight}^". \569 COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV When Lilacs Bloom AND OTHER POEMS 'By MARETTA R. McCAUGHEY ^ Published After her Death, January 7, IQ07, By Her Husband and Children Cincinnati, Ohio PRESS OF JENNINGS AND GRAHAM .A \^^ K Copyright, 1909, By G. B. McCaughey LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two CoDie.s i^eceived MAY 10 1»09 Gopyrti^nt tntry ^ CLASS CC ^Xc 1^0. To Of the Author of These Poems, Whose Love She Prized, This Book is Affectionately Dedicated By Her Husband and Children. G. B. McCaughey, Edith B. McCaughey, Roy B. McCaughey. CONTENTS When Lilacs Bloom, 9 When Summer Croons Old Earth to Sleep, 10 To Find the Best, 11 **FoRLo! The Winter IS Gone,*' 12 Harvest, 13 Strange Things, 14 Love's Flowers, 15 Trust, 16 The Needed Touch, 17 Had We a Gift, 18 My Italy, 19 Prayer OF the Brittany Fisherman, 20 The Turn in the Lane, 21 Idle Silences, 22 Fog, 24 *' That Far Country,*' 25 Tribute to McKinley, 26 *' Shortly Before Dawn," 27 Resurrection Morning, 28 Died — Aged Eighty, 29 Unser Vater, 30 Only One Way Home, 31 The Lily Taught Me, 32 What If Some Day, 34 The Leaf and the Star, 35 Perennial, 36 Brierdale in Arcady, 37 5 Love's Path, 38 The World at Large, 39 With the Edelweiss to the Sea, 40 Fern Seed, 42 Spring Rondelay, 44 Stars in the Fire, 45 Nest Building, 46 Locust Blossoms, 47 Summer at the Ohio Farm, 48 Summer AT THE Indiana Farm, 49 A Rain in June, 50 Apple Blossoms, 51 June Songs, 52 Sapphire and Opal, 53 The Shadow of Summer, 54 Through Country Lanes, 56 The Forsaken Road, 57 Sing, • • • • 58 A Rest in the Music, 59 Elspeth Knitting, 60 Margaret's Youth, 61 Little Rhody, 62 *' Jess Nice AND Comfor' able," 66 A Legend of Exmoor, 68 Defying Fate, 72 O Nature, Unsympathetic ! 73 As Mahmoud Did, 74 Charity, 75 Our Limitation, 76 Hatred in Nubibus, 11 Thy Beulah Land, 78 One Flower of All, 79 Motherhood, 80 6 Identification, 81 The Brother of Low Estate . 82 The Brotherhood of Man, 84 Ploughed Under, 85 Her Gift, 86 Let the Flag Be There, 88 The Outgrown Nest, 89 Questionings, 90 With Broken Harp, 91 Found, 92 Hester Prynne, 93 Plagiarism, 94 Why Waits Queen Summer? 95 Indian Summer, 96 The Thanksgiving Test, 97 The Day*s Reckoning, 98 St. Silverus— a Christmas Legend, 99 An Autumn Thought, 100 When Lilacs Bloom I always see the dear old homes Framed in between the purple plumes That shade, we know, the ^'company rooms'' When lilacs bloom. The world seems now a better place. I gladly turn a happier face And keep in step with quickened pace When lilacs bloom. As we grow old it always seems Less time between the purple gleams, And more and more we have our dreams Of some glad time the years may bring Of lilacs' constant blossoming. Then we shall know Eternal Spring When lilacs bloom. ii When Summer Croons Old Earth to Sleep " 'T is in September days when all the bees Go winging back, by early twilight caught E'er half the honey 's gathered that they sought In golden plumes and in the purple lees Of hanging grapes. Then sweet the sunshine flees As tho' a mother's hand had deftly wrought A shadow o'er the child that will have naught Of sleep while yet a ray of light he sees. Some day, when Summer croons our years away Mayhap we '11 hie us home with tasks half done — Mayhap we '11 see the twilight of Life's latest day With sad, rebellious eyes that seek the sun, Then sweet 't will be to find that Shadow Gray Is like a mother's hand to shut the world away. 10 To Find the Best Though the commonest songs are sweet to hear, And gladly we welcome the robin's cheer, Yet we listen, entranced, to sweeter songs From the dense, dark woods where the thrush belongs. In the leafy gloom the nightingale bides — In the far, blue sky the lark's song hides. On the ocean floor lies a wondrous store Of beauty we never shall see on shore. Then why should our hearts go sorrowing so When a darkening shadow rests so low That we miss the sun ? Hid there in the shade Mayhap God's tenderest touch is laid. 11 * For Lo ! The Winter is Gone ! " (Song of Solomon.) O, the rose-red sap is rising In the apple trees again ! O, the dainty, pink-veined tracing ! O, the bits of color chasing Thro' the sweet spring air again ! Are we old ? We feel new stirring Dreams now rose tints that were gray. Are we young ? O ! Youth is glorious When the warm, spring air, victorious, Drives the cold and snow away. Naught too hard for fresh beginning Life is pushing thro' the earth. Ever new is Spring's returning — Ever new the pulses yearning. Old or young, for newer birth. 12 Harvest O, the glory on grain and tree ! O, the joy that it is to be Alive to see The prophet's picture of fruitage fair Crowning the clod and seedling there Immortally ! And yet man falters and will not own The victory o'er Death that God hath shown. 13 Strange Things That a bird can sing and bring A forgotten thought, That a rose's hue may do What words can not — Bring back to the heart a part Of childhood's years, And turn the cycle of time to rhyme Devoid of tears. Yes, they may hold and fold Us in close embrace, But to song and scent belong That higher trace Of a Hand that swift can Uft The meshes crossed, Thus setting us free to see That naught is lost. 14 Love's Flowers '* The Summer flower is to the Summer sweet." — Shakespeare. So sweet a floweret Love may grow For one brief year That Time forever more may know No cause for tear. If to one summer thou art sweet Let this content Nor waste the glorious hours fleet In discontent. What matter if the year can tell When frost stars gleam How fair a bloom thou gav'st so well To summer's dream? 15 Trust To-day God knows if primrose bloom Or nettle's sting shall find their room Within my life. To-night He knows what lines of light May cross each other on my sight When Dark is rife. To-morrow shall His knowledge fail To guide my shallop that it sail Past hidden bar ? To-day, to-morrow can not mean An ill His love hath not foreseen And known afar. 16 The Needed Touch * A bulb I hold, and fold In earth. Its roots send shoots Of lily stems so tall that all Who see will smile That hidden deep in sleep Such beauty grew the while. Sometimes we feel revealed The self -same thing In human hearts, whose part In life we bring, Full oft to view with few Forecast ings of the rare, fair Blossoms unrevealed. Might not our love, above The life concealed. Sometimes enfold the cold Dull thing and give That quickening gain o'er pain That bids men live ? 17 Had We a Gift We say, Could we but sing And thrill and stir the heart With voice too sweet for art, What harmonies would ring. Could we but sing ! We say, Could we paint sky And sea and mountains grand. We 'd bring from shadow land Rare scenes where fancies fly. Could we paint sky ! Could we but take the stone And guide the chisel so That symmetry should grow, What perfect forms alone We 'd carve in stone ! Alas ! We know nor melody, Nor rapturous hint of color shown, Nor power of life in frozen stone By touch of ours can ever be, Alas ! not one can be ! But life hath music — wordless songs Born of content ; and there are hands So gently skilled they carve Love's bands Round hearts of stone. To these belong ; And thou may'st carve and paint and sing, Not for the world, but for its King. 18 My Italy ** Past the Alpine summits of great pain Lieth thine Italy.'* — Rose Terry Cooke There is a Presence that can lend A joy — a soothing sense of rest To weary days — a joy so blest That heights or depths of weary pain We almost count with sense of gain. I know my Italy is there, and God With loving tenderness has trod The path before. I do not dread The Alpine summits overhead. 19 Prayer of the Brittany Fisherman ** Keep me, my God ! My boat is small ; and wide The ocean stretches far from any shore.** With rough hands lightly clasped and head bent low In tender reverence, he speaks his Guide Upon the stormy sea, lest ill betide. Then, henceforth leans he on his fragile oars With fearless heart, since One doth watch beside His boat thro' all that dreary space from shore. O, soul ! bespeak this Guide upon Life's sea, Then, fearless, turn thy oars against its waves. He knows when storm-tossed billows carry thee Beyond thy strength, and He will quickly save Thy fragile barque. Pray only, "God, keep me,'' And summer calm may rest on stormiest sea. 20 The Turn in the Lane Was it yesterday in the morning air That we saw the bloom on the hedgerows fair, And ran, with eager, childish feet, Thro' flowers and dew-wet grass to meet The turn in the lane ? The way seems long to-day, and hot — How far it seems — that cool, green spot ! How soon our steps much slower grew, How often our friends were lost to view At the turn in the lane ! When, one by one, we hjave met Life's turns And gained the knowledge of him who learns That the lane of life must narrow down To a dusty path thro' hedgerows brown To the turn in the lane. May we feel a Presence leading us on Past the dusty stiles to the turn beyond ! Then we will not walk in doubt and fear. Since we know our Father awaits us here At the turn in the lane. 21 Idle Silences Full oft we hear of idle word That never conscious meaning stirred Within the mind, and yet the years Swift turning brought the saddest tears That it was said. 'T is true, and yet Full oft we think doth vain regret So follow silence. Once I knew That some kind word of mine was due An ailing friend. I said, Some day I '11 speak the word, then went my way, Content to let the silence stay. Nor dreamed that she could go away To that Dread Silence where no speech Of human love or hate may reach. Sometimes I think we take no note Of all the sound from noisy throat Of singing bird, but let it cease And soon we miss it, ill at ease And conscious of a wrong indeed So jarring that it righting needs. The idle pebble of a word May, haply, fall where never stirred 22 The evil ripple in the hearer's mind, While silence darkens all, we find With sad commotion. Ah, friend, While yet we may, let us attend Not less to idle word, but more To that vague hush which, reckoned o'er, Affrights us in account with Life. Far more than words with evil rife. 23 Fog I was so near the garden wall ! So near the vines and maples tall — The lawn, the house, each well-known place, And yet the fog hid every trace Of every dear, familiar face. A little world drew near apace And shut me in. So small and round, So narrow, dark, and cold I found No hint of all that lay so near Of beauty, life, and things that cheer. But soon a rift grew wide and high, And sunlight flashing from blue sky Revealed each well-remembered spot The fog had lately blotted out. Since then, when days bring mist and doubt And shut the love of God without, I Ve seen full many a sunbeam shed Its waves of light above my head. And as I look thro' rifts of cloud I find familiar paths to God. 24 "That Far Country So far that country lies away — So far, when youth is strong and gay, And Life has known no yesterday, So far it lies away. So far when our beloved go — 'T is far, indeed, or there would flow The sweet love words we cherish so When our beloved go. So far, so far, yet swift the years And oft the shore, outlined thro' tears, Seems very near and soothes our fears- So far, but swift the years. 25 Tribute to McKinley God's will be done/* — President McKinley *s last words. Write now, O poets, but thy verse must be The grandest tribute ever sung or said — Ye who would write us verses for our dead, Dip deep thy pen in all the toiling sea Of humankind and write how dear was he To those who struggle there for daily bread — Then lift thy pen and touch the heights instead. Where laurels crowned him all deservedly. O poets, write, but let thy verses bring To us, who mourn a leader, statesman, friend. This better thing for our true comforting — God's will was his. In all the mighty trend Of his eventful life so has he won World plaudits and great love, tho' life is done. 26 66 Shortly Before Dawn " How still the guards about the sacred tomb Ere yet that strange, sweet message broke the gloom With peace unknown and surety in the room Of scoffing doubt ! What wondrous flower Of Love, new blossoming with gracious dower, Sprang forth! What melodies were heard that hour! What sweet, new Voice seemed through the darkness drawn, Waking the world to know Death's night was gone ! What sweet, new touch lay on each aching heart With wondrous soothing, past all mortal art. That bade its sorrows cease, its fears depart. O, Messenger beloved! O, Voice sublime! O, Melodies ! O, Touch of Love Divine ! Our darkest hour is yet God's chosen Time. 27 Resurrection Morning ** The night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.'* — Lead, Kindly Light. But who is it who can, at first, be sure The morn will come ? Who can endure The long night's dark with all its spectral gloom ? The dread uncertainty — that silent room The darkness fills where never any touch or word That trembling hand has felt or throbbing ear has heard, When such dear hands have loosed from life And we must meet alone the strife — Alone ? God help us, but for most There is no thought but that all love is lost. How dulled the stricken heart may be To all that comforts only God can see And He, with never any startling touch, Sends thro' the darkness first the hush Preceding dawn and then, with wondrous care, The soft, gray dawn for us to bear Until we see through tears' relieving flow The blessed promise of His morning glow — The Resurrection Morn. ''The night is gone. And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since and lost awhile." 28 Died — Aged Eighty (In memory of Reverend Meeks, Findlay, Ohio.) Never an instant deserted The place God had said to him, "Fill ;'' Never a yielding of muscles Or brain to the strength of the will. From the dawn, full of rest and ambition When life was a glow of delight. Thro' the morn to life's burning meridian And on to the darkening night. Never a meadow's cool byway Had tempted from highway and dust ; Nor bird song or beauty had rivaled The strong heart's devotion and trust, Until God's comforting message He heard from the darkening West : "For thy fourscore years of endeavor There remaineth unending rest." O, heavenly country of promise ! Of all beautiful things and rare, None thrill the heart of earth's traveler Like the "Rest that remaineth there." So short seems past struggle and effort When life's sun fades away in the West; So long seems the wondrous requital — "For aye there remaineth a rest." 29 Unser Vater Our Father ! Such a world of tenderness is bound In these two words. In every tongue the speech The same sweet, wondrous power doth teach Of watchful love; and nowhere else is found Expression true in such harmonious sound Of all the heart's deep pathos, love to reach With instant meaning. Never other word can teach The thrill of Everlasting Strength around Our human weakness. O, sweet it is to know That One doth ever hear and heed our cry From out earth's darkness, waiting still to show How vain is fear, how soon can terrors fly A Father's love. Unser Vater, so we cry, And humbly claim Thy kinship high. 30 Only One Way Home If thou wert lost, and one should say to thee, "I know but one way to thy home ; that way A rocky path o'er mountains drear and gray With pending storm,'' thou 'dst say, ''Show me This way." And straightway thou wouldst haste to be Ready to face all terrors on the way. Scarce waiting for the dawning of the day, So glad, so glad the homeward way to see. God shows us oft that but one way is ours To the eternal Home, and it may be That we must leave a path thick-strewn with flowers For path so bleak and hard we scarce can see The way for tears ; but fail not, for each hour Will surely bring Home's shelter nearer thee. 31 The Lily Taught Me I found in my garden a lily white Daintily sweet in the morning light. A dewdrop lay in its throat of snow And the sunlight gave it a diamond's glow. But the lily faded, and Summer passed, And Winter's ice-chain bound it fast. Then I saw a marvelous lily of frost. Sparkling far more than the one I had lost, And the frost king laid it on bed of sheen Where the mid-summer lily before had been. But the cruel sunshine quickly sent My lily again into banishment. With chisel I made by a fountain's brim Another lily with snowy rim. O, it was fair in its marble snow. With the frozen dewdrops sparkling so. I laughed to think how the sun would try To drink my nectared lily-cup dry. At last ! I cried, I have one to stay ! It is mine, my lily, from day to day. But a Presence came with a sadder touch Than the sun had sent thro' the noonday flush, 32 I could see in the sparkling petals of stone No hint of Hie ; it was death alone. I marveled much that the flowers dead Had never inspired a somber dread, While the lily I wished to immortal be Had only a message of death for me. Could it be, I questioned with reverent speech, That the fading flower was sent to teach The beautiful step from earth to air Of the living germ that slumbered there? Heart, art thou lonely with lily of stone? Forget it and think of God's lilies alone, Not lost, as we deemed them, but growing more fair In His beautiful garden awaiting us there. 33 What If, Some Day What if, some day, when clouds have thrown A dreary gloom o'er all the room, A sweet and friendly soul should come And win the sunshine in ; Should cheer your heart, and make it glow With hope's fresh impulse. You would know Your place no more with trace Of cloud or gloom: you 'd welcome him With joyful haste. Yet, One doth seek Us in our narrow rooms, close shut With doubt's dark shades about — One who doth long to send Such transformation, as thy generous Friend, To all sad hours of gloomy doubt ; And you — and I — still keep Him locked without. 34 The Leaf and the Star So far apart ! yet the star is glowing This summer night With love-lit rays in the azure showing Its sweet, soft light. And high on the maple, shyly keeping Tryst with the star, A dainty leaf is slyly peeping Thro' leafy bars. Too high, you say, for an earth-born thing- O winds, ye wait ! For Love will come with a ready wing Ere it is late. Now see ! the leaf is crimson and gold ! O winds, stay down ! For a frost star sparkles upon the fold Of a bridal gown. Death, you whisper ; but can you tell ? Winds, cease your strife. Death or life, there 's a marriage bell And Love is Life. 35 Perennial *' Just a foolish flower that forgot to blow Till the frosts were white again." So it seemed as the dead leaves lightly tossed— Just a careless waste of the hours that fly- In blossoming time. That day had gone by For fruition now, and there was the frost With Death's own touch on the dry stalk crossed By no flower or fruit. So deep they lie The roots that send up for us by and by The bloom and the fruit that we tho't were lost. Did they forget? Ah, the turn of the years Oft shows a blossoming soul we had thought But a barren life, and then appears A beauty and use we had vainly sought In the bloom of a day. Yet men judge so Forgetting perennial's growth in the snow. 36 Brierdale in Arcady Who e'er sang of Love's own vale — Arcady the beautiful — And gave hint of hidden dale Where the brier roses grow In tangled beauty thorn-pinned so That no sweethearts e'er have found Pathway through to smoother ground ? Yet, 't is there, all lovers know, There in lovely Arcady. But Love's rose-red petals glow So enchanting that they see Naught but Rose of Arcady, Presto ! what a change may be Quickly seen in Arcady When two lovers, unawares. Meet the thorns in hiding there ! Yet, O sweethearts ! Eros, kind Built that thorny hedge you find. For the dearest place of all Lies beside that thorn-hid wall. 37 Love's Path You want to climb far heights subUme When you love. Romance says, *'Nay, no mountains gray For true love/' All stories tell of fern and dell For Love's lore, And valleys deep alone can keep Fast Love's door. Your ideal keep and Love will sleep Ne'er to awake. The heights grow cold, have no warm fold For Love's sake. O sweetheart, choose ! but do not lose The path I go- Choose one too high for passerby But sweetly low. 38 The World at Large The world at large has countless treasure- My world none — Gold and rank and gems, but pleasures Scarcely one. In the world at large are mansions Men have built. But their cunning, costly fashions Hide much guilt. In the world at large are cities Vast and fair, Heartaches, too, that no one pities — Days of care. In my world no heartache passes Without sign — Quick the tender heart-throb flashes Love to mine. Leave your world and enter this one — Love is here : Let the world at large say which one God holds dear. 39 With the Edelweiss to the Sea In Switzerland there is a river Whose source is the ice and snow Far up on the Alpine summits, Where the Edelweiss only grows. There 's a quaint and beautiful fancy In a legend the Swiss still tell Of this flower of love and friendship And the river they know so well. They say that the Spirit of Flowers Will cast from the cliff above The delicate, snow-white blossoms — The beautiful emblem of love. They tell how the sun-touched petals Are first to bring warmth to the stream, Ice-locked on the mountain summit With the sea but a far-off dream. Then the blossoms forever are carried In the heart of the stream as it flows, Though the Spirit of Flowers grants others- E'en the beautiful Alpine rose. The peasants will watch thro' the village Where the banks are alluring and sweet With the songs of bird-sirens, enticing True lovers in tryst there to meet. 40 Through the shadows so cool and inviting The rustic will often peep low To see if his best loved river Still carries its blossoms of snow. And well for his faith that ever The Edelweiss snow he may see, For to him they are symbols perfect Of his dear one's constancy. 41 Fern Seed What was it, do you ask me, That threw oblivious shade Upon the merry dancers In all the masquerade ? Well, dear, you know the legend That he who holds the seed Of dainty fronds has magic To hide himself at need. You think that day is over — That no one stands within Our lighted, crowded parlors Who is not counted in. But the legend now reverses The old-time-magic power. For lost to me were all things But a long- forgotten hour. The palms and roses melted Into blossoms by a stile. And gorgeous, velvet sofas Were dusty steps the while. You spoke to me last evening : You even touched my hand. Before I felt your presence Within that shadow land. 42 My "fern seed" was a cluster Of wilding roses sweet That rested on the bosom Of your cousin Marguerite. A bridge of youthful memories Those brier roses threw Across the years — so many To a meadow in the dew. Beside the stile my sweetheart — Wild roses in her hair, Stood waiting where wild roses Were straggling everywhere. Upon the steps we rested In June's own perfumed air, While I tossed the dainty petals Upon her brow and hair. The human heart is stranger Than the legends ever tell ; It waits, long years it may be, To prove its weakness well. But some day comes a searchlight That throws in darkest shade The world that moves about you. And shows you where .you laid Long since, with never mourning. An hour with rapture fraught— So pure and holy that you only Its dimmest meaning caught. 43 Spring Rondelay O, Spring ! I am waiting for you, I have need of the blue In the hue of your bluebird's wing. I must have for my brush the hint Of your rosy finger's print. Tho' I paint, tho' I write, I cry, O, Season of Youth, draw nigh. What else for the artist's brush. What else for the poet*s touch ? For we sigh, if of Spring bereft What else for the world is left? 44 Stars in the Fire I am sixteen to-day! Life is wondrously gay. Tell me truly what joy without sorrow's alloy Stands waiting the hours of these slow years of ours. Come, tell me my fate Pretty stars in my grate, Foretelling power should dwell in the hour — It is night — it is late — now the witches should wait. Ah ! you sparkle and glow, but why tremble you so ? Does Fate, then, decree cruel things there for me ? No, it can not be sad With the whole world so glad. :{S >fs 5ff i{i 5k * I am sixty to-day. Life grows quiet and gray. But, stars in my grate, came you never so late. Still the Future so blank would the Past have to thank For its knowledge of Fate. Now, you whisper too late What Life's pages revealing Have told, naught concealing, .// your Past has been glad it can not be sad. 45 Nest Building High in the top of the stately elm, Or low in the lilac's plumy bush ; Snug in the eaves above the porch, Or down where the early morning flush Scarcely hints 'mid clods and stones. That day has broken the night-time hush. Building homes ! Does it matter, think, That each must differ in size and view? Does the chippy fret that the oriole Hangs safely dry from the drops of dew ? Nay, never jarring note is heard In nesting time, when love is true. Ever the same sweet home-note rings, Whether from lark or the gentle dove. Or patient chippy down in the grass, Or flashing jay in the blue above — Whether of twigs and down inlaced. Or of mud and stones, the note is — Love. 46 Locust Blossoms Just a tiny cluster of fragrant bloom That sent thought away From the office desk and the dingy room To a child at play. I saw the meadow and grassy swell Of my father's fields, I tasted the water from out a well That a windlass yields. O, weary the distance that lay between The blossoming years, And now I must see the familiar scene Thro' a mist of tears. For I 'd held in my heart Life's clamor for gold And would not heed The beautiful story the blossoms told Of love and its need. 47 Summer at the, Ohio Farm — 1886 The golden-rod's plumes are nodding, Then Summer must surely go. The thistle-down brings the message, But I will not read it so. O, beautiful, beautiful Summer ! Turn back a cycle for me ; Hide deep in the iron-weed's purple — Too deep for the frost to see. 48 Summer at the Indiana Farm — 1897 The thistle-down turned to snowflakes. The Frost's jeweled lance cut low The glorious beauty of Summer And covered it over with snow. But the years— ah ! they 've brought me New summers as fair as the old, For each new season returning The same sweet story has told. 49 A Rain in June Such soft, still sweeps of air ! No agonizing tempest there. One scarcely knew a storm was near Until the thunder met the ear. A hurried dash of sparkly drops, Like sudden pushing in of stops. They cease, and then a low, sweet strain On perfumed air brings the refrain. A catching up of all sweet scent — Rose, honeysuckle, locust blent, And o'er it all a rainbow throws Its trailing glory to a rose. Rain wet, it lifts its beauteous face More lovely with the tender trace Of recent tears to gently hide The haughty signs of queenly pride. 50 Apple Blossoms From a gnarled old tree, a spell Is flung as the spring air blows That comes not from lily or rose. Too deep for a lily-bell to tell Or a rose's fragrant breath to touch In the glorious summer's hush. 'T is a fragrance sweet that long ago Lay in a blossom's roseate glow. It is more than a present sense. 'T is a clear, delicious thrill With a subtle hint of will That can laugh with a joy intense Through the years when our feet must stray So far from the orchard way. 51 June Songs June songs are old but ever new, The rhythmic music running through The sweet June days. No song of pen Can ever bring such sounds to men. And when they fade — for June must go With summer roses 'neath the snow, Their memory Hfts our thoughts away From present gloom to perfect day ; To lands beyond all finite gloom. Where never Time can change the bloom. No "rose of warning" blossoms there In all that heavenly perfumed air. But all that makes our June so fair Is multiplied and garnered there. 52 Sapphire and Opal Only sand and clay ! Yet the azure sky Drops low in the one like a summer sea, And we call it a type of constancy ; The other, with wonderful tints that fly Reflecting bright hues of the days that die With to-morrow a sweet uncertainty. Only sand and clay ! For ages, may be, Have the hurrying crowds oft passed them by. Then a morning dawned when a master's eye Pried deep in the complex veins of the clay And freed the opaline tints of the sky. And a skillful touch on the sands so gray Showed the Sapphire's blue of a sky serene. We cry. So dull a world that had not seen ! O, Master of souls ! Do we fail to see Through our mortal clay the likeness to Thee? 53 The Shadow of Summer The snow lay heaped by the roadside, And Winter reigned supreme. Dead leaves were whirling with snowflakes And Summer seemed like a dream. ^'Summer is dead as my youth is," I said. ''There is naught but cold ; Warmth and flowers and summer All fail us as we grow old." Chance led my steps to the doorway And there, as I looked at the sky. Across the western horizon A shadow was drifting by — A soft, sweet mountain of color, Warmth on its downy crest — A peace, like the Summer noontide, And full of its quiet rest. No shadow e'er fell without substance ; Somewhere a summer must be To throw such a perfect shadow For doubting eyes to see. Perhaps in some far-oflf Southland The bloom and the warmth await The magic turn of the Seasons To unlock the golden gate. 54 And so, tho' the snow lies heavy On meadow and brook and lawn, I think of that beautiful promise. No summer is wholly gone. And hopefully turn from the shadow To substance of comfort rare, That somewhere God hath in keeping Our youth with its summers fair. 55 Through Country Lanes From the woods a quail is calling, "Bob White!'' Then a bobolink's sweet tinkle breaks the flight Of the meadow lark slow rising from the grass Lest you cross her tiny threshold as you pass. Wheatfields lying in that emerald sheen Of sunshine only in the springtime seen. All the woods and fields a-thrill with touches Of the spring — bird songs followed by the hushes Sweet and solemn, the soft folding up of wings When the bird has trilled Spring's own interpretings. O, the long, still days of Summer! when the wheat Turns to gold and rose-hedge tangles ope to meet Parent birds with love-notes telling doubt is past: Flittings, chirpings, sweet beguilings theirs at last. O, the Autumn! when the purple aster throws Royal color where the rod of Midas glows. And the Winter ! when transfigured fence-posts stand Marble columns, leading us to fairy land. 56 The Forsaken Road A strange unrest forever is urging Earth's creatures to turn to paths that are new , Closing old highways and leaving the blue Violets free in the grasses surging Over the road, while a new, diverging, Turns from the old paths that our fathers knew. Even the fledglings gayly immerging Into the road from the nests in the grass Bear away restless seed plumes as they flee, Seeking the lands of mirages that pass Like countries a-near to the ships on the sea. Forsaken ? O, no ! Still memories pass — Ever they 're traveled — ^the roads 'neath the grass. 57 Sing " The morning stars sang together/* —Job. Give US songs in summer weather, Sing with bird and bee. Let all joyful tones in Nature Find their chord in thee. Give us songs 'mid blinding snowflakes, Find the harmony of stars In the icy, whirling crystals Dropped from worlds afar. Sing, tho' trembling lips refuse thee, Through the agony of years Thou wilt learn the wordless music God can fashion out of tears. 58 The Rest in the Music I listened, once, to melody so rare, So sweet and new to me, I found my breath Close held, as stifling in embrace of death ; Too near divine, it seemed, for mortal ear to bear. So lately stunned with earth's discordant blare. Like traveler fleeing from the height where death Seems sure to follow every trembling breath, I would have fled the soul's diviner air ; But swift a silence fell, while yet the beat Of rhythmic measure thro' my senses sped, And I grew strong the melody to greet, While waiting till the Rest its time had led Beyond that pause where then the ear could meet, With quickened sense, the sounds divinely sweet. Since then, when some strange silence falls between The joys of life, I hush my sobs and wait For One who leads Life's harmonies unseen ; And sweet and strange it is that, soon or late, The melody returns ; my grateful heart Finds larger joy in each harmonious part. 59 Elspeth Knitting Hop vines clambering o'er the door Fretting shadows on the floor. What does Elspeth sit and knit, Smiling as the shadows flit O'er the dainty snood she holds ? O, she 's knitting in its folds Thoughts too sweet and dear to tell,. And the needles knit them well. Snowflakes flying in the air — Elspeth, knitting in her chair. Smiles no more but sees thro' tears What the needles knit those years When her youth and beauty found Dreams by fairy shadows bound. Raveled yarn she knits so slow While she dreams of long ago. 60 Margaret's Youth When do you think there laid A rose on her bonnie braid? '"Never," you say, and smile,. Seeing the gray the while. But where was her youth ? you ask, And it seems like an angel's task To answer you, telling where The youth that all should share Was kept by Life's shadows hid Till the years no more could bid It forth for her. But there ! In the dear old face so fair One may read it now, in truth. 'T is Heaven has kept her youth And with no earthly stain 'T is Heaven will give again. 61 Little Rhody Such a common, freckled face, No one dreamed it could give place To a saintly one so fair That a halo rested where Just that morn, a hat, all torn, Hid the tangled curls forlorn. No one saw the child of ten When we found a need for men. 'T was in early seventy-three When we built that church, you see And I own it now with shame. We were bound to have the name Of the tallest spire about. So we searched a builder out That would plan one higher still Than our brethren's on the hill. It was building — almost done — One June morning, when the sun Shone so bright we all could see The scaffolding above the tree. Suddenly a flash of blue. That was not the sky's own hue. Caught the eye on topmost peak. For one instant, who could speak? 62 Then a loud cry of despair Joined a mother's, till the air Seemed a wail of sorrow born Out of time on such sweet morn. William Abbott's little Jim, Just past three, had followed him. How he got there — who could tell ? Tho' he climbed so wondrous well. All the men had laughed to see The little lad go up the tree, But we think a branch had bent Toward the church, and out he went 'Till a spring could land him where He could climb the scaffold there. There he clung so near the sky- Scarce was heard his baby cry. In the frantic crowd below There seemed none so brave to go Up the shaking scaffold way That the men had loosed that day : For the father, climbing down From inside, heard not a sound. Was there none the babe to save ? Strong and stalwart men are brave, But a little lass of ten Far surpassed their courage then. 63 Up the creaking boards she flew — A tiny figure, hat askew, With the tangled curls aflame In the sunlight. In His name Men have suffered much and won Credit oft for good deeds done. But He said it, and 't was shown — "Greater love hath no man known'' Than when one will gladly yield His own life to be a shield For the other. Up she hurried While men knelt with faces covered. When the babe at last she caught Quick descending, all had thought No more danger could appall. And a shout went up from all. But alas ! the board was gone That the child had mounted on From the tower window out To the roof and space without. One remaining was too slight For united weight, tho' light ; Without instant's pause she led Baby Jim upon the thread 64 That only promised life for one. Safely o'er, her work was done, For strong hands were ready there To take the babe and give a care To the trembling girl that stood On that slender bridge of wood. For one instant Rhody's face Shone beyond the open space. Then the frail support was gone ! Friends, when next we looked upon That little face, we found A beauty circling it around Never earthly face could wear, For the seal of death was there. And a halo seemed to glow O'er her head, like pictures show Of the Christ whose '^greater love" Took her kindred soul above. 65 " Jess Nice and Comfor'able " Poor Jack had not heard yet of heaven As a city whose streets were of gold. No hint of its manifold splendors, Its beauty and grandeur untold. He had never read in a Bible, Nor listened to sermon or song Setting forth the glories of Heaven And all of its ransomed throng. But a noble mission teacher Had touched, with a skill inspired. The only key that could open The darkened, mivSguided mind. She never mentioned the pavement Of gold and the jeweled gate; She had an intuitive knowledge That such a description must wait. She gathered the street boys about her And told them of One who had had But few more comforts and pleasures Than the least and most sorrowful lad. Then, setting down simply commandments- Do not steal — do not lie — do not fight. She made plain to the listening street boys That a heavenly home was their right. 66 Poor Jack felt a glow of approval In his poor, little desolate heart. This promise of spiritual comfort In his mind of the body was part. He knew that death must bestow this, But his fears were gone at the thought That then he could have the comforts That he had so vainly sought. His thin, blackened face was uplifted — His lips softly moved as in prayer, Then he cried in ecstatic wonder, ^'It 's jess nice and comfortable there!" 67 A Legend of Exmoor In that country we call The Doone's Land, We hear tales, the strangest told, Of beautiful, helpful fairies And wizards both bad and bold. This tale I would tell had a wizard, Beyond all the others in power. Who had chosen the highest mountain And built an eight-sided tower. The architect was a spider — As black as the night was he — And his geometrical figure Was a wonderful thing to see : Eight sides, with a window opening — Thus the castle grew apace Until the wizard commanded A glimpse into infinite space. Then woe to the luckless creature Who felt the effect of his look, Or read the dreadful meaning Of a wizard finger-crook. For years he plied this magic With never a checking hand ; For none could withstand the evil In all that Exmoor land. 68 But one day a pilgrim journeyed In sight of that castle grim ; And the wizard saw, and straightway He gayly beckoned him. The pilgrim was sad and weary, His feet left bleeding tracks ; His staff was worn with climbing, And the castle road was back, But he felt that such a monster Had need of a priest to pray, Tho' he grieved that so vile a hindrance Should stay his onward way. Then he turned his face to the castle. Where the wizard smiled in hate, Thinking his will had ordered The pilgrim to pass his gate. He cried, "Come in, good comrade V' But the priest stood still at the door. "Nay, that will I not," said he, "but thou- Ah ! thou shalt come forth no more. Unless, indeed, thou hast done some good- Be it only once, to a creature of God : If only that thou hast saved a worm From crushing under the sod.'' 69 Then the wizard thought thro' his Hfe of sin, If ever his heart had cared to know The warmth and peace of a kindly deed. But alas, alas ! The seed we sow. If thistles alone, can it yield sweet fruit? *'Just one," urged the priest. "The time goes fast." The wizard, all haggard with fear and pain, Watched closely the scenes of his life that passed. But never a generous deed was there ; Ever his po'wer had been for ill ; Ever some victim had yielded up Life or substance to please his will. As the castle shook, "Aye, truly !" he cried, "There is one, good sir, only one — now go!" "Then name him quick," said the priest, "for, see! The tower is reeling! Why wait ye so?" "Myself!" shrieked the wizard, "myself alone." "Alas !" said the priest, with his cross held high. While the air grew dark and towers crashed, "Who cares for himself alone, must die ; For God has written, no man can live Who never the threads of love doth take To bind him fast to the Infinite Life That yielded all for the sinner's sake." 70 Then the castle and wizard in darkness sank To the hideous depths of a marshy sea. But the pilgrim went on to a sunny spot, And built a chapel on Exmoor lea, Where ever the world, as it passes, feels Only the touch of a power for good. And an impulse grows to help mankind To a broad and generous brotherhood. 71 Defying Fate •* Run, Spindles, run, and weave the threads of doom.*' — Catullus Run, spindles, run. But leave undone That dark thread's somber crossing ; We '11 weave instead A wondrous thread With tints like rainbows tossing. Drop thread of doom And in its room We '11 join Hope's thread, believing That so ends care For all who wear The cloth of their own weaving. 72 O Nature, Unsympathetic ! O Nature, unsympathetic! We cry to thee in vain. We call thee Mother Nature, But we hear no sweet refrain To soothe our heart's rebellion When a Terror holds us fast — Nay, more, we find thee smiling, Tho' Death's own shadow passed. And often, often day dawns With rose tints hiding gray, When thou art all prophetic Of happiness alway. While there in the shadow waiting A life-long Sorrow stands That e'er the rose tints scatter Will clasp our trembling hands. Perhaps the Father means us To look beyond this earth With its sweet but changing beauty To the Power that gave it birth. 73 As Mahmoud Did Brave Mahmoud found at the temple's gate The idol, Summat, crowned in state. And the waiting crowd, With wailings loud,' Plead hard 'gainst their god's impending fate. Full well we know how the hero brave The tempting ransom refusal gave — How the axe's blow Showed the jewel's glow That the cunning heathen strove to save. Thank God, to-day, that the world can show Brave souls who stand by an idol so. They break, not sell, And we know full well Thro' the riven shrine what jewels glow. 74 Charity I found my friend like a folded flower Not fully blown. Ah ! folded thus, how rarely sweet Her virtues shone! One ill-starred hour I pulled apart A tiny leaf And found a faded, blemished spot Concealed beneath. I quickly folded back the leaf, But yet — I saw Thro' all the bloom so gayly shown That single flaw. Then one sweet morn, I, weeping. Thought of all the years That Love had kept the fault concealed, And thro' my tears I looked, when lo ! a wondrous thing, 'T is past belief ! There was no change, but yet, I saw A perfect leaf. 75 Our Limitation If thou wouldst hold thy friend to thee Be sure that never day shall be When he may say, "I now know all That thou dost think, that thou dost call From out the farthest recess hid Within thy mind." Ah ! thou must bid A curtain fall and leave the folds Where, plainly shown, thy friend beholds And curious stands with questionings — ''What hides he yet of wondrous things?" Then thou art safe, for friends depart When once they know thy utmost art. 76 Hatred in Nuhihus I built a wall to hide thee, Thou neighbor, that I hate ! Why, then, dost ever mock me By knocking at my gate ? The neighbor naught replying, I climbed the wall to see. When a vacant house my spying Alone revealed to me. My fancy did the leading Through those resentful years : My neighbor, never heeding, Had dwelt remote from fears. 77 Thy Beulah Land (Isaiah.) No more shall desolations fall Upon thy vales or mountains tall. The desert blossoms as the rose And sunshine, warm and mellow, glows On every hill. Rich fruits hang low And topmost boughs bend low and glow With ripening fruit. The fir tree stands Where once the thorn thrust spiny hands. And soft and sweet where briers grew The wind's low music murmurs through The myrtle boughs. O'er Achor's vales The herds repose : no foe assails, And Sharon shows warm, peaceful folds, Where flocks abound. All Nature holds Pair Gilead's balm for longing mind. O ! happy people, thus to find The touch of such a loving Hand Transforming earth to Beulah Land. 78 One Flower of All ** Only one poor, little flower plowed under." — Alice Gary. The lily lifts its snowy cup In fragrance up. I know, indeed, the rose is here. The pinks appear In dear, old-fashioned places With loving faces. The maiden-hair waves dainty plumes From ferny homes. The woods are soft with moss, They know no loss. I still must grieve, e'en tho' you say That I some day Shall find full sheaves of golden wheat And treasures sweet Above the sod that hides my flower. Too sad the hour That turns the sod upon my one Whose sweet life 's done. — Written after the death of my dear little brother Frank. 79 Motherhood " Then said Elkanah her husband to her, Hannah, why weepest thou ? Am not I better to thee than ten sons ? ' * — I Samuel i, 8. Hear the low, sweet answer of the mother-heart — "God doth create two loves so far apart, My husband, that there Hes between A wide, deep river on whose breast serene A myriad golden chords doth bind and cross Each other, joining so that never any loss Of love is known to either, for He lays These wondrous threads, tho' running many ways, With one sure gathering in a mother's hand. I weep when I behold in all the land These happy mothers and I find my own Palm empty. Blame me not if here alone I go to pray : for I would lay my hand In thine, fast holding the sweet, thrilling band Of baby fingers. God will hear my prayer And grant to us a child, whose only care Will be to make the world more true and good For Him who gave the gift of motherhood. 80 Identification Now, why should I call this child of the street A kinsman of mine? What crest can he show of the curious design That the world, which I honor, shall know is a sign Of kinsman of mine? Ah ! behind him is standing One ready to greet Him as son — my Father ! how can I repeat Any challenge to him ? 'T is a brother I meet With a bond all complete. 81 The Brother of Low Estate ** Bowed by the weight of centuries, he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox.** —Edwin Markham in " The Man With the Hoe." "Brother to the ox !" Is this the meaning Upon the roughened palm, the stooping back ? The long, close-written pedigree that lacks No record of continuous toil? Gleaning No hour of joy, no recompense? Leaning Across the years, do we find only racks Of torture? See but stupid, backward tracks. With never upturned face to read the meaning The Lord God writes upon the "peaks of song?" O God, forbid! Shall we judge all the yield That to the centuries' harvesting belongs By one sad, straggling growth within the field ? Time's tragedy is there, and cruel wrongs That centuries have made and left unhealed. But surely 'gainst the dreary canvas falls Some gleam of light upon that "slanted brow." The "silence of the centuries" allows Interpretation now, as bugle call. To set our own to thundering at the wall To let in light. By so much he is now Above his dumb yoke-fellow at the plow. 82 So far, he 's past the darkest hour of all ; By so much he is nearer to the dawn, Though still he 's deaf to "music of the spheres/^ Who made him dull ? By whom were drawn Those bars that doomed a Soul to stunted years Instead of growth ? — why question ? We are born To free him. Why yield, then, to childish fears? There 's One who helps. He grants us all a place To grow, though blind to Pleiades' far swing Across the sky : though deaf to music's ring In rapturous dream: though dull to Nature's grace, Yet as safe-hidden in its wondrous case. The chrysalis, with patient, folded wing. Brooks never once man's clever mastering. So lives the stunted peasant, brute in face And gesture, holding what man can not mar Nor make. Lift cruel hands, O masters ! Wait And work with One who hides the tyrant's scar. He presses back with Love compassionate The dreadful Terror threatening near and far. Cease wailing o'er the world's impending fate, For God is with the man of low estate. 83 The Brotherhood of Man What means it now, this current phrase^ Rung out so oft in many ways ? We asked, and we v/ere answered soon. A-down the scorching street that noon We saw a boy come creeping o'er The burning pave. Foot-sore And weary. Lagging feet Made never haste the shade to meet. A comrade came from out a gate : "Hi, Jocky, run," he called, "you 're late!" For answer, Jocky shook his head And raised a blistered foot instead. No shoes ! The stones had burnt the flesh To torturing state. Each step afresh The misery grew. Then down The comrade knelt ; his brown Hands swiftly loosed his ragged shoe, Revealing there the blisters, too. He thrust it toward the suffering lad. "Here, take it, Jock ; mine ain't so bad." Then, quickly turning, sped away. Then we, through tears, beheld the Way, The Truth, the Life, as One had taught Long since, and Brotherhood had wrought. 84 Ploughed Under A turn of the plough and the Hght was gone, With a darkness drawn too close and deep For a hint of dawn to the seeds asleep. Asleep in the dark ! Could a dream be there, That high in the air was a lark's clear call To the daylight fair ? But was it a dream ? O, Power of Life ! What a puny strife Man sets for Thee When the air is rife With a will to he. Yet man has not read immortality. .85 Her Gift **The great Artificer, in putting together your individual nature, did not forget this crowning gift any more than He forgets o add its own fragrance to the arbutus or its own song to the ark." —Frances E. Willard in "How to Win." What was it, then, for her, — This matchless thing Which nothing should deter From taking wing ? What power, latent, still Lay folded in The chrysalis of will To help her win ? No rhythmic melody of thought Was hers ; no speech Quick flowing at the moment sought ; Nor could she teach. No special duty came To view. Alway Her work-days were the same, Day after day. Then, bowing low, she prayed, Lord, show me light. For truly Thou hast made This clearer sight. 86 And since I see, wilt Thou Grant further gift, And teach me where and how Mine eyes to lift? After long, weary years Of earnest seeking, She found with quiet tears Her gift in keeping. For Patience, gift so rare. Had crowned her days, And brought her now to share The winner's praise. 87 Let the Flag be There — After hearing an old soldier say, *' There 's too many flowers, I can't see the flag.** Long ago, when we marched away, Flowers and flags made pathways gay. Roses lay on the coats of blue, Flung by sweethearts dear and true. Flowers and flags ! But e'er the hour Of parting passed lay every flower Withered and dead : a sadder thing, O comrades, then for the breeze to fling Than the bonnie stars that floated high With a deathless beauty toward the sky. Lay it over the roses red. It came back with the heroes dead ; It went with them thro' strain of heart Life and country and death a part. Whether a shroud or a banner free. Ever the flag was there to see. Over the graves lay flowers fair. But over all, may our flag be there ! Memorial Day, 1896. 88 The Outgrown Nest But you ask, "Is Life Forever at strife With a growth to be?" O, no ! for the wings Of these fledgling things Will larger grow. When the need to fly To the far, blue sky, Where their nest-mates go. 89 Questionings A world so still at our feet That we hear its pulses beat With a rhythmic, monotonous repetition, So free from strife. Then the beautiful calm is lost And the pulse is fever tossed In a maddening, struggling competition. Now, which is Life? 90 With Broken Harp Life met me with a broken harp And bade me sing : Then filled my soul with strangely sweet Interpretings. I wept, rebellious, when I saw The broken thing And knew the rhythm in my soul I ne'er should sing. No sadder thing can be, I cried, Than this — to sing The soul's melodious rhapsodies With broken string. But years have taught this sadder thing— A harp complete, Yet in the soul discordant sounds Its chords to meet. 91 Found — Rossetti*s unfinished picture called *' Found" shows a countryman meeting his sweetheart, who had been lost, in every sense, in London. So much we see upon the canvas thrown — The London Bridge ; the rustic lover's swift, Despairing look for aid, as he would lift The fainting girl, who crouches 'gainst the stone And begs him to leave her and her guilt alone. O, sad, unfinished theme ! We read no shrift For sinning soul. We see no jot of sorrow lift From that young face, now old with anguish grown. We dream their story, writ in country lane— ^ A tender pastoral. We question how the maid E'er left its music for the harsh refrain Of city streets. O skillful brush, that laid The sequel bare ! O artist wise, to drain Thy pigments dry ! Man's touch would seem profane. 92 Hester Prynne *'She will not speak ! '* — Dimmersdale in **The Scarlet Letter." Y.ea, silent yet, tho' hushed they stand and wait — That crowd, all silent, too, with judging stare More keenly felt and harder still to bear Than all their censure. Can she love or hate So well that she can hold the guilty mate Of her own sin a secret, now, to keep Through such disgrace ? Aye, tho' the babe should weep. She will not speak, "Hester, speak; 't is not too late/' The pastor's voice, entreating, silence broke, While o'er the scarlet letter shone the sun, And Hester saw and heard and woke As from a dream. _"Nay, it is done: I '11 bear the shame alone!" O, woman's heart! This could not be, did God not bear a part. 93 Plagiarism What plagiarists you are, ye poets crowned, Who write us verse to bring the moonlit night A-near, interpreting to duller sight Poetic beauties that you say abound In Nature's strongholds, ne'er to be found Save by a Poet's prying. While you write, One, listening in the woods with never right To scholar's gown, interprets all the sound From primrose banks of whip-poor-will's clear call. You make no clearer "music of the spheres" When you repeat the scene in rhythmic fall Of many words. With lifted hat, he hears In those bird-notes the wondrous theme of all Thy poems, nay, has heard them all the years. 94 Why Waits Queen Summer? Why waits Queen Summer when the Autumn haze Comes stealing thro' the gates that open wide On frosty hinge ? Ah ! gathered at her side, Rose spirits keep a tryst made those June days When, wild with joy in rose-embowered ways, Queen Summer promised, in her joy and pride, Returning bloom to every rose that died. With trailing scepter, now, she turns to gaze On generous Autumn. Will he aid her now ? For answer, lo ! the woods and fields aglow With tints incarnate of that reckless vow In far-off June, but yet no roses blow For perfume ; life of every rose is lost In all the jeweled splendor of the frost. 95 Indian Summer O ! Autumn, hang thy crimson banners low And hide the frost-tipped maple leaves, for see,. The Summer has not gone : far o'er the lea E'en now we hear midsummer sounds and know How glad the cricket is for mellow glow Of summer sun to warm him. Melody From birds now southward bound in ecstasy We hear, late flying thro' the thistle's snow. O, man ! Be glad that in life's later years There comes this quiet time e'er yet the frost Shuts out Life's summer. Stay thy wearing fears And see again the joys you thought were lost. For lo ! no happier thing in life we know Than this returning dream of long ago. 96 The Thanksgiving Test The years hold each a time when we may test Our own progression in the race we run So fast we scarce can see if we have done That which maturer judgment may call best. Full oft we question with a quickened zest For better things. Was that a goal well won? Or was it reached by meanly shoving one Aside more weary grown with greater need of rest? Give thanks! The clear command strikes thro' the mind With rapid search for cause for Thankfulness. If we can find but selfishness defined In our review 't is certain we have less Progression made than one long left behind Who 's helped some other soul to happiness. 97 The Day's Reckoning When morning dawned for us, what wondrous deeds To help the world did we resolve to do ! With joyful haste did we begin to strew The way with flowers plucked in dewy meads — Sweet, common blossoms that we tho't were weeds. And hastened on to where, with purpose true, We might do service, knowing not that few Great deeds are numbered in the World's deep needs. And lo! in the swift journey of the day This was revealed. No greater deed was done Than that first cheerful strewing of the way With bloom where tired feet had hourly run On greater errands. Yet blind are we Who watch Life's distant heights so wistfully. 98 St. Silverus: A Christmas Legend Long, long ago there came a peasant lad With his own Yuletide sheaf of perfect wheat, And stood, with modest looks, in wait, to greet The wondrous King. Around him rang the glad Hosannas ; but his heart grew strangely sad To see the hungry birds, too weak to meet The peasant's blows, fly here and there with sweet, Imploring cries. At last, he sobbed, "Yea, Lord, I had A perfect sheaf ; but these so hungry arc. What can I do but give?" Then, wondrous thing! The birds, with carols sweet, flew to a star, And Silverus, in trembling haste, did bring His sheaf ; for lo ! the Holy One afar. With tender smile, did take his offering. 99 An Autumn Thought When Autumn throws that witching, amber haze O'er woods and hills and dales as if to hide The splendor of the world on every side, We know 't is Nature's tenderness that lays A shadow lest we shrink from Winter's grays, Whose sentinels of frost e'en now abide Near every gorgeous plant whose bloom has died E'er yet the coming of the bleak, cold days. So age doth find a dimming veil between Life's sweet, entrancing dreams of green and gold, Like the autumnal haze thro' which are seen The quiet grays so near — the story told Of all the bloom and seed that now lies low In patient waiting for the Winter's snow. 100 MAY 10 1909 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 909 213 6 L