. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. d^ap. dop^rtg^i If n. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. °K 11 !336 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. FOR A WOMAN. A Novel. i6mo. $1.00. " I have just read it at a single sitting", for I could not leave it. It is a success, and I am sure the reading public will so regard it. It is piquant as well as pathetic, and, what is best of all, whole- some."— JOHN G. Whittier. A BOOK OF LOVE STORIES. One volume. i6mo. Price, $r.oo. '' Fresh and rlavorous as newly-gathered wood-strawberries. . . . Of the right length for reading in rocky nooks of the seashore, or bird-haunted orchards." — Portland Press. " Old-fashioned love-stories, healthy in sentiment, and told with entire freedom from intensity or exaggeration. . . . No one will lay down her book without being re-enforced in that fidelity to every- day relations which is the salvation of society." — Christian Union. AFTER THE BALL, HER LOVER'S FRIEND, AND OTHER POEMS. Two volumes in one. " Her verse embodies the very soul of cheer." — E. P.WHIPPLE. " With the music, there is to be felt in all her verse the spirit of purity, of innocence, of freshness, and youth." — HARRIET PRES- COTT SPOFFORD. THE TRAGEDY OF THE UNEXPECTED, AND OTHER STORIES. A Book of Short Stories. $1.25. " Her prose is almost as charming as her poetry, which is saying a great deal. Any one of the stories of her little book represents a half-hour of genuine enjoyment." — Boston Transcript. For sale by all booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the publishers, TICKNOR AND COMPANY, Boston. New Songs and Ballads BY NORA PERRY AUTHOR OF "AFTER THE BALL." " FOR A WOMAN," ETC. BOSTON TICKNOR AND COMPANY 1887 Copyright, 188b, By Nora Perry. All rights reserved. John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. ^ CONTENTS. Page The Old Year to the New 9 Promise and Fulfilment 15 The Secrets of the Spring 20 March Winds 23 April the Handmaiden 25 The Song of May 29 Roses 31 The Day Lily 34 Summer's Decay 36 To-morrow 41 Youth and Age 43 Next Year 45 From Darkness to Light 48 Experience 50 His Will for Ours , .' 52 A Prayer 54 Behind the Mask 56 The Hidden Way 60 The Cry of the Doubter 63 Too Late 68 Vi CONTENTS. Page Necessity 70 Abraham Lincoln's Christmas Gift 73 Wendell Phillips 76 Contrast 81 Cressid 86 Henry of Navarre before Paris 90 My Princess 95 Under the Mistletoe 99 King George's Towns 108 The Christmas Gale 113 The Famine 119 Thanksgiving Day 122 The Puritan Easter 127 Why Doth it Come to Pass ? 139 To-morrow at Ten 142 A Question 148 In the Crowd 150 Abdicated 152 On the Stairs 154 Running the Blockade 159 Delay 167 Unattained t68 Who Knows? 171 Waiting 173 A Girl of Girls 176 The Princess's Holiday 180 The Children's Cherry-Feast 188 NEW SONGS AND BALLADS. THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW. With hands full of gifts and cheeks like a rose, There you wait At my gate While my winter wind blows; And you laugh, as you stand there, a laugh full of scorn, At the sight Of the plight Of the graybeard forlorn, IO THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW. And the stories he tells of the months that have sped: "What, I — I," You cry, " When my twelve months have fled, " To bend and to totter, to sigh and to shake, And like you There to rue The vows that I break? "Not I, oh, not I," you scornfully say; " I shall stand Where you stand, As blithe as to-day, THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW. I T " When one after one my twelve months have sped; Not a fear, Not a tear, Shall I murmur or shed." So, my youngster, you laugh, as you stand there untried, As you wait At my gate In your ignorant pride. So I boasted and laughed when I stood in your place ; But to-day, Ah! to-day, At the end of my race, 12 THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW. I count up the gifts that I sold for a song. In that time Of my prime, When lusty and strong, My plans were so easy, my promises rife, And pleasure The measure And limit of life. But my easy-laid plans not so easily sped, And alas ! And alas ! Ere the twelve months had fled, THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW. 1 3 I found what my fine boasted wisdom was worth, And that haste Had made waste On my kingdom of earth. But what use for me here to counsel and pray, When you heed Not indeed A word that I say, When impatient you wait for my gate to un- close, With that air Debonair, And that cheek like a rose ! 14 THE OLD YEAR TO THE NEW. Well, well, enter in — the gates are flung wide : There or here, God is near, Whatsoever betide. PROMISE AND FULFILMENT. When the February sun Shines in long slant rays, and the dun Gray skies turn red and gold, And the winter's cold Is touched here and there With the subtle air That seems to come From the far-off home l6 PROMISE AND FULFILMENT. Of the orange and palm, With their breath of balm, And the bluebird's throat Swells with a note Of rejoicing gay, Then we turn and say, " Why, Spring is near ! " II. When the first fine grass comes up In pale green blades, and the cup Of the crocus pushes its head Out of its chilly bed, And purple and gold Begins to unfold PROMISE AND FULFILMENT. \J In the morning sun, While rivulets run Where the frost had set Its icy seal, and the sills are wet With the drip, drip, drip, From the wooden lip Of the burdened eaves Where the pigeon grieves, And coos and woos, And softly sues, Early and late, Its willing mate, Then with rejoicing gay We turn and say, " Why, Spring is here ! " PROMISE AND FULFILMENT. III. When all the brown earth lies Beneath the blue bright skies, Clothed with a mantle of green, A shining, varying sheen, And the scent and sight of the rose, And the purple lilac-blows, Here, there, and everywhere, Meet one and greet one till One's senses tingle and thrill With the heaven and earth born sweetness, The sign of the earth's completeness, Then lifting our voices we say, " Oh, stay, thou wonderful day ! Thou promise of Paradise, PROMISE AND FULFILMENT. 1 9 That to heart and soul doth suffice. Stay, stay ! nor hasten to fly When the moon of thy month goes by, For the crown of the seasons is here, — June, June, the queen of the year ! " THE SECRETS OF THE SPRING. COME out and hear the robins sing, And hear the bluebirds' tale of spring, And see the swallows on the wing. Come out and listen, listen low, And hear the grasses as they grow, And list the little winds that blow, And learn to read their secret well, — The secret that they softly tell To bird and bee in drowsy dell, THE SECRETS OF THE SPRING. 21 Of bloomy banks that are to be, Of fragrant field and leafy tree, And all the summer mystery Of bud and blossom, flower and fruit, That quickens now in sap and root, And now in tender springing shoot. Come out, come out, the days are long, But Nature sings her secret song In secret ways, — the days are long; But swift as sweet from day to day, From hour to hour, the tuneful lay Runs headlong on a changeful way. 22 THE SECRETS OF THE SPRING. Come out, then, in the early glow Of early springtime's bud and blow, — Come out and hear the grasses grow, And all the secrets of the spring That melt and murmur, speak and sing, To ears attuned to listening. MARCH WINDS. When rough and wild the March winds blow, Beneath the ice we look, and lo ! We see the brooks begin to flow. When wilder yet the wild winds sing, We hark and hear the bluebird ring His silver trumpet of the spring. No bitter winds can him dismay; Though icy currents check the way, He scents to-morrow in to-day. 24 MARCH WINDS. He knows that what hath been shall be; He doth not wait as we to see The bloom and bud upon the tree, To measure out his joyful song; Though bud and bloom be hidden long, His faith is sure, his hope is strong. APRIL THE HANDMAIDEN. Let March have his say For a day — Crack his cheeks as he blows Wind and snows Over valley and hill At his will : Let March have his say; But one day, 'Mid his winds and his snows, Ere he knows, 26 APRIL THE HANDMAIDEN. He will hear my feet As they beat " On the dust of his hills, By his rills; He will see my face In its place, Through the mist and the dew Shining through. " What, you," he will shout, " Think to rout The lion in his path And his wrath? You, the handmaid of May, Think to stay My will and my power In this hour? " APRIL THE HANDMAIDEN. 2J Then on mountain and hill, Sharp and shrill, I shall hear the north Wind pouring forth In its might, to o'erthrow And lay low Me, the handmaid of May, On my way. But swift I shall leap, As from sleep, And blow from my mouth The sweet south, And drench the dry plain With my rain; And to conquer at length All the strength 28 APRIL THE HANDMAIDEN. Of my foolish fierce foe I '11 let go All the warmth of my soul, As I roll Back the veil I had spun From the sun. Then I look for my foe, And lo! Nor on mountain or plain Will he reign ; But somewhither, somewhere, On the air, I shall hear his " Godspeed and good-day, O handmaid of May ! " THE SONG OF MAY. MARCH and April, go your way ! You have had your fitful day; Wind and shower, and snow and sleet, Make wet walking for my feet, — For I come unsandalled down From the hillsides bare and brown ; But wherever I do tread, There I leave a little thread Of bright emerald, softly set . Like a jewel in the w r et; 30 THE SONG OF MAY. And I make the peach-buds turn Pink and white, until they burn Rosy red within their cells; Then I set the bloomy bells Of the flowery alder ringing, And the apple-blossoms swinging In a shower of rosy snow, As I come and as I go On my gay and jocund way, — I, the merry Princess May. ROSES. Blow, roses, blow Your pink and snow, Your gold and red, Ere June hath fled. Your time is brief For bud and leaf; But in your hour Of perfect flower, Who doth not wait Upon your state; 32 ROSES. Who doth not own That you alone Hold Beauty's dower From flower to flower, And reign alone On Beauty's throne? What though your stay Be but a day? Your bloom and breath Survive your death, Haunt all the year, So sweet, so dear You made the day Of your brief stay. roses. 33 So, seeming dead, Some brief lives shed After their close Sweets like the rose. THE DAY LILY. JUST for a day, for a day I break into bloom, — Just for a day, for a day I shed my perfume. Just for a day, for a day — " Alack and alas, How fleeting and brief thy stay ! " They cry as I pass. But, fleeting and brief, I give The wealth of my soul, THE DAY LILY. 35 Just for the day that I live, Without stint or control. What more can a life bestow, Though it last but a day, Than all of its warmth and glow Ere it passes away? SUMMER'S DECAY. WHEN my first roses shed Their petals, and lay dead, I knew my foe Decay Had struck at my sweet day Of summer breath and bloom. I heard my knell of doom Sung by the sighing trees With every wandering breeze. And then and there I seemed To see as one who dreamed SUMMER'S DECAY. 37 A long procession pass Across the springing grass, — Sweet ghosts of the dead flowers That bloomed in last year's hours. And stately at the head, All clad in white and red, Shedding their dewy scent, My fair June darlings went; And following after, stept My lilies, who had kept Their garments white as snow, While their warm hearts did glow With all the golden fire That summer suns inspire. 38 SUMMER'S DECAY. All blooms and blossoms fair Followed and followed there, Until I did behold, White as the stars, and cold, My pale chrysanthemums pass; And then I knew, alas ! The end had come; and knew, While still the warm winds blew, My darlings of to-day Like this were on their way To join the ghostly throng; Like this would move along, Pale visions, dead and dear, To haunt another year. SUMMER'S DECAY. 39 Shuddering, I moaned and wept, And in that moment crept Shadows of storm and night Across my summer light. "What is my summer pride?" Moaning, I wept and cried ; "Why do I hold my way, If only to decay? " Then suddenly I heard Amid my boughs a bird Lifting a heavenly voice. " Rejoice, and yet rejoice," He sang, and sang again: " Out of this earth-bound pain, 40 SUMMER'S DECAY. Out of this dread decay, I lift my heavenly lay." Higher and higher still, Sweet with a sweeter thrill, Lifted that heavenly song. Borne on its wings along, I saw the bloom and birth Of the new heaven and earth ; And all my flowery host, Each sweet departing ghost, Seemed in my ears to sing, " No fair and beauteous thing, Nothing of precious cost, Nothing we love, is lost." TO-MORROW. To-morrow, and to-morrow, Oh, fair and far away What treasures lie, when hope is high Along your shining way. What promises fulfilled, What better deeds to do Than ever yet, are softly set Beneath your skies of blue. To-morrow, and to-morrow, Oh, sweet and far away, 42 TO-MORROW. Still evermore lead on before Along your shining way. Still evermore lift up our eyes Above what we have won, To higher needs, and finer deeds That we have left undone. YOUTH AND AGE. " So slow, so slow/' one cried, " The hours creep by ! " " So swift, so swift," one sighed, " The short years fly ! " " So sweet, so sweet," one sang, " These days of bloom ! " " So brief, so brief! " out rang A voice of doom. One lifted, as she sung, A summer face, 44 YOUTH AND AGE. Gold-crowned and fair and young, With summer's grace. One turned a weary head, With backward gaze, Toward the sunset red Of dying days. NEXT YEAR. " Next year, next year ! " we say, When come to nought Our plans and projects gay, Our bright dreams, fraught With brighter hopes, that shine On that far rim Of life's horizon line, Where dreams lie dim And touched with morning dew, — " Next year, next year ! " 46 NEXT YEAR. And while we plan anew, The days grow sere, The year has fled, and lo ! We Ve left behind The glory and the glow We hoped to find, And missed again the clew We meant to heed, — The cherished plan to do Some cherished deed. " Next year, next year ! " Oh, why not now, Delaying soul, this year Keep word and vow? NEXT YEAR. 47 Oh, why not now and here, Why not to-day, Before another year Shall run away, Keep word and faith or ere An hour's delay; Make good the promise fair, To-day, to-day? FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT. Where is the promise of the day I thought was mine but yesterday? Turned cold and gray, Fled quite away, No remnant can I find, no blessed ray To cheer me with its faint fair light Through the dark gathering night, That like a blight Seems from my sight To shut out hope, and leave in dull despite FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT. 49 Hope's threatening demon, dread despair. But, as I make my moan, somewhere Through the thick air I hear — ah ! where ? — A tender voice that like a bell doth bear Comfort and hope unto my soul, — Comfort and hope and brave control. " Though clouds do roll, O fainting soul," It cries, " see, close at hand shines Heaven thy goal." EXPERIENCE. Sad is her voice, but sweet; Low doth she speak to greet Those that do come to meet And walk her ways. Low doth she speak, with stress That ofttimes pitiless Doth seem to new distress. But when the days Pass on to make the years, And, one by one, youth's fears And penalty of tears Begin to cease, EXPERIENCE. 5 1 Then doth she turn and sing, " Courage ! for lo ! the King Cometh at last to bring Thy glad release ! " HIS WILL FOR OURS. If only I might go, And you could stay, Who love the world and know Your time to say The last good-by has come, — If only I Could find the heavenly home, Could drop and die For you, and you could meet From day to day This life that is so sweet To you, so gay HIS WILL FOR OURS. 53 With earthly joys and gains, While mine is filled With losses and with pains, That leave me chilled And changed unto the core ! But while I stay, You go — thus evermore His will, His way, Not ours. But ours to wait, Patient and still, To learn that love, not hate, Follows His will. A PRAYER. ANOINT my eyes that I may see Through all this sad obscurity, This worldly mist that dims my sight, These crowding clouds that hide the light. Full vision, as perhaps have they Who walk beyond the boundary way, I do not seek, I do not ask, But only this, — that through the mask A PRAYER. 55 Which centuries of soil and sin Have fashioned for us, I may win A clearer sight to show me where Truth walks with faith divine and fair. BEHIND THE MASK. " SHE speaks and smiles the old gay way, She is the same as yesterday," You turn and say; The same as yesterday, before The dark-winged angel at her door Entered and bore The treasure of her life away: "The same, the same as yesterday." And as you say BEHIND THE MASK. 57 These questioning words with questioning tone, Apart from you and quite alone She makes her moan; Even as she stands before you there With all the old accustomed air, — The smiles that wear The mirthful mask of yesterday, — She stands alone and far away From yesterday. She stands alone and quite apart, With mirth and song her aching heart Has lot nor part. 58 BEHIND THE MASK. The while you criticise her air Of gay response, pierced with despair She does not dare To speak aloud her bitterness, To tell you of her loneliness And sore distress. She does not dare to trust her woe To break its bonds, her tears to flow In outward show, Lest, like a giant in her life This woe should rise, to stronger life And fiercer strife. BEHIND THE MASK. 59 So, wearing on her face the guise Of olden smiles, with tearless eyes She dumbly tries To lift her burden to the light, To live by faith and not by sight, And from the night Of new despair and wasting grief At last, at last to find relief Beyond belief. THE HIDDEN WAY. Oh, what was the way you took that day, That day that you went from me? You called me twice, and you called me thrice, I heard, but I could not see. I dared not look, for I could not brook To see my darling's face Take on some strange and terrible change That should mar its tender grace. You called me twice, and you called me thrice. My name was the very last THE HIDDEN WAY. 6 1 On your lips that day, as you went that way, — A way I had followed fast, Oh, fast where'er my love did fare, If the hidden way I had known ; No fear had stayed, no doubts delayed, For I should have followed my own. Yet even then, ah, even then, When you called upon my name, You were out of reach of my touch or speech, And beyond my call or claim. But even then, ah, even then You 'd have turned to me, my dear, And left all heaven, had strength been given, To have shared my darkness here. 62 THE HIDDEN WAY. But vain, oh, vain, and worse than vain, My agony or yours; Death sends no ray to light that way, Nor will, while Time endures. THE CRY OF THE DOUBTER. If we could go some day, Before Age claims us for his prey, Drop out of all this strife That we call life, And without coward fears, Or fainting flesh, or wasting tears, Find suddenly the land Of all our dreams, and stand There, face to face with treasure lost, The friends whose dread departure cost Our souls such sore distress, Such agonies of wretchedness, — 64 THE CRY OF THE DOUBTER. If we could go like this, With consciousness of bliss Set full before us, who would stay To linger on the way Through weary year by year Till time was ripe and sere With length of days and loss? But set upon the cross Of mystery and pain We wait and wait again, Perhaps through threescore years Of doubting hopes and fears, And at the end we say, "Ah, what a little day Of joy is life, and long, oh, long, The day of pain." Then from the throng THE CRY OF THE DOUBTER. 6$ We drop away, while others sigh, Bending above our clay, and cry, As we have cried, " Why should we wait like this In darkness and in doubt; why miss So much of life in wasting pain?" O mystery of loss and gain, Behind your veil what answer lies? Is it some splendor of surprise That consciousness might here defeat, — Some joy too high for us to meet One moment even, face to face, While thus within earth's dull embrace, The fetters of the flesh, we stand? Are we upon the border-land Of greater life thus blindly driven, Lest if some sudden glimpse were given 5 66 THE CRY OF THE DOUBTER. Of that near heaven, we could not stay To wait upon Time's slow delay, But in some moment rash might break The bond of flesh, and boldly take Both law and life in eager hands, Part once for all these mortal bands To reach that glory, far, yet near, That we had glimpsed, — that radiant sphere That holds the payment of all pain? O mystery of loss and gain, Is this the meaning of it all, — The doubt, the darkness, and the pall That shuts us in? O Christ! O God! If once you rolled away the sod And lifted death to life for eyes Of earth — if once that high surprise THE CRY OF THE DOUBTER. 67 You dared to give, for us once more, Who languish on this barren shore Of doubting times, whose blighting bale Has girt us round, lift up the veil, Roll back the sod, and give us grace To look beyond this narrow space ! TOO LATE. What silences we keep year after year With those who are most near to us and dear ! We live beside each other day by day, And speak of myriad things, but seldom say The full, sweet word that lies just in our reach, Beneath the commonplace of common speech. Then out of sight and out of reach they go, — These close familiar friends, who loved us so ; And, sitting in the shadow they have left, Alone with loneliness, and sore bereft, TOO LATE. 69 We think with vain regret of some fond word That once we might have said and they have heard. For weak and poor the love that we expressed Now seems beside the vast, sweet ^expressed, And slight the deeds we did, to those undone, And small the service spent, to treasure won, And undeserved the praise for word and deed That should have overflowed the simple need. This is the cruel cross of life, — to be Full visioned only when the ministry Of death has been fulfilled, and in the place Of some dear presence is but empty space. What recollected services can then Give consolation for the " might have been"? NECESSITY. Gaunt-faced and hungry-eyed she waits, This sombre warder of our fates, Forever sleepless while we sleep, And silent while we moan and weep. Sometimes, beguiled by smiling skies And wooing winds, we shut our eyes, Forgetting for a little space That tireless, unforgetting face. Or, stirred as stirs the sap in spring By Nature's force, we laugh and sing, NECESSITY. 71 Or run to pass that waiting shape With flying footsteps of escape. But where we run she leads the way, She goes before us night and day; No flying footsteps can escape, By any path, that sombre shape. Always she waits with whip and spur To urge us on if we demur; With bitter breath we call her " foe," As driven thus we rise and go. The roads we follow wind and twist, Our eyes grow blind with blinding mist, Blown down to us as we ascend The upland heights that near the end. *]2 NECESSITY. And at the end — "Where is our foe? Where hideth she?" we cry; and lo ! Through breaking mist, an angel's face Looks out upon us from her place ! ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 'TWAS in eighteen hundred and sixty four, That terrible year when the shock and roar Of the nation's battles shook the land, And the fire leapt up into fury fanned, — The passionate, patriotic fire, With its throbbing pulse and its wild desire To conquer and win, or conquer and die, In the thick of the fight when hearts beat high With the hero's thrill to do and to dare, 'Twixt the bullet's rush and the muttered prayer. 74 ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. In the North, and the East, and the great North- west, Men waited and watched with eager zest For news of the desperate, terrible strife, — For a nation's death or a nation's life ; While over the wires there flying sped News of the wounded, the dying and dead. " Defeat and defeat ! ah ! what was the fault Of the grand old army's sturdy assault At Richmond's gates?" in a querulous key Men questioned at last impatiently, As the hours crept by, and day by day They watched the Potomac Army at bay. Defeat and defeat! It was here, just here, In the very height of the fret and fear, Click, click ! across the electric wire Came suddenly flashing w T ords of fire, And a great shout broke from city and town At the news of Sherman's marching down, — Marching down on his w T ay to the sea Through the Georgia swamps to victory. Faster and faster the great news came, Flashing along like tongues of flame, — McAllister ours ! And then, ah ! then, To that patientest, tenderest, noblest of men, This message from Sherman came flying swift, — " I send you Savannah for a Christmas gift ! " WENDELL PHILLIPS. ALONG the streets one day with that swift tread He walked a living king — then, " He is dead ! " The whisper flew from lip to lip, while still Sounding within our ears the echoing thrill Of his magician's voice we seemed to hear In notes of melody ring near and clear. So near, so clear, men cried, " It cannot be ! It was but yesterday he spoke to me; But yesterday we saw him move along, His head above the crowd, swift-paced and strong; WENDELL PHILLIPS. JJ But yesterday his plan and purpose sped, — It cannot be to-day that he is dead ! " A moment thus, half-dazed, men met and spoke, When first the sudden news upon them broke : A moment more, with sad acceptance turned To face the bitter truth that they had spurned. Friends said, through tears, " How empty seems the town ! " And warring critics laid their weapons down. He had his faults, they said, but they were faults Of head and not of heart, — his sharp assaults, Flung seeming heedless from his quivering bow, And heedless striking either friend or foe, 78 WENDELL PHILLIPS. Were launched with eyes that saw not foe or friend, But only, shining far, some goal or end That, compassed once, should bring God's sav- ing grace To purge and purify the human race. The measure that he meted out he took, And blow for blow received without a look, Without a sign of conscious hurt or hate To stir the tranquil calmness of his state. Born on the heights and in the purple bred, He chose to walk the lowly ways instead, That he might lift the wretched, and defend The rights of those who languished for a friend. WENDELL PHILLIPS. 79 So many years he spent in listening To these sad cries of wrong and suffering, It was not strange, perhaps, he thought the right Could never live upon the easeful height, Nor strange indeed that slow suspicion grew Against the class whose tyrannies he knew. But bitter and unsparing as his speech, He meant alone the evil deed to reach. No hate of persons winged his fiery shaft; He had no hatred but for cruel craft And selfish measurements, where human Might Bore down upon the immemorial Right. Even while he dealt his bitterest blows at power, No bitterness that high heart could devour. SO WENDELL PHILLIPS. How at the last this great heart conquered all, We know who watched above his sacred pall, — One day a living king he faced a crowd Of critic foes; over the dead king bowed A throng of friends who yesterday were those Who thought themselves, and whom the world thought, foes. CONTRAST. The bells of Lent rang up, rang down, Through all the babel of the town ; Rang soft, rang clear, rang loud or low, As loud or low March w r inds did blow r . Through wide-flung doors the hurrying^ throng Caught hint of psalm and snatch of song, — The high-strung song of plaint and prayer, Of cross, and passion, and despair. One, hurrying by amid the throng, Who caught the sweetness of the song 82 CONTRAST. Above the turmoil of the street, Turned suddenly her weary feet, And through the wide-flung doors passed in From out the w T eek-day whirl and din. "Call me away from flesh and sense — Thy grace, O Lord, can draw me thence," In fervent tones the singers sang, While solemnly the organ rang. " From flesh and sense/' — the words struck clear Upon the stranger's listening ear. "From flesh and sense." She looked across The sunlit aisles, where glint and gloss Of diamond-Are and satin shone, — A princess' raiment, that had won CONTRAST. 83 A prince's ransom in the past, — Across the aisles, then downward cast Her seeking glance in bitter heed Of raiment that scarce met the need That winter keen and merciless Brought home to her with savage stress. And they, — they neither toil nor spin, These lilies fair, apparelled in These costly robes, while others strive, And mourn to find themselves alive Beneath the burdens of the day, That leave small time or wish to pray. " Call me away from flesh and sense," When flesh itself seems half drawn thence. 84 CONTRAST. " For you, for you, O favored ones, These silken stalls, these organ tones/' Her bitter thought ran, as the prayer Floated in music on the air. " For you, for you this house you call The house of God; for me the thrall " Of toil and toil, from day to day, While life wastes sordidly away In vainest hope and dull despair Of some sweet time, when one from care " May pause and rest a little space, And meet life's bright things face to face. But faint of heart, and very low Of hope and comfort, I but know CONTRAST. 85 " In these dark days the needs of earth. All else seems now of little worth ; And little worth your silken prayer Against my wall of dull despair." CRESSID. Has any one seen my Fair, Has any one seen my Dear? Could any one tell me .where And whither she went from here? The road is winding and long, With many a turn and twist, And one could easy go wrong, Or ever one thought or list. How should one know my Fair, And how should one know my Dear? CRESSID. 87 By the dazzle of sunlight hair That smites like a golden spear. By the eyes that say " Beware," By the smile that beckons you near, — This is to know my Fair, This is to know my Dear. Rough and bitter as gall The voice that suddenly comes Over the windy wall Where the fishermen have their homes : — " Ay, ay, we know full well The way your fair one went: 88 CRESSID. She led by the ways of Hell, And into its torments sent " The boldest and bravest here, Who knew nor guilt nor guile, Who knew not shadow of fear Till he followed that beckoning smile. " Now would you find your Fair, Now would you find your Dear? Go, turn and follow her where And whither she went from here, " Along by the winding path That leads by the old sea-wall : The wind blows wild with wrath, And one could easily fall CRESSID. 89 " From over the rampart there, If one should lean too near, To look for the sunlight hair That smites like a golden spear ! " HENRY OF NAVARRE BEFORE PARIS. Down upon the 'leaguered town With forty thousand men he rode : The fields were bare, the meadows brown, The starving cattle faintly lowed. But conquering hero he rode down, — As if to hawk and bells he rode, — While fields were bare and meadows brown, And starving cattle faintly lowed. And just without the 'leaguered town They pitched their tents along the road, HENRY OF NAVARRE BEFORE PARIS. gi Or in the fields and meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed. Day after day they stormed the town; Day after day he laughing rode Across the fields and meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed. One day from out the 'leaguered town There faltered forth along the road, And by the fields and meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed, A wretched throng. The 'leaguered town Had cast aside its useless load, And by the fields and meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed, 92 HENRY OF NAVARRE BEFORE PARIS. They faltered up, they faltered down, Half dazed with fear, along the road. Then, by the fields and meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed, The hero who had stormed the town Day after day, and careless rode, Day after day by meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed, With swift, sharp strokes came riding down Along the white and dusty road, Unheeding still the meadows brown, The starving cattle as they lowed. His face was set beneath a frown ; His laughing eyes, that had bestowed HENRY OF NAVARRE BEFORE PARIS. 93 No glance upon the meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed, Now fierce yet soft looked shining down Upon the groups that thronged the road. Blind to the meadows bare and brown, Deaf to the cattle as they lowed, His great heart suddenly bore down The conqueror's pride, and back he rode Past all the fields and meadows brown Where starving cattle faintly lowed. He fed the people of the town, — These famished groups that thronged the road, — And through the fields and meadows brown He called the cattle as they lowed, 94 HENRY OF NAVARRE BEFORE PARIS, And fed them all. Then from the town He turned away, and lightly rode Past all the fields and meadows brown, With face that shone and eyes that glowed. "Vive Dieu ! " he cried, "I'll take no town By famine's scourge : a fairer road Must Henry of Navarre ride down To find his triumphs well bestowed. " MY PRINCESS. She walks beyond me fair and far, As yon fair ship beyond the bar Stands out to sea, or, in delay, At anchor rides day after day. Day after day, before my eyes, Just out of reach, the white sails rise : Just out of reach, day after day, Like this she keeps and holds her way, Who holds and sways my heart, until Within my soul some tenser thrill g6 MY PRINCESS. Wakes into life, and I forget A moment then the gulf that yet Between us lies, the swelling sea That separates my love from me. My love ! With bated breath I name Her thus, yet even thus dare not proclaim To her, before whom others kneel, The throes of passion that I feel. And yet — and yet, day after day, She leads me on with looks that say What speech denies, with smiles that prick My armor through, though leaden thick. The daughter of a regnant queen, My princess fair, doth she demean MY PRINCESS. 97 Her high estate, stoop from her place, To lure a victim by her grace? Even while this doubt assaileth me, Amidst the courtly throng I see A face that for an instant there Seems touched with some divine despair, — A look of human need and loss That like a shadow flits across The eyes whose smile but yesternight Shone with a bright, alluring light. Another moment, down the room Her gay laugh rings. I catch the bloom Of sudden roses on her cheek; I meet her glance ; I hear her speak 7 98 MY PRINCESS. In jesting words, — the old light way. But down the room the harpers play Wild waltzes, with a dying fall In every note, a plaintive call Of passionate, entreating pain Inwoven with each mirthful strain. I listen, and remember there The face touched with divine despair, — I listen, lifting up my heart; I look, where near and yet apart She holds her way afar from me, — Afar yet near; I look, and see My love, though seas may roll between ! My own, though kingdoms stand between ! UNDER THE MISTLETOE. She stood before the chimney-place, A little maid of winsome grace, And watched the great flames leap and dance, With merriest mischief in her glance. Along the floor, across the wall, The fire's bright light did flash and fall, And for the moment made the room Of grimmest Puritanic gloom Shine with a festal glow and gleam In every nook, on every beam 100 UNDER THE MISTLETOE. Of solid oak; and on the snow Across the road it seemed to throw Its gay, inviting radiance, Where oaken shutters gave a chance From heart-shaped loopholes rudely cut, Or from some crevice left unshut. "Good Master Matthews holds perchance A feast to-night," one said askance, Who hastened by. "A feast of saints ; No wicked revelry attaints "Our godly brother," answered back A guest, who, following on the track Of beaten snow, quick overheard This flippant tone and jesting word. UNDER THE MISTLETOE. IOI Low laughed the merry jester there Beneath his breath. " If I could share Good Master Matthews' cheer to-night," He whispered soft, " I 'd see a sight "Worth half a year of pangs and pains, Or priestly penance for the stains Of heedless sins; but I, alack! I am a foolish youth, too slack " Of solemn sighs, too rife with mirth, To be a Puritan of worth, And Master Matthews' bidden guest On such a night as this — 'tis best, "Perhaps; for if sweet Mistress Ann Should look a laugh, as I'm a man 102 UNDER THE MISTLETOE. I should so follow suit, they'd gaze And gaze at me with shocked amaze. " Meantime, within the mansion there He passed so gayly by, this fair And winsome Mistress Ann did face Good Master Matthews in disgrace. Twas when the twenty candles' light Flared suddenly upon a sight Taboo to Puritanic eyes, — "What, what!" good Master Matthews cries With heat and haste, " this mummery here Beneath my roof!" — "But, cousin dear, 'Tis Christmas Eve, you know, and so This holly-wreath and mistletoe UNDER THE MISTLETOE. 103 " I brought from over seas — " "What then?'' He swift returns. " These godly men And dames who are my guests to-night Scorn all such tricks that would bedight "Such sacred things with vain ado." Here Mistress Ann returned: "I, too, Good cousin, — am I not your guest, With right to courtesy the best?" Struck dumb with this reproach he stood. Who hesitates is lost. "Ah, good My cousin, leave it all to me ! " Laughed Mistress Ann right merrily; "I'll take the blame, I'll take the shame, I promise you, and with my claim 104 UNDER THE MISTLETOE. Of latest guest from over seas I '11 stake my word I '11 conquer these " Grim Puritans, good cousin mine ! Now let us make the candles shine Anew, for here they come." She ran . Like any deer, this Mistress Ann, Just here, and, laughing, stood beneath The mistletoe and holly-wreath. The first who entered there was he Who ruled the town, and held the key Of state. His brow was grave, his coat Was graver still, — once at his throat And wrists clung ruffles of fine lace. *T was in the old days, when a lofty place UNDER THE MISTLETOE. 105 He held at court, — the godless days Of early youth's poor vain displays. "My sooth, he is a goodly man," Under her breath quoth Mistress Ann. " He knew my mother once, and me, He held me once upon his knee In childhood days," she smiling thought; Then all at once she blushing caught His questioning gaze. "I'm little Ann," She sweetly said. The grave, stern man At this relaxed his visage grim; The Puritan precise and prim Slipped like a mask, and, as he should, He bent and kissed her where she stood. 106 UNDER THE MISTLETOE. The twenty candles flamed and flared, The twenty guests in silence stared. Then rose a murmur, shocked and low, — They'd spied the branch of mistletoe! As meek as any dove she stood, This Mistress Ann, to breast the flood Of blame that broke, when, " Let it pass, She's but a child, — a foolish lass," A voice declared, to be obeyed. Something within the voice betrayed A latent laugh to Mistress Ann. She looked, and in a moment's span Read there behind his visage grim Full pardon for her saucy whim. UNDER THE MISTLETOE. 107 "In sooth he is a goodly man, And not so very grim," quoth Ann; " He loved my mother once, and me ; He held me once upon his knee." KING GEORGE'S TOWNS. FROM end to end the house was filled With laughing guests. From end to end the music thrilled, And jovial jests From lip to lip ran gayly round, And light steps beat The measures out, and light hearts found The measures sweet. "Next week, next year/' they smiling planned, As one assumes All things secure, while softly fanned KING GEORGE'S TOWNS. 109 The peacock plumes The gay dames held, — next week, next year: The fiddlers played Their wildest tunes, the horns blew clear, The banners swayed In rhythmic movements where they hung; All things were set To melody, — to music strung, And yet, and yet, What minor chord was that he heard, — The gallant host? Beneath the banners where they stirred What shadowy ghost Was that he saw, defiant, grim, Step darkly down IIO KING GEORGE'S TOWNS. To mock the scene, and menace him With warning frown, While still they planned, " next week, next year," His careless guests? They saw no ghost, they felt no fear, Why stop their jests Who held beneath King George's crown The royal right To hold and rule King George's town By loyal might? " Next week, next year;" and while they spoke, Across the hum Of horns and fiddles bluntly broke A rolling drum KING GEORGE'S TOWNS. Ill That beat to arms the "rabble rout" They did disdain. " Next week, next year," — the year ran out And out again, And through and through King George's towns, From east to west, From north to south, the drum-beat drowns The idle jest On Tory lips. The rabble rout Rise fast and far; They follow on with cheer and shout The morning star Of victory's dawn. " Next week, next year ! " Their cry rings down, 112 KING GEORGE'S TOWNS. "We bend no more with cringing fear 'Neath George's crown ! M Behind her fan of peacock plumes The Tory dame Makes no more plans, no more assumes To ban with shame The " rabble rout " she once disdained; While he, her host Who under George's banners reigned, Recalls the ghost That once upon a festal night, Defiant, grim, Stepped darkly down athwart the light To menace him ! THE CHRISTMAS GALE. Blind and bitter the storm beat down : Through the streets of the little town Women and men went hurrying fast, Their troubled glance on the splintered mast That pitched and tossed just off the shore Where rocks were sharp and the tempest tore In fiercer wrath the treacherous waves That year by year had made the graves Of luckless sailors bearing down On homew r ard trips to the harbor town. 114 THE CHRISTMAS GALE. "Ah, God forbid," the women prayed, As the splintered mast rose up and swayed Like a human form against the sky, — " Ah, God forbid that our boys should die Like this, like this, almost in sight Of our very eyes on Christmas night! " Then such a cry was overheard : " On Christmas night he gave his word He 'd come to me," a young voice cried. " On Christmas night last year, a bride, " I waited in this very place,, And saw his smiling, handsome face On watch for me, as he looked down, Across the bows, upon the town." THE CHRISTMAS GALE. 1 1 5 She ceased a moment, looking far Towards the seething harbor-bar, With eager eyes in wondering gaze. "What ails the girl? Has sudden craze "Overtaken her?" they whispered there, Who caught her strange expectant stare. " What ails the girl ? " when — " Look and see," She cried in sudden ecstasy — " They 're off the rocks, they Ve passed the bar, In spite of shattered sail and spar ! They 're safe ! they 're safe ! oh, God be praised ! " The crowd about her stare amazed. No human eye the gathering dark Could pierce like this, — but hark! oh, hark! Il6 THE CHRISTMAS GALE. What sound was that along the tide? " Fling out your ropes ! " an old salt cried ; "The girl is right — they've passed the bar, They 're coming in ! " A loud huzza Went out and up from forty throats; Then into line they swung their boats, And boat to boat, with guard and gird Of seasoned rope, without a word They held their place, the trusty score Of gray old salts, till close to shore They caught the sound, they saw the sight They'd waited for, and hoarse delight Rang out again in lusty notes Along the line of waiting boats. THE CHRISTMAS GALE. II7 Then swift and sharp the orders rang, And " Hard, pull hard," the sailors sang; And sailors' voices answered back, From out the driving wreck and rack. And into port there came at last, With battered hull and splintered mast And ragged sails, the sloop " Annette." Not soon will those who watched forget The girl-wife's face as full in view She saw her captain and his crew; Nor soon forget the words they heard, — " God would not let him break his word!" When summer suns bring strangers down To roam about the harbor town, Il8 THE CHRISTMAS GALE. The gray old salts now tell the tale Of what befell that Christmas gale, And gazing dreamily afar Toward the line of harbor-bar, They whisper in the fading light, " It was a miracle of sight, " For never any eye before Could see like that across the shore; And never any sail came down Like that into our harbor town." ' THE FAMINE. All along the meadow-land The rain beat and beat, And up aloft the orchard croft, And in among the wheat, And where the corn was standing green, And where the oats were white, Day after day, day after day. And through the dreary night The driving flood came down and down, Until in sore despair 120 THE FAMINE. The people cried, " God stay the tide, And let His winds blow fair." For blight was gathering on the wheat, And mildew on the corn, The oats hung down in rotting brown, The rye-fields bent forlorn. But day by day the lowering clouds Poured forth their floods, until The evil spell of hunger fell, And famine had its will. Then rose a cry that went to heaven And opened all its doors, And hurrying forth from South, from North, And up from distant shores, THE FAMINE. 121 The agents of the Lord came swift To succor and to save; With corn and wheat the ships sailed fleet Across the ocean wave. Then ceased the wailing cry of woe, The dread note of despair, iVnd hand clasped hand from strand to strand, And curses changed to prayer. Then knit the tie of brotherhood, And love sprang into birth, Where scorn and spleen had come between These nations of the earth. THANKSGIVING DAY. Pile up, pile up the lordly logs, November winds are high, And daylight dies with swift surprise Across the sunset sky. But kindling flames upon the hearth Shall set to sweetest tune The wandering wail that haunts the gale With melancholy rune. Pile up then maple, birch, and pine, And bring the ancient fare THANKSGIVING DAY. 12, They loved of old, — the russets gold, And cider clear and rare. And heap a dish with hardier fruit, And crack the walnuts well, Then round the fire draw nigh and nigher, And yield unto the spell, — The spell of old Thanksgiving days, That from the ancient past Pleads with us here to hold good cheer While life and love shall last. And let us pledge those bold, brave hearts Who, in their reverent way, With simple state did consecrate Their first Thanksgiving Day. 124 THANKSGIVING DAY. Hard was their lot through dreary months, And difficult their toil, And at the best they did but wrest From out the virgin soil A scanty harvest at the end ; But thankful hearts were theirs, And scanty fare, if each man's share, Was sweetened by their prayers. High-souled and stanch of faith and zeal, Simple, sincere, devout, They held their way from day to day Untroubled by a doubt. No evil times could shake their trust; Alike they thanked their Lord, THANKSGIVING DAY. 1 25 And praised His will, through good and ill, With frank and sweet accord. Full far and wide our harvests spread, Where theirs were scant and mean ; Full far and wide our prosperous tide Of plenty can be seen. Our land is glutted for our greed, With waste is overspent, But ever yet we moan and fret With peevish discontent. Oh, sweet, brave souls, wherever now You walk beyond our sight, Show us to-day your nobler way And lift us to your light. 126 * THANKSGIVING DAY. Rouse up our sleeping, sluggish hearts, Break up the worldly crust, Teach us to feel your kindling zeal, Your faith and hope and trust. THE PURITAN EASTER. Temp. 1676. I. While yet the dawn was faint and gray, Before the breaking of the day, Across the town she took her way. Her step was light as any doe ; So swift she went there scarce did show A print upon the crust of snow. So swift she went, so light and swift Against the gray dawn's murky rift, Her slender figure seemed to lift — ■ 128 THE PURITAN EASTER. A phantom form of ghostly height, That struck with sudden, sore affright And wondering awe the luckless wight Who chanced her way. " A wraith ! " he cried In faltering tones, then onward hied In mighty fear, nor looked aside To right or left. He did not hear, As on he fled in shivering fear, Her mocking laugh ring low and clear, Nor hear her words : " The foolish clown ! He 's like his betters of the town, Who fly at nought and flout a gown. THE PURITAN EASTER. 1 29 " ' A wraith ' indeed ! if he but knew ! " She laughs again. The sky grows blue; She turns and sees her goal in view, — A little church all plain and prim, Or " meeting-house " it was their whim To call it then, — these elders grim Who ruled the town in that old day, With primmest Puritanic sway, 'Gainst which no voice must utter nay. Over the threshold of the door She entered in; across the floor She lightly stepped; a moment more, 9 130 THE PURITAN EASTER. Upon the pulpit plain and bare, Upon the oaken stand and chair, And on the gallery rail and stair, She hangs a wealth of leaf and spray Such as the chill New England day Could yield from wood and forest gray. A cross of hemlock just beneath A crown of thorns ; and still beneath, Like burnished gold, a shining w r reath Of immortelles. Then low she kneels; Athwart her face a rapture steals; With tender cry her soul appeals THE PURITAN EASTER. 131 To Christ the risen Lord that day. "Whose way of thorns shall be my way, Whose word shall be my prop and stay ! " She cries in ecstasy of joy, — That passion born of no alloy Of earthly hope or earthly joy. Then swiftly as she came, she went, Before the morning mist was spent, Her thoughts on heavenly things intent. II. Aghast the elders stand, and stare At pulpit front and oaken chair, At gallery rail and gallery stair. 132 THE PURITAN EASTER. " Whose work is this?" they hoarsely cry; " What papist hand, covert and sly, Dares thus our godly laws defy?" A gloomy glance goes glowering down From man to maid, gray-haired and brown. Gathering at last in awful frown, It fixes on the comely face Of one who seems to lack no grace Of noble thought or noble race: For who but he who came to bring That meddling message from the king About their laws, could do this thing? THE PURITAN EASTER. 1 33 Just at the height of all the storm, When words raged hot, a slender form Came swiftly forth, a stately form That like a willow in its place Drooped with a lovely, living grace. Wondering, they looked upon her face. " It was not he, but I," she said, " Who did this thing : now turn instead Your wrath on me, and on my head " Bestow the burden of your blame ! " A sudden horror crept like flame Through all the throng, a sudden shame 134 THE PURITAN EASTER. That swept them from their saintly pride Of virtuous power. What ! she, the bride Of him whose name rang far and wide As chief of elders in the land, — A goodly man whose righteous hand Had snatched full many a costly brand From out the very jaws of Hell ! — At first, as if beneath some spell, A boding silence on them fell ; Then like a flood their horror burst. They branded her as one accurst, A poison viper they had nurst THE PURITAN EASTER. 1 35 Within their breasts, to turn again And mock the simple word and plain Of Christ the Lord by symbols vain Of papist craft and papist guile ! She heard them through, her face the while Gathering a strange, half-bitter smile. "What! you," she cried, "and you, and you, Who broke the old faith for the new, Who made your boast that through and through "Your new-found land men should be free Of priestly power, or tyranny Of Church or State; should welcome be I36 THE PURITAN EASTER. " To hold their faith before the day, To serve the Lord by yea or nay Of all the creeds, — you, you to say " And swear me false with hasty blame Of hasty words, that brand with shame My loyal blood and loyal name; " And all because, a yearling bride, Homesick for English ways, I tried To mark the sweet old Easter-tide " Which brought upon its April way, A year ago, a morning gay With English bloom, — my wedding-day ! " THE PURITAN EASTER. 1 37 A little sob at this began; From maid to dame it swiftly ran, — From maid to dame; then every man Was caught within its surging tide; The grim old elders turned aside ; The younger bent their heads to hide Their misty eyes. A silence fell; Then one up spoke, and broke the spell, — " Our sister meant not ill, but well. " Through lack of light, it seems, and not From malice of the world begot, Her error comes, and thus I wot I38 THE PURITAN EASTER. " We can o'erlook this vain display, This popish show of Easter day." A moment's pause — then, " Let us pray," He softly said with reverent air. They bent their heads in solemn prayer, And Christ the risen Lord was there. WHY DOTH IT COME TO PASS ? Sometimes how near you are; Sometimes how dear you are; Then like some distant star I see you from afar. Sometimes through you, through you, I see the gray sky blue, And feel the warmth of May In the December day. Sometimes, sometimes I let All burdens fall, forget I4O WHY DOTH IT COME TO PASS ? All cares and every fear In your sweet atmosphere. And then alas, alas ! Why doth it come to pass, Before the hour goes by, Before the dream doth die, I drift and drift away Out of your light of day, Out of your warmth and cheer, Your blessed atmosphere? Why doth it come to pass? Alas, and yet alas ! Why doth the world prevail, Why doth the spirit fail WHY DOTH IT COME TO PASS ? I4I And hide itself away Behind its wall of clay Since time began — alas ! Why doth it come to pass? TO-MORROW AT TEN. A NEWPORT IDYL. How the band plays to-night all those lovely Strauss airs That I danced here last year, or sat out on the stairs With Mulready, and Blakesley, and Beresford Brett — " Little Brett " he was called by the rest of the set. Tum-ti-tum — there's that perfect " Blue Dan- ube; " oh dear ! How I wish that Mulready or Blakesley were here ! What 's to-day or to-night to the nights that are fled? TO-MORROW AT TEN. 143 What's the rose that I hold to the rose that is dead? But speaking of roses reminds me of those That I wore at the French frigate ball at the close Of the season. 'Twas early in breezy September, Just a little bit coolish and chill, I remember, But a heavenly fair night; and the band how it played ! And how to its music we waltzed there, and stayed Deep into the midnight, or morning, before We thought of departure. That rowing to shore In the chill and the dark I shall never forget; At my left hand sat Blakesley, and at my right, Brett, 144 TO-MORROW AT TEN. Whispering soft foolish words, — Brett, not Blakesley, I mean, For Blakesley was dumb. But under the screen Of the sek-scented darkness I saw him quite clear Kiss the rose that I wore above my left ear. Ah ! as soft on my cheek I felt the light touch Of his breath as he bent there, my heart beat with such A wild pulse for a moment, that, giddy and faint, I turned to the breeze with a sudden complaint Of the air I found close : and the air was like wine, — A strong western wind from a sky clear and fine. It was just at that moment our boat came to land, And I stumbled and fell as I stepped on the sand, TO-MORROW AT TEN. 145 And J t was Brett's arms that caught me : I never knew quite What I said in that instant; I thought in the night It was Blakesley who held me, and Blakesley, it seems, Was somewhere behind, and — Oh, foolish old dreams Of that dead and gone time ! for what do I care For the things of last year, its mistakes or despair, When to-day and to-night show such untroubled skies, And laid at my feet is the season's great prize For my taking or leaving; to-morrow at ten I 'm to give him my answer, — this prize amongst men. Of course I have made up my mind to accept, 10 I46 TO-MORROW AT TEN. And to-night I must burn up that rose I have kept, And the notes signed "T. B.," and must cease to recall ) That foolish old time of the French frigate ball. Tom Blakesley, indeed ! just as if I should care For that stupid — hark ! there *s a step on the stair, And I told John to-night, to say " Not at home," To any and all of my friends that might <:ome ; And he 's hunting me out with some card he has brought, The donkey ! Now, John — Mr. Blakesley ! I thought — Oh, Tom ! Tom ! let me go. How can you — how dare — What! you thought that I chose little Beresford there TO-MORROW AT TEN. 147 That night in the boat, and that you — let me go, sir, You 're the stupidest man — A whole year ! Don't you know, sir, That to-morrow — what's that? — in Egypt and Rome All this year, and a meeting with Brett sent you home In hot haste — and 't was love, love, you say, And despair that sent you and kept you away? H-m — well, it may be; but you see other men Have not been so dull, and to-morrow at ten I'm to give — what is that? You've been ill all this year? Come home but to die ? — oh, Tom, Tom, my dear, Not to die, but to live ; and I — my refusal I '11 give To-morrow at ten ; and you, you '11 stay, Tom, and live? A QUESTION. Oh, was it I or was it you, That broke the subtle chain that ran Between us two, between us two, — Oh, was it I or was it you? Not very strong the chain at best, Not quite complete from span to span, I never thought 'twould stand the test Of settled commonplace at best. But oh, how near, how dear you were When things were at their first and best, A QUESTION. I49 And we were friends without demur, Shut out from all the sound and stir, — The little petty worldly race. Why could we not have stood the test, — The little test of commonplace, — And kept the glory and the grace Of that sweet time when first we met? Oh, was it I or was it you That dropped the golden link, and let The little rift and doubt and fret Creep in and break that subtle chain? — "Oh, was it I or was it you?" Still ever yet and yet again Old parted friends will ask with pain. IN THE CROWD. In the crowd, there she stands With a rose in her hands; Strong and straight, like the rose, Lifts her head; no one knows Of the thorn that doth prick Her heart to the quick. No one guesses while red The rose lifts its head, And its odorous breath Fills the air, that death With pain-poisoned dart May be eating its heart IN THE CROWD. I 5 I No one guesses or knows Where a proud heart bestows Its passion and pain, Its loss and its gain. No one guesses or knows What is death to the rose. ABDICATED. So I step down and you step up, Why not, why not? I drained the draught, flung down the cup, And you have got The little place I once called mine, And you will quaff The wine I quaffed and call it fine — It makes me laugh. You'll get so weary of the thing Before you 're through, — The shows, the lies, the paltering Of all the crew. ABDICATED. 1 53 I wonder if somewhere beyond This earthly track, When we have slipped the fleshly bond, We shan't look back With just this kind of glad relief, And laugh to find That we have left the grind and grief So far behind? ON THE STAIRS. T WAS a crowd and a crush from the time we began ; My tulle was in shreds, and my marabout fan Was broken to bits as we tried to get clear Of clumsy Dick Marlowe, who never could steer, No matter what partner might have him in tow, Through no matter what easy step, waltz, or galop. And 'twas just in this whirl that we waltzed down the floor And found our way out by the corridor door That leads to the hall, and there on a stair, ON THE STAIRS. 1 55 Away from the mob and the noise and the glare, We rested and talked and heard the band play, With never a thought how time ran away, Till suddenly came a great flourish and clang Of the horns and the harps, and the clarinet rang A shrill winding note like a long winding sigh, Which we knew as we heard was good-night and good-by. " Good-night and good-by? " Why, it seemed but a second Since we waltzed down the room, if time might be reckoned As fleetly as thoughts run, and, by the same token, As fleetly and sweetly as words may be spoken. 156 ON THE STAIRS. " Good-night and good-by." Time 's a thief un- awares. 'T is how many years since we sat on the stairs And rested and talked there and heard the band play, With never a thought how time ran away? What was it we talked of, oh, what was the chaff, The gay little joke that called out our laugh, As you stooped to recover the flowers I let fall, And stooping there stepped on my white Llama shawl? And what was it then you murmured just after That checked the gay joke and stopped the light laughter, — ON THE STAIRS. 1 57 What was it, what was it? I caught as you spoke there One word of devotion; then suddenly broke there, Just there on the stair, a sound of gay chatter As the dancers came forth, and — perhaps — well, what matter At this day and this hour if you thought I retreated That moment to leave there a suitor defeated? What matter, indeed? And yet as I listen To the old Lanner waltzes, and see the bright glisten Of yellow-gold hair on the head of my Polly, As she sits on the stair there, I think of your folly 158 ON THE STAIRS. In that far-away day when you thought me coquetting, While my heart was for you alone pining and fretting. Well, 't is queer how one can forget and recover; 'T is twenty years now since I Ve thought of the lover With whom I sat out a dozen round dances, And lost for, who knows how many fine chances — As my daughter — Miss Marlowe — is losing out there Her chances to-night on that draughty old stair. RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. When the French fleet lay In Massachusetts Bay In that day When the British squadron made Its impudent parade Of blockade; All along and up and down The harbor of the town, — The brave, proud town l6o RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. That had fought with all its might Its bold, brave fight For the right, To win its way alone And hold and rule its own, Such a groan From the stanch hearts and stout Of the Yankees there went out: But to rout The British lion then Were maddest folly, when One to ten RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. l6l Their gallant allies lay, Scant of powder, day by day In the bay. Chafing thus, impatient, sore, One day along the shore Slowly bore A clipper schooner, worn And rough and forlorn, With its torn Sails fluttering in the air: The British sailors stare At her there, 1 62 RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. So cool and unafraid. " What ! she 's running the blockade, The jade ! " They all at once roar out, Then — " Damn the Yankee lout ! " They shout. Athwart her bows red hot They send a challenge shot; But not An inch to right or left she veers, Straight on and on she steers, Nor hears RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. 1 63 Challenge or shout, until Rings forth with British will, A shrill " Heave to ! " Then sharp and short Question and quick retort Make British sport. " What is it that you say, — Where do I hail from pray, What is my cargo, eh? " My cargo? I '11 allow You can hear 'em crowin' now, At the bow. 164 RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. " And I Ve long-faced gentry too, For passengers and crew, Just a few, "To fatten up, you know, For home use, and a show Of garden sass and so. " And from Taunton town I hail ; Good Lord, it was a gale When I set sail ! " The British captain laught As he leaned there abaft: " 'T is a harmless craft, RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. 1 65 And a harmless fellow too, With his long-faced gentry crew; Let him through," He cried; and a gay " Heave ahead!" Sounded forth, and there sped Down the red Sunset track, unafraid, Straight through the blockade, This jade Of a harmless craft, Packed full to her draught, Fore and aft, 1 66 RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. With powder and shot. One day when, red hot The British got Their full share and more Of this cargo, they swore, With a roar, At the trick she had played, This " damned Yankee jade " Who had run the blockade ! DELAY. Always to-morrow and never to day, So the winter wears till the bloom of May: "Yet what is a month more or less?" you say. But as May goes over the purpling hill, You lead before and I follow still From end to end of the months, until My passion wears with the autumn weather To the very end of its tender tether; For never apart yet never together We walk as we walked in the bloom of May : But at last your " to-morrow " is my " to-day," When, " What is a month more or less?" I say. UNATTAINED. TlRED, tired and spent, the day is almost run, And oh, so little done ! Above, and far beyond, far out of sight, Height over height, I know the distant hills I should have trod, — The hills of God, — Lift up their airy peaks, crest over crest, Where I had prest My faltering, weary feet, had strength been given, And found my Heaven. Yet once, ah, once the place where now I stand The promised land UNATTAINED. 1 69 Seemed to my young, rapt vision, from afar. The morning star Shone for my guidance, beckoned me along, As, fresh and strong, And all untried, untired I took my way At break of day. The path looked strewn with flowers in that white light, Each distant height Smiled at me like a friend, — a faithful friend, — Sure that the end Would soon, ah, soon repay with sweet re- dress All weariness. But when the time wore on, and in the bright And searching light 170 UN ATTAINED. Of high noonday I lifted up my eyes, The purple dyes Through which I had descried my mountain height Had vanished quite. Then, suddenly, I knew that I did stand Within the promised land Of youth's fair dreams and hopes ; but with a thrill I saw that still Above and far beyond, far out of sight, Height over height, Lifted the fairer hills I should have trod, — The hills of God ! WHO KNOWS? Who knows the thoughts of a child, The angel unreconciled To the new, strange world that lies Outstretched to its wondering eyes? Who knows if a piteous fear, Too deep for a sob or a tear, Is beneath that breathless gaze Of sudden and swift amaze, — Some fear from the dim unknown, Some shadow like black mist blown 172 WHO KNOWS ? Across the heavenly ray Of this new-come dawning day? But the smile which as sudden and swift Breaks through the shadowy rift, — From what far heaven or near, What unseen blissful sphere, Comes the smile of a little child, This angel unreconciled To the new, strange world that lies Outstretched to its wondering eyes? WAITING. If only the rain would cease to beat, If only the winds would cease to blow, If only the clouds would beat retreat, And the summer sunshine glance and glow, I should be perfectly happy, I know. All day, and every day, I wait For something or other to come and go To make my pleasure a perfect state, To make my heart a summer glow Of sure delight that will never go. 1 74 WAITING. But all day, and every day. I wait, And the days run by and the days run low, And everything seems too soon or too late, And I never find what I seek, you know, Never get just what I want, you know. There 's always something or other amiss, The tide is at ebb when I want it at flow, A fleck and a flaw to mar the bliss That might be easily perfect, I know, If I could but make things come and go. I Ve waited now so long and so late, That the hope I had, like the tide, runs low, And I begin to think that I shall wait For ever and ever like this, you know, For the things to come, that always go. WAITING. 175 And I begin to think that perhaps, perhaps, When time is so swift and joy so slow, I 'd better make most of the hours that elapse, And the best of the days that come and go, Or the years will be gone or ever I know. And I shall sit weary and old and sad, Like a little weary old woman I know, And think of the days I might have been glad, Of the pleasures I dropped, the things I let go, For the things I never could find, you know. A GIRL OF GIRLS. HERE'S a girl of girls, Teeth as white as pearls, Breath of balm and rose When her lips unclose. Look, how straight she walks; List, how sweet she talks; Beauty, grace, and youth Crown her for a truth; And along her way Friends flock day by day, A GIRL OF GIRLS. 177 Dropping at her feet Showers of praises sweet. " Beauty, grace, and youth, — Easy 't is, forsooth, With such gifts as these, Friends to gain and please," Dark-eyed Envy cries, Looking sadly wise As she walks apart With a burning heart. Beauty, grace, and youth, — All these gifts, in truth, Once were Envy's own, Yet she walks alone, I78 A GIRL OF GIRLS. Walks in sullen pride On the other side, Brooding as she goes Over petty woes, Little hates and spites, Fancied wrongs and slights, Which have made her life Dark with daily strife. Who would care, indeed, Follow such a lead, Though 't were Beauty's own Beckoned from her throne? Sweet words match the pearls, When my girl of girls A GIRL OF GIRLS. 179 Doth her lips unclose, Breathing balm and rose. Sweet words set to deeds Sweeter still, are seeds Flowering day by day All along her way, Till to follow where She doth lightly fare, Is to set one's feet In a garden sweet Of all dear delights, Where from heavenly heights Friendly breezes bring Rest and pleasuring. THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. Up from broidery-frame and book The Princess lifted a longing look. Green were the fields that stretched before The castle gate and the castle door; And soft and clear the tinkling call Of sheep-bells over the castle wall; And sweetly, cheerily rose the song Of the shepherd lad, as he strolled along By his nibbling flocks. " Come hither, come hither," He lightly sang. " And whither, and whither THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. l8l I wander, I wander, come follow, come follow! Over the field and into the hollow ! " Down went broidery-frame and book From the Princess' hands ; and, " Look, oh, look," She bitterly cried to her maidens there, " At the beautiful world, so fresh and fair, From which we are shut, day after day! Oh, what would I give to go or stay, Hither and thither, away at my will ! To follow and follow over the hill, Where birds are singing, and sheep-bells ringing, And lambkins over the grass are springing! " The meanest peasant may have his will, To follow and follow over the hill; 1 82 THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. But I, because I 'm a Princess born, In tiresome state from morn to morn Must wait, before I can go or stay, For lackey and guard to guide my way ! Oh, what would I give to have my will For once, just once, and over the hill, And through the long, sweet meadowy grass To scamper, as free as a peasant lass ! " What was it? — Did somebody whisper there? Or was it a bird that, skimming the air, Wickedly dropped a secret word That nobody but the Princess heard? For up from broidery-frame and book She suddenly springs with a joyous look. "And listen!" she cries, " oh, listen to me! THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. 1 83 This is a day of victory ! For this day year the good news came That the brave French troops had put to shame The Spanish foe, and I heard him say — My father, the King — that on this day, Sinner and saint, year after year, Should wander free, with never a fear, On the King's highway, till the sun had set." She laughed a light, low laugh. " T is yet Two hours and more ere the sun goes down, And the King comes back from the market-town, Where he went this morn, — two hours and more ; And the gate is wide at the castle door ! " They pranked themselves from head to foot In gay disguise, — a page's boot 1 84 THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. And doublet fine to take the place Of silken shoon and the flowing grace Of a satin gown. Then down they bore, These maiden troops, to the castle door. The grim old warders frowned and stared, The pages laughed, the maids looked scared. But the merry girl-troopers carried the day, For who should say a Princess "Nay"? " But what if the King should come ? " one said, Shaking her little golden head; " What if the King should come, alack ! Before we are safely, snugly back?" The Princess stopped in her merry race. " The King? " she cried, with an arch grimace, THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. 1 85 " Let the King be told, if the King forgets, That through this day, till the June sun sets, The broad highway is an open way, Where the Princess takes her holiday." Then over the hills and into the hollow Where sheep-bells ring, they follow and follow. The sun is fierce and the wind is strong, Yet " Hither, come hither ! " the shepherd's song Beckons and beckons, now low, now loud. But the white dust blows in a swirling cloud, And who would have thought the way so long To follow and follow a shepherd's song? For it looked so near, the way he went, When one from a palace window leant, 1 86 THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. So near, so near, — and now so far The palace window shines like a star; And the meadowy grass that smelled so sweet, How it trips and tangles the tender feet ! And the hills that seemed so smooth are set With stubble and thorn that prick and fret. " Heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! " the Princess cries, As she brushes the blinding dust from her eyes; " Suppose we turn on our homeward way; It must be near to the set of day ! " Torn and draggled, the little pack Of truant troopers wandered back, — Torn and draggled, weary and spent, Older and wiser than when they went. THE PRINCESS'S HOLIDAY. 1 87 The Princess gained her chamber door, And out of her window leaned once more. " Heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! " she softly sighed, "The world is fair and the world is wide For peasant and prince; but let who will Follow and follow over the hill; I Ve had enough, for one long day, Of my own sweet will and the King's highway ! " THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. " QUICK, quick, shut the gates ! " the Saxon lords cried, " And blow from the tower a blast far and wide, To tell all the people, from courtier to clown, That the Hussites are coming to storm the good town. " We '11 teach the bold braggarts what Naumberg can stand ! We '11 show them how Saxon lords fight for their land! And storm as they may, from sunrise to sunset, They '11 find that we 're more than a match for them yet." THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. 1 89 Outside of the gates that shut in the town, Along by the hillsides, they came riding down, — These handsome " bold braggarts," who laughed as they sped, For bold as they rode, there rode at the head One bolder than all, who laughed with the best, And vowed as he laughed that this Naumberger nest Should open its gates, ere the new moon was old, To let in his troopers so gallant and bold. But the moon of that month waxed and waned to its length, And the gates were still shut 'gainst the bold troopers' strength. I9O THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. " By my faith ! " quoth the chief, " if this be the way These Saxons hold out, we must bring them to bay "Without more ado at the point of the sword. " And straight into Naumberg he sent forth his word, That if, ere the end of the week had gone by, The gates were not wide open flung, they should die, — These Naumberger Saxons, who dared to deride His soldierly fame in their insolent pride. But the Naumbergers scornfully flung back his threat, Their fortress was strong, and not yet, ah ! not yet THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. 191 Would a Saxon lord yield to a Hussite's demand To rove at his will through the breadth of their land. Not yet, ah! not yet — but at last through the town The weak wail of hunger was heard up and down, And a council was called; but 'twas late in the day For the wise men of Naumberg to parley or pray With the foe they had dared to flout and to scorn, When their larders were stocked and their bins full of corn. Ah! what should they do in this terrible strait? They fearfully pondered behind the great gate. 192 THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. Then up spoke a voice had been silent before : " My lords, leave the children to settle this score — " Nay, nay, hear me out," the rash speaker cried ; " This chief of the Hussites whom we have defied, This iron-mailed warrior, doth keep, I am told, A soft heart for children, like Brian the Bold. " So what if we gather the flowers of our flock, And tell them to speed, when the gates we unlock, To the arms of the gay jolly chief, who awaits To feed and protect them beyond the great gates?" There was shaking of heads, and question and doubt, But it ended at last in the prettiest rout THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. 1 93 Of merry-faced creatures who thought it fine fun Once more from the town-gates to scramble and run. " Ho, ho! what is this?" the General cried, As down the green path the rout he espied ; " What army of pygmies is this that I see Coming down the green valley to charge upon me?" He laughed as he spoke, and they laughed at him back; Then all in a moment the whole merry pack Flew at him and clutched him with shouts and with cheers, Till his jolly red face was streaming with tears. 13 194 THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. 'T was a great joke, he thought, that the chil- dren should run To the enemy's camp in their innocent fun. Did they clamber the walls as they clambered his back, — The jovial, rollicking, riotous pack? But however they came, for the moment at least, They were guests, to be served with a suitable feast ; And what was so suitable, what was so sweet, To serve to these runaway rogues for a treat, As a feast of the cherries that luscious and red Hung down from the clustering boughs over- head? They crept to his knees by twos and by threes, They swarmed at his feet like bonny bright bees, THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. 1 95 As over the cherries they feasted together, Down in the valley that sweet summer weather. But long ere the end of the gay feast, forsooth, The jolly, bold General knew the whole truth Of the pitiful straits in the old Naumberg town ; And he said to himself, " By the King and his Crown, I can't see the dear children suffer like this ! " And presently turning to each with a kiss, He bade them good-by, 'twixt a smile and a frown ; Then gathered his forces, and straight from the town, When the night-shades had fallen across the bright day, He rode with his handsome bold troopers away. I96 THE CHILDREN'S CHERRY-FEAST. So the long siege was raised ; and year after year Old Naumberg has kept that summer day dear; And year after year the children hold fete In a gay Feast of Cherries outside the great gate. University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.