PS 3537 .H55 S7 1905 Copy 1 ^hf: "w % >v 'Pf >''^rr -It AND OTHFB POEMS MIRIAI.. S Qass P S3537 Book HssSt. \ ==\o 5* Copiglit}^'^, COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. (Ulir ^pnxt-Motiitv AND OTHER POEMS By MIRIAM SHEFFEY BROADWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY . • . NEW YORK i^ ^ i^ LIBRARY ot CONGRESS Two Copies R?ceived NOV 21 1905 cuss A. XXC. No COPY B. .H^ ^'^ < Cii>yritht, 1905, AITRIAM SHKFKEY. '.' Righis Rtsierved. ot wbo JilkJi JBg Etle tuttlf 3Iiiu^ an& Sng CONTENTS. PAGE The Spirit-Mother 9 Sleeping 13 The Triumph 19 Yesterday 23 The Old Church Organ 27 The Massage 35 Partridges in November 41 The Deserter 47 My Lady. 51 "Of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven," 55 The Garden of the Sky 61 Srijf ^ptrit-iin%r. :<7) By permission of the Taylor Publishing Company, Nashville. SHEAR the sound of her soft old shoes As she toils up the shadowy stair. I hear her open my chamber door, — Yet I know she is not there. I see the tears in her gentle eyes. The shine of her beautiful hair, The pitying love in her sweet old face, — Yet I know she is not there. I see the folds of her worn black gown As she sits in the rocking-chair. And lovingly, tenderly bends o'er my bed, — Yet I know she is not there. Oh, the cadences sweet of her soft old voice! Naught have I now to fear. For I feel the touch of her hand of love! — Yet I know she is not here. 10 j£> £? jc? Z\)C 'iiplrlt^/l^otbcr. 'VM.V (U'lir lilllc, poor lid It' siilVtM'inj;- one! JMy ]n*('cioiis! JM.v Imbv! JMy own!" Sh(^ is suyiii^^, — 1 hear (Ikmu, those old, old wo I'd s! Yd I know T am all aIoiu\ g-lrriiiMri. <") By permission of the New York Observer^ New York. ^#NTO the dim old parlor & With bated breath I go, — The quaint old room whose curtained gloom She once did know. 'Tis here that she was christened, Was loved and wooed and wed, And here to-night in robes of white She lieth dead. About her snowy draperies The pallid moon-flowers twine. Her little head is garlanded With jessamine. A rose sleeps in her fingers And lilies kiss her brow. Her weary life of grief and strife Is over now. 14 jsf ^ ^ j^ Sleeping, The waxen candles' radiance Upon her bosom lies, Her shining hair, her face so fair. Her veiled ejes. Into the solemn silence With bleeding heart I go. Would I could die ! Bereft am I Who loved her so ! Yet why should there be mourning? Why bitter words be said When after years of toil and tears She lieth dead? Not dead, but only sleeping. A sweet and blest surprise For her awaits where ope the gates Of Paradise. For her, no more of weeping, No more of burning pain, No ill, no sorrow, no sad to-morrow, No sin or stain. Sleeping^ ^ ^ ^ 40 t5 The rough and thoroy pathway Her patient feet have trod With blood is red, but it hath led Her up to God. Out from the dim old parlor With faltering steps I go, — The quaint old room whose curtained gloom She never more will know. J5I|^ ©mmplj. (17) By permission of the Christian Observer^ Louisville. ^i AM so glad to die! Didst thou in 31 truth believe That I should look with dread upon Death's coming? Ah, no! With jov, not fear, I do receive This Messenger, and like a homing Dove, I feel within my breast A hope of peace, of never-ending rest. I am so glad to die ! My days have been re- plete With toil and pain, regret and bitter weeping. But all will soon be past. My wearied feet And aching heart will find in sleeping Surcease from sorrow. Blessed thought! It is for this that I so long have fought. 20 ^ ^ ^ Ube ^Tttumpb. I am so glad to die! Then wherefore should'st thou mourn? This is no time for tears, so hush thy crying. Remember all the burdens I have borne! Thou shouldst rejoice that I am dying. My little one, why be dismayed? It is for this that I so long have prayed. I am so glad to die! No more can I endure. In throes of struggling agony I languish. God knows my pain, — I trust His promise sure. No matter what may be my anguish, Yet still within my mind I keep This thought, "He giveth His beloved sleep." I am so glad to die! High up in air I hear An angel host in chorus sweetly singing. And mingling with the seraph song the clear, Pure notes of heavenly harps are ringing. How good, how sweet it is to die ! Thank God for peace ! My little one, good- bye! f^fit^rbag. (21) ^HEY said that I must go awaj, beloved, w when you died, Away from the old home your life and love had glorified. They said I must not live alone in this house so great and grim, With haunted rooms and corridors all si- lent, sad and dim. They said that I must not be left to tread these ghostly ways, To mourn through desolated nights and desolated days. But only in this hallowed home can I con- tented be. This home made dear and beautiful by your white memory. These ancient rooms and passages, to others grim and gray. For me are radiant with the light and love of yesterday. Across the gloom the shining of an angel face I see, And hear, through sombre silences, a soft voice calling me. O who can know, my dearest one? O who can understand How, through the fragrant summer dusk, together, hand-in-hand. Along these sacred garden- ways we wander, you. and I, While dew-wet blossoms gently dream and winds go whispering by? One spot is holier to my heart than all the rest beside, — The bright old room, the white old room, the room in which you died. And only I can enter there! No other understands The sound of spirit-footsteps or the touch of spirit-hands. O who can understand, dear love? O how can others know That all my joy is dreaming of the joy of long ago? Slf^ (§lh (Bliurrlj ®rgatt. (25) Bj permission of the Christian Observer , Louisville. ^jTAR back in the desolate basement, ^2v Where darkling shadows lie, Where cobwebs white festoon the walls, Where human footstep seldom falls, Where turbulent rats hold constant sway, Where night is ever the same as day. They have left me alone to die. Was it yesterday that they bore me Down the narrow wdnding stair. Away from the joy, the song, the light. Into the misery, terror and night? Away from the music's melodious strain, Into the loneliness, yearning and pain? Was it then they brought me here? 28 -^ ^ Zbc Qlt> Cburcb ©r^an. The hours are slow in passing! I lose all count of time. It seems like long, long weary years Since they hid me away in this place of fears. why was I taken from joys untold? P why was I brought to this prison cold, I, who have done no crime? They say I have grown old-fashioned. I am shabby and out of date. My voice is cracked and my notes ivill stick. 1 am wornout and wheezy and stiff and sick. I have been fine enough in my day, so 'tis said. But in this church I never again shall be played ! O pitiless, pitiless fate! "Yes, old, very old," they are saying, And yet I feel as young. As ready for chant and psalm and hymn, For wedding gay or funeral grim, — As eager to lift my voice on high As I did on that Sabbath morn when my Inaugural song was sung. XLbe ©ID Cburcb ©rgan, jsf ^ 29 I have been so true and faithful! In patience, in love I have worked. I have whispered of mercy to those who were sad. I have shouted for joy with those who were glad. At Christmas and Easter and Thanksgiv- ing time I have mingled my voice with the mellow chime. No service have I shirked. Yet yesterday I was forsaken! And never a tear was shed ! Never a soothing word they spoke To comfort the poor old heart they broke! I heard no sympathetic sigh, No whispered grief, no soft goodbye! Never a word they said! I am out of all sight and all hearing. Another has taken my place. Another will join with the worshipping throng In jubilant chorus, in sweet solemn song. 30 js/ ^ ^be ®l^ Gburcb ©rcjan. Another of workmanship noble and fine With Toiee far more mighty and mellow than mine Will tell of God's wonderful grace. I know there is one who remembers My blessed, my triumphant days. 'Tis she 'neath whose fingers so slender, so skilled. My soul was awakened, my spirit was thrilled. Together we've worked through the golden years. Together we've laughed, together shed tears. Together we've told His praise. In silence I'm waiting and longing For the touch of her magical hand. She will kiss with her fingers my yellowed old keys. And no matter how much I tremble and wheeze. By the force and the power of her glorious art, She will bring from the depths of my pul- sating heart A symphony rich and grand. XLbc ©ID Cburcb ©rgan. ^ ^ 3X Perhaps she will come to-morrow, My lady sweet and fair. Perhaps in a passion of yearning love She will steal away from the light above, — Perhaps when the service is o'er she will slip Apart from the shining crowd, and trip Down the narrow winding stair. O hasten thy coming, my lady ! For Death is very nigh! O hasten, and bring to this piteous place The shine of thy presence, the light of thy face! O hasten, my lady, and make me rejoice With the touch of thy fingers, the sound of thy voice. Just once, only once ere I die! ®Ij^ m^aaage. (33) (To a Sprained Ankle.) By permission of the Christian Observer, Louisville. SHEY give you a tug and a twist, little foot, A pinch, a jerk, and a pull. They give you a wrench and a thrust till your cup Of tragical sorrow is full. You think they are needlessly harsh, little foot. You think they are cruel and mean. You cannot see why you should have to en- dure This pain so unbearably keen. Many times you have wished you were dead, little foot. In a daisy-starred grave cool and deep, Where your agony over forever and aye. You would sweetly, deliciously sleep. 36 £/ ^ ^ ^ ^be Passage. Had 3^ou lungs, you would loudly protest, little foot. Had you eyes you would piteously weep, But, alas ! there is no way for you to make known This anguish so bitter, so deep. O tired little foot I Be patient and brave. There is always a purpose in pain. This fiery trial will soon end in joy, — Peace and comfort you surely will gain. For out of the shadow comes shine, little foot. And after the pain comes relief. Out of the evil come goodness and love. And gladness swift follows the grief. It is ever this way in all life, little foot. God chasteneth whom He doth love To make them more fit for the Kingdom of Heaven, More eager for mansions above. ^be /iBassage, ^ ^ 4& ^ 37 This torture to you is mysterious, strange. So it is with each one of God's ways. As through a glass darkly at present we see, But we shall know one of these days. O think then how sweet it will be, little foot. When on errands of love you can go, And carry glad tidings of comfort and joy To others in bondage and woe! ^artriigea tn NoBPrnter. (39) By permission of the National Magazine, Boston. ^.ILENTLY through the waving grass ^V^ The little brown creatures, trembling, pass. Under the willows by the brooklet's side The little brown creatures, panting, hide. Over the fields in the dawning gray The little brown creatures speed away. Where sunbeams dance and dewdrops glis- ten The little brown creatures listen, listen! Where the dying goldenrod's feathers quiver The little brown creatures shake and shiver. Low on the grass where the leaves lie dead The little brown creatures go to bed. 42 ^ j^ l!5artrfDge6 in IFlovember* Weary and worn they slumber, but — With only org of their optics shut. The little brown creatures are hushed with fear, For they know that danger and death are near. Death in the sunshine, death in the shadow. Death in the forest, death in the meadow. Death in the boulders, death in the bushes. Death in the grasses, death in the rushes. Death in the valley, death on the hill, Death in the river, death in the rill, Death in the rain, death in the breeze, Death in the flaming forest trees. Just how they can know is hard to tell. But the little brown creatures know full well, ( Though they never pause to wonder why, ) That the hour of their doom is drawing nigh. And the little brown creatures sigh and grieve, For the world is too fair, too sweet to leave ! ipartriD^es in IRov^ember, ^ ^ 43 11. Stealthily oyer field and bog The Enemy comes with gun and dog! And O, such a roar, such a tumult is heard That even the grand old trees are stirred! And the little brown creatures so timid, so shy, They tremble and scream, they flutter and fly- In the forest confusion and panic reign. Where was peace now is war with its hor- ror and pain. Let pitying tears be solemnly shed! Let a dirge be sung and a prayer be said ! The little brown creatures are dead, dead, dead! Stfie ^tBtxtn. (45) By permission of the Christian Observer. HE sun set in the gorgeous west, ® I ^ The day, reluctant, died. Out in the crimson evening light, Across the lawn so wide. An old man and a little maid Walked slowly side by side. High above in the summer sky The stars came one by one. And shed their light on the darkened earth Which mourned the absent sun. Sudden across the glistening dome, With one swift glowing ray, A meteor flashed. It hastened on To join the lifeless day. "O, dran'pa, see!" the child exclaimed "One ^tar has runned away!" Myi ffiaig. (49) AMONG the blossoms that she loved my lady lies. There are no marks of tears about her shad- owed eyes, No signs of toil upon the little hands that rest Like snow-white lily-blooms across her peaceful breast. Her brow gleams softly underneath her glistening hair. Xo lines of woe and agony are written there. Upon her lips so sweet, so smiling, so se- rene No touch of sadness or of suffering is seen. Awed by the angel-beauty of her perfect face Which bears of grief and bitterness no faintest trace, 52 ^ ^ ^ ^ /IBl2 XaO^, Those who so deeply loved her linger at her side, And wonder, sobbing, why it was my lady died. For only Christ, the Christ of Pity, under- stands That hidden there beneath those little folded hands A pulseless heart all broken, bleeding, bruised and torn. Bears witness to the many sorrows she has borne. None but the Christ, the Christ of Tender Love, can feel The anguish she has felt, and none but Christ can heal. 'Wf ^mif XB % JKtesJinm ttf ^mmnr (53) By permission of the Christian Observer, Louisville. m HERE lilies nod their stately heads And maples cast their shade, And where the rose its fragrance sheds, The little boy was laid. Around the cross which marks the place The honeysuckle vine, The myrtle and the clematis Their clinging tendrils twine. Beside him as he lies asleep The soft-eyed daisies wave. By night, by day, a watch they keep About his lonely grave. The joyous butterflies flit past On trembling gauzy wings. And in a bride'swreath bush nearby The robin sways and sings. 50 *'®t Sucb i6 tbe IRiiiQDom of Ibcaven/' The crystal dewdrops sparkle there When comes the break of day. Among the myrtle leaves at noon The laughing sunbeams play. At eventide, when sets the sun, The tender breezes sigh, And o'er the hallowed spot at night The golden moonrays lie. Sometimes when I am sorrowful And teardrops dim my vision, Into my lonely yearning heart God sends a dream Elysian. And in this Heaven-sent dream I see A broad and shimmering river Whose healing waters gently flow Forever and forever. Along the sloping river-banks Grow God's unchanging trees. Celestial flowers of matchless hues Bend in the perfumed breeze. *'Qt Sucb is tbe 1R(ngDom ot Ibcavcn/' 57 Upon the further shore I see A shining white-winged band, And One, most glorious of all, Holds in His Own thy hand. I see him lift thee in His arms. And on his sacred breast In faith, in joy, in peace, in love Thy little head doth rest. O angel-child ! On earth we faint In sin and darkness, while It is thy privilege to live In the sunshine of His smile! So sad are we ! Yet we would not Call thee to earth again. We would not have thee know the world,- Its sin, its grief, its pain. So while triumphant hosts rejoice And spirit-anthems ring, Sing on, O little angel voice, Thy praises to the King! ailfp (garbm of % S-kg. (59) By permission of the National Magazine, Boston. ^HEY say I shall not live to see the w spring ; That I shall never more behold The beauty of my garden as bud and leaf unfold In token of a glorious blossoming. They say that I shall never live to see The radiant morns, the azure noons, The tender springtime twilights, the golden springtime moons, Nor hear the flashing bluebird's melody. No more will hyacinths their perfume spread. Or lilies of the valley wake. The violets and windflowers, that blos- somed for my sake. Will lift their heads in vain when I am dead. 62 ^ js ^ ^be GarDen ot tbe S^i^. No more will peachblows blush or lilacs wave. The music of the wind and rain, The laughter of the sunshine I shall not know again When hidden in the darkness of my grave. I shall not miss this gladness when I die, For blossoms fine and blossoms fair, Of rich and fadeless splendor await my coming there Within the wondrous Garden of the Sky. I shall forget the bluebird's little song. Through heavenly spaces I shall hear The holy angel-anthems, too vast for mortal ear, Majestic, grand, divinely sweet and strong. I shall forget the sunshine laughter soon, The joyous beauty of the earth. The wind and rain of April, the Maytime moon and mirth. In that Fair Land which needs not sun and moon. BOOKS YOU MVST READ SOONER OR LATER Lost in the Mammoth Cave By D. Riley Guernsey. Decorated cloth, i2mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.50. A tale which a Jules Verne might envy from his own vantage ground. Imagine the possibili- ties for a story which are conjured up by the thought of a party of brainy men and women lost in the Mammoth Cave ! A prominent reviewer says : "This ought to be an immensely popular book. There are no idle moments from cover to cover, and it is one which the reader will not think of laying aside until he has read every word." Under the Darkness of the Night A Tale of West Indian huurrection. By Ellen Chazal Chapeau. Cloth, i2mo. Attractively Produced. Price, $1.00. The scenes of this story are laid in Ste. Domingue from 1792-93. It is a most timely book, written by one whose life has been passed among West Indians, and who can read the African character with surprising skill and ac- curacy. A wonderful picture of tropical life, brilliantly depicted. Broadway Publishingf Company^ 835 Broadway, New York, BOOKS YOU NVST READ SOONER OR LATER J^o Surrender, By John N. Swift and William S. Birge, M.D. Cloth, i2mo. Frontispiece. Price, $1.50 From the moment this story opens in the old whaling station of New Bedford, until the climax of climaxes is reached in the high seas some- where off the coast of Chile, excitement and in- terest are in order. It is a tale that allows of no laying aside and as incident comes crowding upon incident the reader finds himself utterly oblivious to everything but the words before him. Imagine, if you can, the consternation of the Chilean commander and his officers of the cruiser "Dona Inez" when, on their arrival at the land- ing stage, ready to embark after an hour's shore leave, they find the ship, which they had left safely swinging at her moorings, completely vanished. Such a statement is enough to arouse im- mediate curiosity and what became of the "Dona" and what became of the Chilean commander and his officers forms the plot of this most extra- ordinary narrative. Of course the "Dona" has been skilfully pur- loined for felonious purposes, and while she and her piratical crew are undergoing all manner of marine castastrophe one of the former officers is dashing overland to head off if possible dis- agreeable contingencies with the Chilean Naval Department. His adventures are not less thril- ling than those which befall the ship, and the clever chapter arrangement keeps the reader's interest ever whetted. Broadway Publishing Company, 835 Broadway, New York, BOOKS YOU MVST READ SOONEH OR LATER Reuben: His Book By Morton H. Pemberton. Cloth, Gilt lettering, i2mo. Postpaid, $i.oo. Portrait in Colors. One of the funniest, cleverest, uniquest volumes of the day, it has won spontaneous and unani- mous approval from reviewers the country over. Just hear what a few of them say: Champ Clark. — "I haven't laughed so much since I first read Mark Twain's 'Roughing It.' " Globe-Democrat. — "This little book has the merit of brevity, variety and humor. It is safe to say that the book will have many readers and that it will afford much amusement." St. Louis Republic. — "The book is already heading the list of 'best sellers,' and deserves to go. It is GOOD. It is the sort of thing which might move the provincial journalist to say, 'Reub, here's our hand.' " Jl Scarlet Repentance By Archie Bell. Cloth, i2mo. Price, $i.oo. One Review: "The history of one night and one day's flaming passion between a beauti- ful Italian woman and a handsome youth — strangers — who meet upon a Pullman car. There comes into the story all the elementary passions, hatred, jealousy, desire and — sorrow. "It is a story that v^ill appeal to those who prefer novels in which red blood is throbbing madly. It is not for prudes, nor for parsons, nor poseurs. It's a book for men and women who have lived." — The Club-Fellow. Btoadway Pttblishing: Companyt 835 Broadway, New York. BOOKS YOU MUST READ SOONER OR LATER Md^rcelle A Tale of the Revolution By Wilubert Davis and Claudia Brannom. i2mo, doth. Illustrated. $i.oo. A fascinating story of the Revolutionary period, in dramatic form, in which the treachery of Benedict Arnold and the capture of Major Andre are the climaxes. The loves of Andre and Marcelle (herself a spy) lend a, very charming touch of romance. TKe Burton Manor A NOVCLr By Rev. M. V. Browm. i2mo, cloth. $1.50. A most thoughtful, able and authoritative work in engaging narrative form, dealing with the existing evils of the liquor trade. The author has wisely embodied his conclusions in charming fiction — or fact? — and thus the book will appeal to a public as wide as the continent. mv ;»'! t905 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 391 925 8 •