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MAYBLOOM AND MYRTLE 
 
(fu^h-xS (J* is-yn^ <lcl ,-Xi^l^t 
 
 
^ 
 
 MAYBLOOM AND 
 MYRTLE 
 
 ^ 
 
 By 
 
 Samuel Minturn Peck 
 
 Author of 
 The Grapevine Swing," "The Knot of Blue," etc., etc. 
 
 
 b 
 o 
 
 Boston 
 Dana Estes & Company 
 
 <£* 
 
 Publishers 
 
 \) G 
 
 4 
 

 ^ 
 
 3 
 o 
 
 Copyright, 1910, 
 By Dana Estes & Company 
 
 (&CU268662 
 
TO 
 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 
 ;Ptp &i£rtcr 
 
 MARY LEE PECK LEACH 
 
I have been Maying, 
 
 Sighing while straying — 
 Sighing that all that is lovely is fleet; 
 
 What I bring hither, 
 
 Take ere it wither; 
 Maybloom and Myrtle I lay at your feet. 
 
QIahfe nf Qlnntettta 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Time to Woo 13 
 
 Peggy at the Brook 14 
 
 His Confidante 16 
 
 The Quaker Maid 18 
 
 Anne Eliza Green 20 
 
 My Old Clay Pipe 22 
 
 Sylvia's Dimple 24 
 
 The Old Clock 26 
 
 A Twilight Picture 28 
 
 Ingle Fancies 29 
 
 Priscilla 32 
 
 The Maid of Japan 33 
 
 To Mabel who Wished to be a Shepherdess . 35 
 
 Little White Shoon 38 
 
 Peggy 40 
 
 Long Ago 42 
 
 My Little Picture Tree 43 
 
 An Old Mirror from Touraine .... 46 
 
 By the Hearth at Halloween .... 49 
 
 ix 
 
Contents 
 
 Soma of Hon* 
 
 PAGE 
 
 An Olden Dream 55 
 
 The Fairy Flower 57 
 
 When Katy Tuned the Old Guitar ... 59 
 
 A Message by Night 61 
 
 A Twilight Song 63 
 
 The Garden of my Heart 65 
 
 Song 67 
 
 The Blossom from Lillian's Hair ... 68 
 
 Song at Twilight 70 
 
 Song 71 
 
 Rose Song 73 
 
 Under the Moon 74 
 
 The Lover 75 
 
 Nutting Song 77 
 
 My Love for Thee 79 
 
 The Waif 81 
 
 Serenade 83 
 
 Song in Absence 85 
 
 &grtr0 of Nature 
 
 Twilight 89 
 
 Where the Rosemary Blows by the Sea . . 91 
 
 The Old - time Flowers 93 
 
 Wind Song 95 
 
 The Cricket on the Hearth 97 
 
 A Summer Mood 99 
 
 What the Wild Winds Say 101 
 
 Crape Myrtle 103 
 
 X 
 
Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Secret of the Wood 105 
 
 Wild Asters 109 
 
 The Cherokee Rose Ill 
 
 Mid - afternoon 114 
 
 November 116 
 
 The Wind in the Night 117 
 
 A Petal of a Shattered Rose . . . .119 
 
 A Cricket Song 121 
 
 #0ttg attfl ^Ijaooui 
 
 The Old Man at the Toll - gate . . . .125 
 
 Foreboding 127 
 
 The Fairy in the Firelight 128 
 
 Song 130 
 
 Forgiven 131 
 
 The Rose and the Star 133 
 
 The Ways of Memory 134 
 
 By -gone Days 136 
 
 The Voice in the Night 138 
 
 Song 140 
 
 A Dead Butterfly 141 
 
 I Want to go a - berryin' 143 
 
 The Bachelor's Christmas Eve .... 146 
 
 The Old Songs 149 
 
 XI 
 
Ct0l|t WtX&t 
 
iHagbloom mh MqxXit 
 
 THE TIME TO WOO 
 
 A LITTLE white rose in the garden blew, 
 When the dew in the dawn lay bright; 
 And over the grass came her lovers to woo, 
 
 And faithful troth to plight. 
 But the rose bade the wind go sigh, go sigh; 
 She flouted the vows of the butterfly; 
 And the cricket — he skipped without saying- 
 good-bye 
 To the little white rose in the garden. 
 
 But alack! the wee rose — as the gloaming grew, 
 
 She quaked in the twilight gray, 
 When a moth flew out of a lime to sue 
 
 And won her without delay. 
 That bold night-moth that flew from the lime, 
 He won the wee rose without reason or rhyme, 
 Because — sly fellow! — he knew just the time 
 
 To woo a white rose in the garden. 
 13 
 
JWanfctoow autr JWfittle 
 
 PEGGY AT THE BROOK 
 
 A MOMENT on the bank to view 
 The tide with timid air, 
 And in she tript with kirtle blue 
 
 Above her white feet bare. 
 So fair a sight it never knew, 
 That shy and lilied nook; 
 Nor I amid 
 The willows hid, 
 When Peggy crossed the brook. 
 
 The glistening water loath to go, 
 
 Encircled rock and fern; 
 It eddied in its silver flow 
 
 With many a twist and turn. 
 The old mill waited far below — 
 The stream the call forsook; 
 And hushed its trill, 
 And tarried till 
 Sweet Peggy crossed the brook. 
 
 The sun slipt through the willow leaves. 
 And fell upon her hair; 
 
 14 
 
j»agt)loom anft jMgrtle 
 
 'Mid locks the hue of autumn sheaves 
 
 It wove a witching snare. 
 Too late my beating heart perceives 
 The peril of a look: 
 The spell was wrought, 
 My heart was caught 
 As Peggy crossed the brook. 
 
 The mowers sang a merry lay, 
 
 Haymaking on the hill; 
 But down beside the brook that day 
 
 The air was soft and still. 
 I wished the scene might live for aye, 
 Like pictures in a book; 
 But fairest things 
 Have fleetest wings — 
 And Peggy crossed the brook. 
 
 15 
 
JHasfiioom autr fflsvtlt 
 
 HIS CONFIDANTE 
 
 POOR little Fan ! You're left like this 
 While she goes off to dance? 
 Alas, — I know, — 'tis hard to miss 
 
 That dimpled, roguish glance. 
 My sympathy ! I grieve to see 
 You shut up, and half -hid — 
 I do, although you laughed at me, 
 Yes, saucy Fan, you did. 
 
 But I forgive. A lover seems 
 
 So queer — that's why you laughed. 
 Ah, if I told you all my dreams, 
 
 Perhaps you'd deem me daft. 
 I fancy you a butterfly; 
 
 I fancy her, a rose — 
 Strange fancies to a fan to sigh! 
 
 'Twere better to propose. 
 
 Sh! — she comes, my Rose of Light! 
 
 The Nymph I love — and fear. 
 Dear Fan, as you go home to-night, 
 
 Pray whisper in her ear: 
 
 16 
 
iHayfclootu autr Jtt»rtle 
 
 Though many a vow she heard above 
 
 The murmur of the ball, 
 The man who dared not tell his love - 
 
 He loves her best of all. 
 
 17 
 
jttayiiioom an* JH»*ttt 
 
 THE QUAKER MAID 
 
 SHE was a little Quaker maid, 
 Her gown was quaint, her mien was staid. 
 Forsooth, no wild-flower by a brook 
 Was ever shyer in its look. 
 So sweet her eyes whene'er by chance, 
 'Neath drooping lids peeped forth her glance, 
 The while her cheeks the lashes kissed 
 One thought of stars behind a mist; 
 And as the Summer roses shed 
 A scent that lingers when they've fled, 
 So did the lustre of her eyes 
 In absence to my memory rise 
 To heighten joy, to banish pain. 
 And as we strolled a-down the lane, 
 Beside the gate her face grew sad; 
 
 And tremblingly to me, 
 'Tis late," she said, " yet I'd be glad 
 
 If thee would bide a wee." 
 
 She was a little Quaker maid, 
 And when she'd spoken, seemed afraid. 
 Had she propriety o'erstepped? 
 Oh, most appalling thought! She wept, 
 18 
 
JttaiHiioom antr JWffvtle 
 
 And quivering stood bedewed with tears, 
 Unconscious that, to soothe her fears, 
 The apple-blossoms drifted down 
 And gave her maidenhood a crown 
 Most fair and meet. I gazed a-thrill. 
 Had I the power — I had the will — 
 To win a love so lily-white 
 It shamed in spotlessness the light? 
 I dared. I spoke — the words were few, 
 And what they were, I never knew. 
 But this I know; no longer sad 
 
 Her face smiled up to me, 
 Think thee 'tis late? I am so glad — 
 
 Come in and bide a wee! " 
 
 19 
 
itf asttloom autr JW»ttle 
 
 ANNE ELIZA GREEN 
 
 " I ^WAS at the singing school I met 
 X That fair and most enchanting maid. 
 
 Her eyes were blue; her locks were jet, 
 With ribbons winsomely arrayed. 
 
 In one soft cheek a dimple hid 
 
 And only when she smiled was seen — 
 
 But, oh, the havoc that it did 
 For Anne Eliza Green! 
 
 Her red, red lips — 'twas kind o' queer, 
 But when she oped her mouth to sing 
 
 It seemed to me that I could hear 
 A rustle as of Cupid's wing. 
 
 Whene'er she laughed, as white as snow 
 Her small teeth flashed her lips between 
 
 A.nd oh, how sweet the laughter low 
 Of Anne Eliza Green ! 
 
 And when the singing school was done, 
 And all stood 'neath the starry dome, 
 
 Each fellow strove to be the one 
 To see the peerless maiden home; 
 
 20 
 
JH3£t)lootu anH JWffttle 
 
 And when amid the adoring train 
 
 She chose an arm on which to lean, 
 She cast a smile on every swain, 
 Did Anne Eliza Green. 
 
 "Pis more than thirty years ago. 
 
 Alas, how fast old Time hath raced ! 
 Perhaps her locks are flaked with snow, 
 
 More ample now her lissome waist; 
 Perhaps the crow hath paced those eyes 
 
 Whose glances now have grown serene - 
 Perhaps she'd fill me with surprise, 
 Sweet Anne Eliza Green. 
 
 We both have wed. I love my wife; 
 
 And doubtless she her husband too. 
 We both have reached the eve of life, 
 
 Our peaceful hearts have naught to rue. 
 Yet hearts are not controlled by will, 
 
 And each man's breast is like a screen - 
 So in the dusk I'm dreaming still 
 Of Anne Eliza Green. 
 
 21 
 
Jttatffcloom unXf Jtt»rtle 
 
 MY OLD CLAY PIPE 
 
 I WOULD the skies were ever blue, 
 And life from sorrow free; 
 Or else that friends were always true, 
 
 But that can never be. 
 The hand of fate across the loom 
 
 Oft weaves a dusky stripe, 
 And then I seek amid the gloom 
 My old clay pipe. 
 
 'Tis wise to laugh one's ills away, 
 
 And hum a merry song, 
 But where's the heart that's always gay 
 
 When everything goes wrong! 
 So if a sulky pout I see 
 
 On dear lips red and ripe, 
 I find the friend still true to me, 
 My old clay pipe. 
 
 I used to think that I could make 
 
 Of life an endless smile, 
 And dreamed of one who, for my sake, 
 
 Were loving all the while; 
 
 22 
 
But now I check the useless tear 
 
 I'd be too proud to wipe, 
 And bless the friend that's ever near, 
 My old clay pipe. 
 
Jttafffcloom attfr Jtt»rttt 
 
 SYLVIA'S DIMPLE 
 
 SYLVIA'S gown was bewitching, 
 And fashioned of ribbon and lace, 
 A marvel of puffing and stitching, 
 
 Of criss-cross and curly-cue grace. 
 So perfectly planned was this toilette, 
 
 She rivalled a sylph in her shape; 
 And yet, I had power to foil it — 
 'Twas her dimple I could not escape. 
 
 Sylvia's tresses were tinted 
 
 With amber in shine and in shade; 
 The sunlight — how tenderly glinted 
 
 Its rays on the locks of the maid! 
 Sooth, it was rapture to eye them 
 
 Imprisoned in ringlet or twist; 
 Yet, truly, I might have passed by them 
 
 'Twas her dimple I could not resist. 
 
 Her cheeks had the color of peaches 
 That lightly the Summer hath kissed, 
 
 Or the hue of the rose that beseeches 
 The moon, half-hid by a mist. 
 24 
 
'Twas peerless — the line of their curving 
 By sun-heated breezes untanned; 
 
 I might have beheld them, unswerving — 
 'Twas her dimple I could not withstand. 
 
 Ah, what shall I sing of her lashes, 
 
 The shy, haunting lustre beneath, 
 As bright as the wild spray that dashes — 
 
 As soft as the dew on a wreath! 
 Her delightfully perilous glances 
 
 Extorted my rapturous sigh; 
 To flee them, perhaps there were chances — 
 
 But her dimple, ah, who could defy! 
 
 Her beauty was ever before me, 
 
 Like an innocent star in the night; 
 Her dimple 'twere well to deplore me, 
 
 Like a sharp-shooter hidden from sight. 
 All armor were useless, but elfin, 
 
 For none can be fashioned by art; 
 And lacking the sort to put self in, 
 
 A flash! — I was shot through the heart. 
 
 25 
 
jjHajtfJioom autr JWsrtlr 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK 
 
 LONG since run down, 
 It ticks no more, 
 Though the dusty town 
 
 May toil and roar. 
 To Time farewell 
 
 It said, you see, 
 With its silver bell 
 
 At half past three. 
 
 Half past three — 
 'Tis the best of hours 
 
 In Winter's glee, 
 
 Mid the Summer flowers. 
 
 If I might choose 
 'Twould always be 
 
 With me, dear Muse, 
 Just half past three. 
 
 See the roses drowse 
 
 On yonder wall, 
 While amid the boughs 
 
 The birds low call. 
 26 
 
i«ant»loom an* i«yvtlc 
 
 ~ 
 
 Sweet hour when Care 
 
 Ne'er claims his fee — 
 How could he dare 
 At half past three! 
 
 Mid-afternoon ! 
 
 No heart aches blight; 
 'Tis yet too soon 
 
 To dread the night. 
 Day's loveliness 
 
 From sorrow free 
 Each soul must bless 
 At half past three. 
 
 Ah, dear old Clock, 
 How wise you were! 
 
 Though Time may knock, 
 You will not stir. 
 
 Pray teach me how — 
 Yes, whisper me 
 
 Your spell just now, 
 At half past three! 
 
 27 
 
JWaofcloow an5 JHffvtle 
 
 A TWILIGHT PICTURE 
 
 AT the hour of twilight stilly, 
 In a cozy window nook, 
 Softly bending like a lily 
 Breathless o'er a story-book, 
 Sitteth Edith; 
 As she readeth, 
 Pity shines in every look. 
 
 Few the cares that ever find her, 
 
 Summer's with her all the year; 
 
 Jack will tease, or Gyp won't mind her 
 
 Such the woes she hath to fear. 
 
 She must borrow 
 
 All her sorrow, — 
 
 On her book hath dropped a tear! 
 
 I, alas, am eight and twenty, 
 
 Edith's only eight and three; 
 I have daily cares in plenty, 
 Sorrows, too, that never flee; 
 Would that Edith 
 As she readeth 
 Might let fall a tear for me. 
 
itta.nblQom anH Jftgvtle 
 
 INGLE FANCIES 
 
 A SONG for the fire on the hearthstone 
 a-glow 
 When Summer hath fled with her fragrance and 
 
 blow; 
 Though bleak be the hillside, new pleasures we 
 know, 
 Nor storm-cloud nor tempest can harm us. 
 'Neath the lamp's golden lustre with picture 
 
 and book, 
 Companioned by poets and sages we look 
 Down vistas of fancy, secure in our nook, 
 
 And a thousand sweet dreams come to charm 
 us. 
 
 The flail of the sleet and the howl of the blast 
 But blend with the tales that we read, till at 
 
 last 
 The white plume of Bayard gleams out from the 
 past 
 Round castles beleaguered, and cities; 
 Or, the storm waxing fainter, fresh visions de- 
 light- 
 Love hastens with Fancy to rapture the sight, 
 
jHagtitoom auir jHgrttt 
 
 And we wend through a wood with some amorous 
 knight, 
 And list to his love-laden ditties. 
 
 The flames leaping higher, we turn with a smile 
 To the knight of the sorrowful figure a while, 
 And Sancho a-daft for the long-promised isle 
 
 That fate is so tardy to dish up; 
 Or we hark to the Dromios' humorous clack, 
 Or the valorous Falstaff in praise of sweet sack; 
 Or else — for of fun there is never a lack — 
 
 We list to Gil Bias and the Bishop. 
 
 In cushionful ease 'neath the light of the lamp 
 We wander at will through the court and the 
 
 camp; 
 No terror can fray us, no hardship can damp 
 The joy that springs up from the ingle. 
 We dream and we dream until nothing seems true 
 Save that which is pleasant. Our youth we 
 
 renew 
 In olden romances, and we are knights, too, 
 With helmets and spurs all a-j ingle. 
 
 A song for the hearthstone, a lyric of mirth, 
 For pleasures untold in its glamour have birth, 
 Which hearts never know that love only the earth 
 When mated with sunshine and flowers. 
 
 30 
 
jWagfllootn antt Jflgrtle 
 
 So heap on the logs. With picture and book, 
 Companioned by poets and sages, we look 
 Down vistas of fancy, secure in our nook, 
 And a thousand rare visions are ours. 
 
 SI 
 
jtt*fif)loom auir J»»rtU 
 
 PRISCILLA 
 
 PRISCILLA hath come back to town 
 A little bandit queen, 
 Her cheek hath robbed the berry's brown, 
 
 Her eye the dewdrop's sheen. 
 Upon her lips there brightly glows 
 
 The poppy's crimson hue, 
 With Autumn music in her toes 
 She charms the avenue. 
 
 Alas! how wildly hearts will beat 
 
 That late kept slowest time; 
 Alas ! how many a snowy sheet 
 
 Will meet its fate in rhyme! 
 Laugh, Cupid, laugh, with saucy glee 
 
 At all the pangs in store, 
 But never point thy dart at me — 
 
 My heart was hers before. 
 
 32 
 
iWafifiloow anir Jttgrtu 
 
 THE MAID OF JAPAN 
 
 I KNOW a little maid, 
 May her beauty never fade! — 
 And her fan, 
 May its flutter never cease; 
 Though it robbed my heart of peace, 
 In Japan. 
 
 Where the cherry blossoms blow, 
 Blossom-like, she walked below, 
 
 Yo-ki-san ! 
 Needless Cupid's bow and darts 
 To that little Queen of Hearts, 
 
 In Japan. 
 
 Why, 'twould give your heart a twist 
 Just her merry laugh to list; 
 
 And a span 
 Were the length you'd like your ear, 
 Should you catch it tinkling clear, 
 
 In Japan. 
 
 O, her cunning little song! 
 It is funny. Was it wrong? 
 Will it scan? 
 
 33 
 
When I spied her dimpled chin, 
 It was fascinating din, 
 In Japan. 
 
 Then she brewed a cup of tea, 
 And she slyly winked at me, 
 
 O'er her fan, — 
 Enough! No poet's ink 
 Could describe that witching wink 
 
 In Japan. 
 
 That for Gibson girls! Instead, 
 I am going back to wed 
 
 Yo-ki-san; 
 And live a life of mirth 
 Till I vanish from the earth 
 
 In Japan. 
 
 34 
 
3**tij>moam amr jWjjttle 
 
 TO MABEL WHO WISHED TO BE A 
 SHEPHERDESS 
 
 YOU'D like to be a shepherdess 
 Beside a summer brook? 
 The sweetest rhyme could ne'er express 
 
 How charming you would look. 
 In kirtle blue and ribbons fair, 
 
 'Mid your devoted sheep, 
 I'm sure that you would never share 
 The fate of poor Bo-peep. 
 
 Ah, if you were a shepherdess 
 
 We'd meet at dawn of day! 
 The blissful thought, I must confess, 
 
 Quite takes my breath away. 
 We'd gaily trip across the grass, 
 
 Unmindful of the dew; 
 In faithful love I'd far surpass 
 
 The lamb that Mary knew. 
 
 Were you a little shepherdess, 
 
 We'd skip and tra-la-la 
 Until, for very joyousness 
 
 The woolies echoed " Ba-a! " 
 35 
 
j^flffWoottt uvea iWsrtu 
 
 And then some sweet, secluded spot 
 
 We'd seek in merry mood, 
 And, by the selfish world forgot, 
 
 We'd feast on berry food. 
 
 Were you a little shepherdess — 
 
 What happy fancies teem ! 
 With difficulty I repress 
 
 My rapture at the dream. 
 With Mrs. Grundy out of sight, 
 
 And nature all in tune, 
 We'd fold our lambkins up at night 
 
 And woo beneath the moon. 
 
 Oh, if you were a shepherdess — 
 
 But have you weighed the price? 
 I shudder at your wild distress, 
 
 Deprived of chocolate ice. 
 And how you'd miss your curling tongs ! 
 
 Without a looking-glass, 
 In spite of all my pretty songs 
 
 You'd be a wretched lass. 
 
 Ah, if you were a shepherdess — 
 
 Imagination climbs! 
 On such a theme I might digress 
 
 And weave a thousand rhymes. 
 36 
 
But you will never sport a crook 
 To witch my raptured sight — 
 
 Here comes your aunt with savage look 
 The ball is done — good night ! 
 
 37 
 
JHasiiloom auir JHstrtle 
 
 LITTLE WHITE SHOON 
 
 LITTLE WHITE SHOON, you are dainty 
 and slim 
 As you flit o'er the ballroom floor; 
 Worthy are you for an artist to limn, 
 
 A poet to hymn — and adore. 
 I gaze in amaze at your frolicsome flight, 
 
 As a wight by enchantment bewitched — 
 But what do you care as you trip it to-night? 
 You snare that the Pixies have stitched! 
 
 Little White Shoon, like twin butterflies 
 
 That circle a garden a-blow, 
 With rapturous sighs and love-laden eyes 
 
 I follow wherever you go. 
 'Neath satin a-shimmer you glimmer as gay 
 
 As lily buds wet with the dew — 
 If I mix up my similes, pardon me, pray, 
 
 Each moment I'm wildered anew. 
 
 Little White Shoon, you have gallants, a score, 
 Around you they sigh and aspire, 
 
 And into your ear vapid compliments pour 
 Unmeet for the grace they admire; 
 
 38 
 
But melody springs from my lyre, for its strings 
 Are a-quiver because you are near, 
 
 And when you have vanished, like all lovely 
 things, 
 The world of your beauty shall hear. 
 
 Little White Shoon — afar from the rout, 
 
 What fancies are blent with my dreams ! 
 As you pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat gleaming about, 
 
 I catch the sweet ripple of streams; 
 The scent of the wild rose a-sway in the wind, 
 
 The song of the shy forest bird, 
 The glamour of moonlight with shadows en- 
 twined, 
 
 In my dreaming are felt and are heard. 
 
 Little White Shoon, the night's ebbing fast, 
 
 The East's growing pink with the morn; 
 The fairer the vision the quicker 'tis past — 
 
 Alas, must you leave me forlorn ! 
 The cellos are breathing a final refrain: 
 
 May your beauty ne'er wither or blight, 
 And soft be the touches of sorrow and pain; 
 
 Little White Shoon, good night! 
 
 39 
 
JHafiiiloom atrtr jWgttle 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 O PEGGY, dear Peggy, so lovely you are, 
 I'm dazzled anear you and haunted afar; 
 Each moment I find in your flowerlike face 
 Some shy hidden charm it is rapture to trace. 
 In the depths of your eyes shadowed violets nest, 
 That come in the night-time and rob me of rest; 
 And when hies the morning no comfort I win, 
 As I dream of the dimple that peeps from your 
 chin. 
 
 Ah, Peggy, dear Peggy, the lasses all frown 
 
 As you trip through the street in your pretty 
 
 blue gown; 
 They scoff and they murmur; there's sorrow to 
 
 pay — 
 The hearts of the laddies you've taken away. 
 The eyes of the swains ever follow your feet, 
 Bewitched by a music no rhyme can repeat; 
 For the fairies attend you wherever you go, 
 And dance to the pat of your gay little toe. 
 
 Yet, Peggy, dear Peggy, with lovers a score, 
 Some day you must choose from the hearts that 
 adore; 
 
 40 
 
There's a time to coquet and a time to have done. 
 
 You've smiled upon twenty, now love only one. 
 
 Tis folly to falter. Why tarry to mate? 
 
 A word in your ear as you tremble and wait. 
 
 True counsel I offer, as honest as free, 
 
 Just take my advice, Peggy — Peggy, take me. 
 
 41 
 
jHafftilootu anil JWffttle 
 
 LONG AGO 
 
 I WATCHED her sew, a witching sight, 
 Her dimpled cheeks with youth a-blow 
 Beneath the lamp's rose-shaded light. 
 It should have shamed me well, I know - 
 Her gleaming needle nimbly bright. 
 'Twas she that toiled. Her idle beau, 
 I watched her sew, 
 Long ago. 
 
 I watched her sew, I, happy wight. 
 When was it? Ah, 'twas long ago. 
 Yet Memory's graces never blight, 
 Sweet beacons baffling Time, the foe; 
 And 'twas her wedding gown that night 
 My bride to be — with eyes a-glow, 
 I watched her sew, 
 Long ago. 
 
 42 
 
JHanliloom autr Jtt»rtU 
 
 MY LITTLE PICTURE TREE 
 
 UPON me, from my study wall, 
 A little picture looks, 
 And bird-like e'er its glances fall 
 
 From out a nest of books. 
 And when I lift my weary eyes, 
 
 It seems to smile at me, 
 As if it wished to chase my sighs — 
 That little picture tree! 
 
 Of course there's something else beside 
 
 The tree to give me joy: 
 A brook, some sheep; and happy-eyed, 
 
 A little shepherd boy. 
 Who sits and sings the whole day long, 
 
 The while, with kindred glee, 
 A merry bird gives song for song 
 Upon my picture tree. 
 
 'Tis pleasant to have something nigh, 
 
 Where life is only play — 
 When everything has gone awry, 
 
 To look at something gay; 
 43 
 
To know, when all the sunshine's gone 
 
 And only clouds I see, 
 That still the sun is shining on 
 My little picture tree. 
 
 When disappointment plants a sting, 
 
 When editors refuse, 
 When long-expected letters bring 
 
 The very worst of news; 
 Whene'er my faithful wife is cross, 
 
 Or children won't agree, 
 There still is balm for all my loss 
 Beneath my picture tree. 
 
 Upon the brook the lilies gleam 
 
 In soothing grace arrayed, 
 Their vision sets my soul a-dream, 
 
 And all my sorrows fade; 
 The little woolies seem to say: 
 " Why don't you do as we? 
 There's nothing drives our joy away 
 Beneath the picture tree." 
 
 And then I emulate the sheep, 
 
 Who wiser are than I; 
 I close my eyes and fall asleep, 
 
 And fancy by and by 
 44 
 
JHa$tJloom autr JW»trttt 
 
 That free from care and all annoy, 
 
 With every bliss in fee, 
 I am the little shepherd boy 
 
 Beneath my picture tree. 
 
 45 
 
Jttasfcloow antr Jtt»rtle 
 
 AN OLD MIRROR FROM TOURAINE 
 
 IT is a thing of beauty. See 
 The frame with lovely figures garnished; 
 Here Pan pursues lithe Nymphs that flee — 
 What grace survives by Time untarnished! 
 The rim, too, cirques a lake of light 
 
 Which keeps unflawed the olden splendor, 
 As pure as when at Beauty's rite 
 
 It smiled to greet forms fair and slender. 
 
 I trow before it many a snare 
 
 Was slyly laid by scheming Cupid, 
 Who joyed to find a witching lair 
 
 'Neath rippling locks, by ribbon loop hid. 
 Doubt not he forged his keenest dart 
 
 In laughing eye, or twinkling dimple, 
 And when he pierced a gallant heart 
 
 There was no healing herb or simple. 
 
 Perchance Diane de Poictiers 
 
 Before this mirror bound her tresses; 
 
 Or peerless Gabrielle d'Estrees, 
 
 Whose charms no artist's brush expresses; 
 
 46 
 
H«cTi>tiioom antr J»»rtle 
 
 Ay, Sorceresses by the score 
 
 Arise, with claims to goodness fragile, 
 
 For when Romance hath oped her door, 
 Imagination waxes agile. 
 
 In old Touraine what glamour lies! 
 
 Our sterner rules in vain assert you; 
 More lenient grow our wistful eyes 
 
 When steeper mounts the path to virtue. 
 The pretty moths! They singed their wings, 
 
 And fluttered oft in clouds of scandal. 
 But think! It was enamored kings 
 
 Who stooped to light the luring candle. 
 
 An epoch 'twas of love and crime, 
 
 Of gleaming armor, plumes and lances, 
 Cowled Monks that pray, Trouveres that 
 rhyme — 
 
 Ah, how the picture still entrances! 
 All sinful deeds we should regret, 
 
 And strive to chill the glow that fills us; 
 It was a fearful age, and yet — 
 
 And yet a strange enchantment thrills us. 
 
 In modern ways we would delight, 
 
 Would praise above the old, the new man, 
 
 And still the medieval knight 
 
 We much prefer — he was so human. 
 
 47 
 
A sinner oft, but ne'er a cad, 
 
 In morbid scenes he scorned to revel; 
 
 And by the glimmering light he had 
 
 He sought the truth, and fought the Devil. 
 
 The women, too, of elder days, 
 
 Let legend still their crowns bequeath them, 
 The while we listen to the lays 
 
 With which their faithful minstrels wreathe 
 them! 
 And though we deem them weakly willed, 
 
 Why should we scoff, with wisdom riper? 
 Like shattered roses they are still, 
 
 And if they danced — they paid the piper. 
 
 48 
 
Jttafffiloom anir jWgrtle 
 
 BY THE HEARTH AT HALLOWEEN 
 
 THE wonder hours are with us; upon the 
 hearth to-night 
 Around the heaped-up logs the flames twine up 
 
 in weird delight. 
 They set the shadows dancing o'er the rafters 
 
 and the wall 
 Till it seems the gnomes of Elfland have burst 
 
 their mountain thrall. 
 To the crackle of the blazing wood within the 
 
 chimney place, 
 How the shadow ballet bows and sways with 
 
 tiptoe, pixy grace ! 
 And sooth, should not a touch of fairy pageantry 
 
 be seen? 
 It is the spot for glamoury — the hearth at 
 
 Halloween. 
 
 Yea, 'tis the hour for glamoury. Let Fancy have 
 
 her way. 
 To-night the powers unknown to us may change 
 
 our lives for aye — 
 May weave our lots like tiny threads, and dye 
 
 them dark or fair — 
 
 49 
 
May give us garments for our souls we may not 
 
 choose but wear — 
 May plan our paths, and who shall meet on 
 
 ocean, land or lake; 
 What breasts shall swell with happiness, what 
 
 hearts shall ache and break. 
 If ever spells are worked at all this is the time, 
 
 I ween, 
 And this the wonder haunted spot — the hearth 
 
 at Halloween. 
 
 Can't you catch an eerie answer in the echo when 
 
 we laugh? 
 Can't you see an eerie winking in the bubbles 
 
 as we quaff? 
 And dared you glance behind you as you came 
 
 a-down the stair — ■ 
 Didn't you feel as if a face unseen had breathed 
 
 upon your hair! 
 I know not how it is with you — it filled me with 
 
 affright 
 When I passed the long, white mirror ghastly 
 
 gleaming in the night. 
 Ah, cast another log on, yes, a dry log, not a 
 
 green. 
 And draw a little closer 'round the hearth at 
 
 Halloween. 
 
 50 
 
jHasfiloom auir JWffttle 
 
 'Tis gliding on to midnight. See the embers 
 
 growing gray. 
 The Cricket stops his shrilling and in silence 
 
 steals away. 
 What is it makes us whisper? Is it aught we 
 
 can divine? 
 It seems to me 'twere meet to sing the song of 
 
 "Auld Lang Syne." 
 And as we sing we'll think of them — the faces 
 
 of the dead; 
 And when at last the dear old words all fra- 
 grantly have sped, 
 Hand clasping hand we'll breathe a prayer, and 
 
 then with hearts serene 
 We will wend to peaceful dreaming from the 
 
 hearth at Halloween. 
 
 51 
 
Sgrtra of Slow 
 
 S3 
 
jHaubloom autr JWgrtle 
 
 AN OLDEN DREAM 
 
 DO you recall the roses white 
 That blossomed in the long ago? 
 I still can see the petals light 
 
 That fell and flaked your locks below. 
 Beneath the swaying vine that night 
 You heard my passion, half afraid; 
 No blossoms now are e'er so bright, 
 For memory's roses never fade. 
 
 Oh, say, do you recall the song 
 
 You sang beneath the summer moon? 
 The lay was neither loud nor long; 
 
 'Twas even then an old, old tune; 
 Yet often mid the careless throng 
 
 Within my heart its echo sighs, 
 And sings and sings when life goes wrong - 
 
 For memory's music never dies. 
 
 Long years have passed. Again with you 
 
 I linger in the stilly night; 
 Above the darkness and the dew 
 
 The faithful stars are shining bright. 
 55 
 
iftagfllooro ana jWgrtli 
 
 The tears that fill your eyes of blue 
 Proclaim you too have known regret; 
 
 Sweetheart, let's make the old dream true 
 Though late, we may be happy yet! 
 
 56 
 
JWayMaom mXf MsvtU 
 
 THE FAIRY FLOWER 
 
 I SAW a fairy flower a-blow, 
 It gladdened all the day; 
 With wistful eyes I watched it glow, 
 
 And then I turned away 
 With thought to come again ere night; 
 
 At twilight-tide 'twere best 
 To cull that little blossom bright, 
 And wear it on my breast: 
 And so, 
 My footsteps I hurried, 
 Alackaday ! 
 I toiled the long hours in glee, 
 With dreams of the grace of that way-side place, 
 And the blossom that blew for me. 
 
 With toil o'erspent I came at last. 
 
 'Twas dewy even-tide, 
 And down the morning way I passed 
 
 With Memory for my guide, 
 And where the light was wan and thin 
 
 I dashed the boughs apart; 
 So eagerly I sought to win 
 
 The blossom of my heart: 
 57 
 
jj»agtttoom ana jmgrtle 
 
 But oh, 
 Love was the flower, 
 Alack aday ! 
 In a woman's face it shone, 
 And a wiser than I had passed thereby, 
 And the bloom of my life had flown. 
 
 58 
 
ittftgtfjiootti autr JWjjvttt 
 
 WHEN KATY TUNED THE OLD GUITAR 
 
 THE sweetest strain that ever 
 My raptured ears have heard — 
 I know that memory never 
 Can lose a single word — 
 Was on a balmy evening, 
 
 That crowned a summer day, 
 When Katy tuned the old guitar 
 And sang my heart away. 
 
 The happy starlight beaming 
 
 Upon her lily throat 
 Set wistful fancy dreaming 
 
 W r ith every haunting note. 
 It was no idle ballad, 
 
 No senseless modern lay; 
 With " Bonny Annie Laurie " lo, 
 
 She sang my heart away. 
 
 And when the song was over 
 And Katy breathed a sigh, 
 
 She, too, could boast a lover 
 Would lay him down and die. 
 
 59 
 
iHastrtoom autr J»»rtle 
 
 'Twas then I told my secret, 
 And still I bless the day 
 
 When Katy tuned the old guitar 
 And sang my heart away. 
 
 60 
 
itf <n>tiioom auir jHgrtle 
 
 A MESSAGE BY NIGHT 
 
 I THINK of you. I wonder 
 How went with you the day; 
 If you are dull, or sorry; 
 
 If you are glad and gay; 
 How bend the skies above you, 
 If they are soft and blue; 
 Like birds they come, 
 When words are dumb — 
 The thoughts I think of you. 
 
 I think of you. I wonder 
 
 What faces do you meet; 
 And if their glances charm you, 
 And if their smiles are sweet; 
 If you forget the absent — 
 
 They say that most men do ! — 
 But you? — Oh, no! 
 It can't be so; 
 I won't think that of you. 
 
 I think of you. Perhaps you 
 Are dancing at a ball. 
 
 61 
 
Your partner next — I wonder 
 
 If she is short, or tall. 
 I almost heard the music — 
 Just now the night wind blew — 
 It could not be, 
 I know; but see 
 How much I think of you. 
 
 I think of you. Soon morning 
 
 Will blossom o'er the sea; 
 To me — all night so wakeful — 
 
 'Twill bring no joy to me. 
 The weary, weary hours! 
 Alas, my joys are few; 
 And all day long, 
 Till evensong, 
 I'll only think of you. 
 
 I wonder, yes, I wonder, 
 
 Why Fancy flies so fast; 
 Why Memory paints so brightly 
 
 The pleasures that are past! 
 'Tis sad to sit and marvel 
 At Time's and Fate's decree: 
 I think of you — 
 If I but knew 
 You only thought of me! 
 
 62 
 
JWaj>filoom amr J«i?rtle 
 
 A TWILIGHT SONG 
 
 THE day is waning in the west, 
 As fades the summer rose; 
 And softly, with a song of rest, 
 
 The evening zephyr goes 
 To wake, like little sparks of light, 
 
 The tiny drops of dew, 
 The fairy lanterns of the night 
 
 That lead to dreams of you, Sweetheart - 
 That lead to dreams of you! 
 
 Avaunt the bramble cares that lie 
 
 Along the path of toil! 
 Calm twilight soothes my anxious sigh, 
 
 And stills the fraying moil; 
 And faring homeward through the dusk 
 
 Life blooms with hope anew. 
 With thoughts out-sweeting thyme or musk 
 
 I go to dream of you, Sweetheart — 
 I go to dream of you! 
 
 Asleep, and fended from my grief, 
 Too fleetly hies the day; 
 
 63 
 
jWagfltoow antt JKgrtU 
 
 The happy night is all too brief, 
 Would it might last for aye, 
 
 Or else that I might never wake 
 To find my dream untrue! 
 
 Some time my hapless heart will break 
 Because I dream of you, Sweetheart 
 Because I dream of you! 
 
 64 
 
Jttafffiloom auir JHffirtle 
 
 THE GARDEN OF MY HEART 
 
 THERE is a garden in my heart 
 By memory's fingers planted; 
 No frost can make its bloom depart, 
 
 Or break the spell enchanted. 
 From year to year 
 It grows more dear, 
 
 'Neath skies of cloudless hue, 
 Where love abides without a fear, 
 And dreams, Sweetheart, of you. 
 
 There is a garden in my heart 
 
 That ne'er a storm hath blighted, 
 Where, mid the flowers, untouched by art, 
 
 Sweet Fancy strays, delighted; 
 Where care, nor grief, 
 Nor Time, the thief, 
 
 Can ever work me rue; 
 And every little, laughing leaf, 
 
 In whispers, talks of you. 
 
 There is a garden in my heart, 
 So fair that in the gloaming 
 65 
 
The happy teardrops swell and start 
 Where'er my feet are roaming. 
 
 So blessed am I 
 
 I cannot sigh 
 
 For bliss beyond the blue; 
 
 For who could long for joy on high, 
 Beloved on earth by you? 
 
j«<U>WooiH amr $&$vtU 
 
 SONG 
 
 I LOVE thee as the wind of night 
 Adores the summer rose, 
 And ever in the silver light 
 His homage soft bestows; 
 With joy, because her lovely face 
 
 Hath bound him with a spell; 
 In woe, because her matchless grace 
 His song can never tell. 
 
 I love thee as the forest brook 
 
 The fragile woodland fern, 
 Love murmuring through the shadowed nook 
 
 At every pebbled turn; 
 With rapture, that she bends so near, 
 
 The shy and trembling leaf! 
 In pain, he cannot stay to hear 
 
 Sweet answer to his grief. 
 
 67 
 
jWagWatnu an» JWgrtle 
 
 THE BLOSSOM FROM LILLIAN'S HAIR 
 
 THE morning hath silvered the sea, 
 In the east is a glimmering light, 
 The world is awaking in glee, 
 
 But my memory reverts to the night. 
 I dream of a fair woman's face 
 
 As she bade me good night on the stair, 
 And I tenderly place 
 In a little brown vase 
 The blossom from Lillian's hair. 
 
 With long silken lashes a-sweep 
 
 O'er her cheek that is dimpled below, 
 I picture her softly asleep, 
 
 Like a lily half hid in the snow, 
 While I in my loneliness kiss 
 
 The prize that I won with a prayer; 
 Of a moment of bliss 
 All is vanished but this — 
 A blossom from Lillian's hair. 
 
 At noon when her eyelids unclose, 
 And the fairies of Drowsyland flee 
 
 68 
 
JWa^Wooro amr JW^rtle 
 
 That guarded her balmy repose 
 
 Will she give a small fancy to me? 
 No matter! this dear little bloom, 
 
 Though faded, I'll treasure with care; 
 'Twill lighten the gloom 
 Of my desolate room, 
 The blossom from Lillian's hair. 
 
 69 
 
JWajjWooro autr JWfitttt 
 
 SONG AT TWILIGHT 
 
 SITTING in the twilight, with remembered 
 Junes, 
 I dream of her I used to love, and hum the old 
 love tunes; 
 
 And wonder if the maidens 
 
 I meet are now as fair, 
 Or Summer's blossoms half as sweet 
 As those she used to wear. 
 
 Sitting in the twilight, stars peep amid the gloom: 
 There's fragrance on the eventide; for Memory's 
 roses bloom. 
 
 And in the wind's low whisper 
 
 I seem to list once more 
 The loving words she used to say, 
 The Love I loved of yore. 
 
 70 
 
Jttasblooro an* JWjjrtU 
 
 SONG 
 
 I WANDERED through the wildwood, 
 The way was dank and cool, 
 With here and there a slanting ray 
 
 A-glimmer on a pool. 
 I seemed to feel a prescience 
 Ineffable and rare; 
 
 And though that day, 
 Far leagues away, 
 I knew my love was there. 
 
 I turned me to a field-path 
 Beneath the sun a-glow; 
 Amid the grasses at my feet 
 
 Bright blossoms were a-blow; 
 They seemed alive with joyous grace, 
 So blithe they were, and fair. 
 But sweeter still, 
 There came a thrill — 
 I knew my love was there. 
 
 When happy hearts are loyal, 
 No distance can divide; 
 71 
 
jWaotiioow an* JHgrtle 
 
 Or far or near, an effluence 
 
 O'erspans both hill and tide. 
 Some subtle power e'er through it steals 
 And robs the soul of care. 
 
 What's fleeting breath, 
 Yea, even death, 
 When love is everywhere? 
 
 72 
 
jHaffWoom an* JttgrtU 
 
 ROSE SONG 
 
 THE roses come with every Spring 
 To blossom just as fair; 
 Beneath the flying swallow's wing 
 
 They sweet the sunny air. 
 Red, white, and gold, with grace untold, 
 
 They bud, they blow, they flee, 
 To come again just as of old 
 And thrill the wold with glee. 
 
 The happy flowers, I love them well. 
 
 I marvel not the wind, 
 Enchanted by their fairy spell, 
 
 Lags, loverlike, behind. 
 Yet all the while he sighs his woes 
 
 As if on bended knee, 
 I'm dreaming of a vanished rose 
 
 I nevermore shall see. 
 
 73 
 
jHas&loom aixtr JWffttle 
 
 UNDER THE MOON 
 
 FLOWERS, and dew, and the moon shining 
 down, 
 And you, little Love, in your filmy, white gown — 
 
 Time — cruel Time — stay your flight! 
 Though flouted by Fortune, and scorned by 
 
 Renown, 
 I'm happy, yes, happy tonight. 
 
 One hour I've drank of a rapture undoled; 
 Love hath answered to love as my passion I 
 told — 
 
 1 have culled the fair ros~ of delight. 
 Ah, little I care what the future may hold, 
 
 You are mine, you are mine, Love, tonight! 
 
 The beads on Life's rosary — many are dark, 
 And counted in sorrow. One pearl I can mark; 
 
 Its lustre, white, peerlessly white; 
 When all waxeth dim, I shall treasure its spark — 
 
 Ay, dead, I shall dream of tonight. 
 
 74 
 
jtta»t>loom ana jwgttle 
 
 THE LOVER 
 
 THE lover — what should counsel him. 
 And mingle magic with his song? 
 The spirit of the twilight dim, 
 
 The soul of summers sweet and long; 
 The carols of the birds and bees, 
 
 Blent with the breath of moonlit flowers 
 Which garland Time the while he flies, 
 And add but swiftness to the hours. 
 
 The lover — ah, what shall I take 
 
 To symbolize his faithful soul? 
 The moon-chained tide with ceaseless flow, 
 
 The needle constant to the pole, 
 The echo of the distant hills, 
 
 That sweetens discord as it flies, 
 The fragrant herb that, crushed, distils 
 
 A keener perfume ere it dies. 
 
 The lover — oh how blest is he, 
 
 E'en though his bliss no guerdon gains! 
 A boundless bliss he holds in fee 
 
 That crowns with rapture all his pains. 
 
 75 
 
jWagflloom anft J»grtle 
 
 For 'tis not being loved that wreathes 
 The heart with joy's supernal glow; 
 
 No; it is loving that bequeathes 
 The purest pleasure life can know. 
 
 76 
 
JWa»tiloom anU JHsrtle 
 
 NUTTING SONG 
 
 THE day that we went nutting 
 To memory how dear! 
 The music of the swaying boughs, 
 The west wind, crisp and clear, 
 Upon whose wings were wafted 
 
 The scent of spicy leaves, 
 Blent with a softer fragrance 
 Of wheat and barley sheaves. 
 
 The day that we went nutting 
 
 Blue skies o'er-arched the ways, 
 And vanished summer's beauty 
 
 Still hung, a haunting haze, 
 Too peaceful e'er to sadden, 
 
 Too lovely not to bless — 
 An aureole o'er the future 
 
 Of joy and tenderness. 
 
 The day that we went nutting 
 Amid the autumn woods 
 
 We shook the shining chestnuts 
 From out their prickly hoods, 
 
 77 
 
And hickory nuts and hazel, 
 They gaily pattered down; 
 
 But not a one could match in hue 
 Your gleaming eyes of brown. 
 
 The day that we went nutting — 
 
 Rare, golden afternoon, 
 With thistle-down a-floating 
 
 Like flitting fairy shoon, 
 There was some spell around us 
 
 Unfathomed of the wise; 
 Its thrilling power I felt, although 
 
 It baffled ears and eyes. 
 
 The day that we went nutting 
 
 We thought alone we strayed; 
 But one with fern seed 'neath his foot 
 
 A tricksy visit paid: 
 Beside our well-filled basket 
 
 Young Cupid tripped in glee, 
 And as we bore our treasure home 
 
 He won your heart for me. 
 
 78 
 
jttajjfclooro autr MsvtU 
 
 MY LOVE FOR THEE 
 
 THE love whose thoughts far swifter fly 
 Than sea birds through the spray; 
 The love that craves with stifled sigh 
 
 A dear voice far away; 
 Whose longing memories strive to trace 
 
 Each smile of vanished glee; 
 And soars sublime through time and space — 
 That is my love for thee. 
 
 The wistful love that clings and clings 
 
 Like some forsaken child; 
 The trustful love that sings and sings 
 
 With echoes weird and wild; 
 That whispers in the lonely night 
 
 Of what can never be, 
 From eyes a-gleam with tearful light — 
 That is my love for thee. 
 
 The love that hath no part of bliss 
 
 And only breathes in pain, 
 And yet whose pang I would not miss 
 
 For all the stars contain; 
 
 79 
 
jttagflloom mxt msvtlt 
 
 That broke my heart in days gone by, 
 
 And wrecked my life for me, 
 The hopeless love that ne'er can die — 
 That is my love for thee. 
 
 80 
 
Ittanfitoom an* JHgrtle 
 
 THE WAIF 
 
 WITH words as sweet as violets 
 I wove a dainty song for her; 
 My fingers stole across the frets, 
 
 And set the golden chords astir, 
 They quivered with a passion true 
 
 That told my heart was hers alone; 
 But, oh, her love was like the dew, 
 A-flash at morn, ere noonday flown! 
 Yet I will keep my lay, 
 And bide another day; 
 The bird that flies 
 To other skies 
 Returns to greet the May. 
 
 Mayhap some day her merry glance 
 
 Will fail to meet the light it throws; 
 Some day her happy heart perchance 
 
 May feel the thorn beneath the rose; 
 And if neglect should pain the breast 
 
 That nature only formed for glee, 
 With aching heart that longs for rest, 
 
 My little Love may fly to me. 
 81 
 
Then I will rise and say: 
 Let naught my Sweet affray. 
 
 Love's beacon burns, 
 
 My bosom yearns; 
 The old love lives for aye. 
 
 82 
 
jWiU'Woom an& J»j?rtle 
 
 SERENADE 
 
 THE moon is all silver, the heavens all blue, 
 Soft whispers the wind from the sea; 
 The white roses nodding and glistening with 
 dew 
 Are wafting their fragrance to thee. 
 Lean out from thy window, lean forth with a 
 smile 
 And pity thy lover below; 
 Let thy beauty shine out like a pearl from the 
 isle 
 That only the sea fairies know; 
 For naught to compare is — 
 So sigh the wee fairies — 
 With thee in thy beauty a-blow. 
 
 The night bird is singing as if he were daft 
 
 A lay to his mate in the tree. 
 How far I'd surpass him had I but the craft! 
 
 Wild-sweet were my love song to thee. 
 So give me one glance of thy lily-like face 
 
 Ere the moon goeth down in the west; 
 Ay, add the last charm to an hour full of grace 
 83 
 
i«a$tJlo6)n anft JWsttle 
 
 ' And heaven and earth will be blest. 
 Let one look delight me, 
 One soft smile good night me, 
 Then sink like a dove in thy nest. 
 
 84 
 
jWagWooro auir iWjjttle 
 
 SONG IN ABSENCE 
 
 SWEETHEART, how fares the night, 
 While I am afar — and alone! 
 To viol and flute do you glide through the 
 light 
 Like a Nymph from the wildwood blown? 
 Do the Gallants struggle as you trip by 
 To catch one glance from your laughing eye, 
 Bright as the dew when the Wind's asigh, 
 From skies of April blue? 
 Anear, or apart, 
 
 The round year through, 
 Flower-o'-my -heart, 
 I dream of you. 
 
 Sweetheart, the hours are long, 
 But nothing my faith can mar; 
 Not even Fancy can work you wrong — 
 
 God bless you wherever you are! 
 Pure as the bloom by the Springtide rill, 
 The trembling flower that knows no ill, 
 'Tis you I love — and have no will — 
 
 As the wave to the star, I'm true. 
 85 
 
Anear, or apart, 
 
 'Neath Rose or Rue, 
 Flower-o'-my-heart, 
 
 I dream of you. 
 
 86 
 
SJgnrfi of Nature 
 
 87 
 
ittcinbloom autr JWgrtlt 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 THE light is growing dimmer, 
 And the white musk roses glimmer 
 In the gray. 
 From every wayside thicket 
 With his tiny dirge a cricket 
 Mourns the day. 
 
 The shades are waxing thicker; 
 See the ghastly moth a-flicker — 
 
 What would he? 
 Like a greedy, ghoulish spectre, 
 He hies to glean the nectar 
 
 Of the bee. 
 
 Oh, the borderland of daytime, 
 'Tis the fickle fancy's maytime, 
 
 When the eye — 
 Ha! what was that a-quiver! 
 How the leaflet made me shiver, 
 
 Flitting by! 
 
 Eerie seems the fragrance 
 Of the flowers in its vagrance — 
 Who can tell! 
 
 89 
 
jHastiloom auir JW»rtU 
 
 Be there ghosts, as one supposes, 
 Then why not wraiths of roses 
 Just as well? 
 
 In the daylight are we deafer — 
 Heard you e'er from noontide zephyr 
 
 Such a tune? 
 But see! — the spell is over; 
 Above the hillside clover 
 
 Comes the moon. 
 
 90 
 
jWajufjloow ^ntlr Jttjjrtle 
 
 WHERE THE ROSEMARY BLOWS BY 
 THE SEA 
 
 THE Summer is passing. A prescient tint 
 Is blent with the blossoms that border 
 the lane; 
 With sound, as with color, is wafted a hint 
 As I list to the cricket's reiterant strain. 
 The charms that are fleeting grow dear as they 
 part, 
 The joy of the Spring dwells in beauty to be; 
 And the grace that is latest I clasp to my heart, 
 Where the Rosemary blows by the sea. 
 
 The songs of the birds in the Winter are still, 
 
 Their carols are borne to a sunnier shore; 
 But the lay of the billows no north wind can kill, 
 And louder 'twill ring when the Summer's no 
 more. 
 The blast from the Norland may whiten the 
 spray — 
 But what is the bloom of the ocean to me! 
 Far dearer's the beauty that nothing can stay, 
 Where the Rosemary blows by the sea. 
 91 
 
The Summer is passing. Another will come 
 With birds, bees, and blossoms to breathe of 
 their bliss; 
 But something I cherished will ever be dumb, 
 
 In the whispering breezes a grace I shall miss. 
 Sweet Summer, good-by ! What the heart cannot 
 bind 
 It loves with a fondness that never can flee — 
 And that is the message I've wandered to find, 
 Where the Rosemary blows by the sea. 
 
 92 
 
jttajv&looro autr Jttgrtle 
 
 THE OLD-TIME FLOWERS 
 
 THE old-time flowers! The flowers seem 
 bold 
 That deck the lawns today; 
 Too confident their buds unfold, 
 
 They are too proudly gay; 
 Their hues are dazzling in the sun, 
 
 They flaunt before the eye. 
 It was not so my heart they won — 
 The flowers in days gone by. 
 
 The old-time flowers! How sweet they were 
 
 Upon the morning bough! 
 Each dawn I felt my wonder stir — 
 
 Are there such perfumes now? 
 It was not strange the dewdrops gleamed 
 
 More brightly on their sprays, 
 Or if by night the glad stars beamed 
 
 With softer, gentler rays. 
 
 The old-time flowers! I often long 
 
 To view their vanished grace! 
 A thousand lovely visions throng 
 
 As fancy turns to trace 
 
 93 
 
Those fragile petals filmy fair, 
 
 That wooed the golden light 
 In that old garden quaint and rare 
 
 Whose love no time can blight. 
 
 The old-time flowers — the birds and bees 
 
 That hummed those flowers among! 
 The spring now brings no melodies 
 
 As sweet as those they sung; 
 And in the breeze that murmurs by 
 
 There's something lacking too; 
 And when I lift my glance on high, 
 
 The sky seems not so blue. 
 
 The old-time flowers, all flowers above, 
 
 Their peerless day is o'er, 
 Yea, old-time flowers, like old-time love, 
 
 They glad the world no more. 
 And yet what lovely visions throng 
 
 As Fancy limns their grace, 
 Which echoes like a sweet, old song 
 
 In Memory's twilight place. 
 
 94 
 
jtfasfiloom <w?r M&vtU 
 
 WIND SONG 
 
 I LOVE the song of the wind in the grass 
 Where the gay-winged butterflies flutter and 
 pass; 
 And the white-browed daisies bend and sway, 
 A-drowse in the balm of the summer day; 
 While all day long o'er the clovered lea, 
 From bloom to bloom flits the droning bee. 
 I feel a spell that is soft and mild, 
 And I sink to rest like a tired child; 
 I dream and dream, and the wrong comes right. 
 Would time stood still — but it won't, alas — 
 As I list to the song of the wind in the grass! 
 
 I love the song of the wind in the tree, 
 
 It lifts my soul with its carol free; 
 
 I view the boughs as they laugh and toss, 
 
 And dapple the light on the low, green moss. 
 
 I upward look, and I long to know 
 
 The wordless message that glads them so. 
 
 The young birds high in their swinging nest, 
 
 I envy the wings that they long to test. 
 
 They will leave, I know, when the summer is done, 
 
 And seek some blooming isle of the sun; 
 
 95 
 
jttastiioom auir Jflterttt 
 
 Yet I share a joy that is not for me, 
 
 As I list to the song of the wind in the tree. 
 
 I love the song of the wind o'er the wave, 
 
 For it seems to tell of the sailors brave; 
 
 And I fancy the music which rings o'er the foam 
 
 Is a message of love to the loved at home; 
 
 For love can span, if the love be true, 
 
 A thousand leagues on the ocean blue; 
 
 And across the waste that hath no track, 
 
 The thoughts that are fond come swiftly back; 
 
 As the sea-gull flies to his craggy nest 
 
 Flits the dreaming heart to the spot loved best. 
 
 So I lift for the sailor a sturdy stave 
 
 As I list to the song of the wind o'er the wave. 
 
 96 
 
JHas&loow antr Jtt»rtle 
 
 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 
 
 I LOVE the merry warblers, 
 The lyrists of the Spring. 
 But when those bards in feathers 
 
 Have flown on fickle wing, 
 Out, from the frozen grasses, 
 There hies, without delay, 
 A singer small, 
 More blithe than all 
 The tuneful choir of May. 
 
 Without — the snow is drifting; 
 Within — the back-log's glow 
 Slow-waning, leaves in shadow 
 
 My faithful books a-row; 
 I catch the wind's wild moaning, 
 An yet — I am not sad : 
 
 Care frowns in vain — 
 I entertain 
 A Minstrel ever glad. 
 
 He pipes — I feel the sunshine, 
 I scent the Summer rose; 
 
 97 
 
JW3»iJloom mi's Mgvtlt 
 
 Anear my feet a brooklet 
 
 Is tinkling as it goes; 
 The yellow bees are humming 
 A drowsy, golden glee; 
 And all night long 
 I live in song 
 Through Summers yet to be. 
 
 98 
 
jHagfiloow anir JWsrtle 
 
 A SUMMER MOOD 
 
 BY Fancy led my heart's away; 
 Such golden weather's made for play 
 'Tis only dullards toil for aye, 
 
 And hoard up treasure 
 That graceless heirs may make them gay 
 In thankless pleasure. 
 
 Yes, let me lie beneath the trees 
 Mid clover rippled by the breeze, 
 And list with quite unenvying ease 
 
 My toiling neighbors, 
 The never-resting, moiling bees, 
 
 And scorn their labors. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis wrong, with careless eyes, 
 To cast my lot with butterflies, 
 Philosophers of azure skies 
 
 Who know no sorrow. 
 Yet if my life should lack in sighs, 
 
 There's grief to borrow. 
 
 No tangled creed my soul shall bind; 
 I'll frolic with the laughing wind, 
 
 99 
 
jHagttlooro ana jflgrtle 
 
 And leave my gnawing care behind, 
 
 Or tread the worm on; 
 While in each fragrant flower I'll find 
 
 A joyous sermon. 
 
 The woodland scents shall be my gain; 
 Their balmy breath shall wash my brain 
 Till, clean of every spiteful stain, 
 
 I wax so moral. 
 On all my faults I frown disdain — 
 
 And never quarrel. 
 
 100 
 
i«ayWoom autr Jttjjrtle 
 
 WHAT THE WILD WINDS SAY 
 
 WOULD you know what the wild 
 winds say? 
 'Neath the sun and the rain 
 You must tune your brain 
 
 In the dim, new day; 
 From the world apart 
 You must list with your heart 
 To know what the wild winds say. 
 
 To learn what the wild winds tell, 
 
 You must leave your book 
 
 For the forest brook, 
 And the leafy dell; 
 
 You must seek to be wise 
 
 'Neath the open skies, 
 To learn what the wild winds tell. 
 
 For the lore of the winds is deep! 
 They have quaffed the dew, 
 And the mystic brew 
 Their lips still keep. 
 101 
 
jWauMootu anlr J»»rtle 
 
 Where the night flower gleams, 
 They have fathomed her dreams — 
 Oh, the lore of the winds is deep! 
 
 When you know what the wild winds say, 
 
 Ah, cool in your breast 
 
 The song will rest 
 Like a charm for aye; 
 
 For the sweet message told, 
 
 Will never wax old, — 
 When you know what the wild winds say. 
 
 102 
 
JHagiiloom autr JHsttle 
 
 CRAPE MYRTLE 
 
 IN the land where I was born 
 Grows a flower that I love; 
 And to-day, 
 It is blowing in the morn, 
 With Southland skies above 
 Blue and gay. 
 
 In a Norland land afar 
 I am haunted by its spell, 
 Flower of love, 
 Like a fair and distant star, 
 Like the murmur of a shell, 
 Or a dove. 
 
 Tis a garden quaint and old, 
 
 Where the rose and jasmine white 
 Interlace — 
 There its plumes of pink unfold, 
 And its sweetness charms the night, 
 Full of grace. 
 
 The Mock-bird builds his nest 
 In the fragrant gloom below, 
 'Neath its gleams; 
 
 103 
 
jmagtrtooffl antt jWgrtle 
 
 And he sings his mate to rest — 
 I can hear the music flow 
 In my dreams. 
 
 O those myrtle boughs of pink 
 Swaying in the Southern calm! 
 Weary brains 
 Need of Lethe ne'er to drink, 
 For before their beauty's balm 
 Sorrow wanes. 
 
 104 
 
JHasWooro an* Jttffrtle 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE WOOD 
 
 THE bards of old sang Arcady, 
 Where nimble dryads tripped the glen; 
 Ah, would our hearts could wiser be, 
 
 Yet keep the olden joy of men! 
 For me the woods still weave a spell 
 
 Within their aisles of fragrant green, 
 And fancies come no doubt can quell, 
 And whisper oft of forms unseen. 
 
 Or nymphs, or elves, not mine to name 
 
 The beings strange I feel so near; 
 A quiver steals along my frame, 
 
 An eerie thrill too faint for fear. 
 Ah, what was that? A leaflet? No! 
 
 That glided through the dappled air, 
 I felt it come, I felt it go; 
 
 It touched my cheek and stroked my hair. 
 
 'Tis fled; and now a murmur swells 
 Companioned by a scent so sweet, 
 
 Of rites mysterious it tells, 
 
 And viewless censers frail and fleet. 
 105 
 
jWas&loom anir jWgrtlt 
 
 I strive to catch the whispered prayer 
 That floats along the forest nook 
 
 Before it fades in cadence rare 
 Blent with the tinkle of the brook. 
 
 Still deeper down the verdant way 
 
 A quaking leaf, not zephyr-fanned, 
 Lures on my feet; I must obey 
 
 The beckoning of an unseen hand. 
 Such slender film two worlds divides, 
 
 No longer far that finer air 
 Within whose depths a secret hides 
 
 inimitably great and fair. 
 
 A secret 'tis to soothe and bless 
 
 The aching thirst of restless hearts 
 Who only feel life's bitterness, 
 
 Unanswered longings, poisoned smarts. 
 A secret 'tis no chemists fire, 
 
 No philosophic search can wrest; 
 'Twill only gladden his desire 
 
 Who kneels and lists at Nature's breast. 
 
 Though much be known, still more remains; 
 
 We cannot tell what yet may be. 
 We dull our sense with fruitless gains; 
 
 With clouded eyes how can we see? 
 
 106 
 
jWagft lo otti an* J»grtU 
 
 The Heaven we deem so faint and far, 
 Past planet mild, or Milky Way, 
 
 Who knows it lies in some fair star, 
 And not around our path to-day? 
 
 Perhaps not in the sullied mart, 
 
 Where priests of fraud and Mammon meet, 
 But in some purer place apart, 
 
 Where blossoms blow and light winds greet; 
 Where hills and vales in verdure new 
 
 Stretch 'neath a sky of perfect peace, 
 Or 'mid the isles of ocean blue 
 
 Whose tuneful murmurs never cease. 
 
 It may be so; and when we go 
 
 Far from the crush of moiling men, 
 Where green boughs wave and brooklets flow, 
 
 There may be forms about us then 
 By us unseen, whose bosoms yearn 
 
 To minister and soothe our pain; 
 And that is why refreshed we turn 
 
 To lift the daily cross again. 
 
 'Mid woods and fields how sweet it were, 
 At dewy morn and twilight bland, 
 
 To feel in summer winds astir 
 Caresses of some vanished hand; 
 107 
 
jWastilootH autr j»»rtle 
 
 To know the haunting fragrance mild 
 Was not the flowerets' gift alone, 
 
 But came from lips that loved and smiled, 
 And love us still though silent grown. 
 
 108 
 
iWaylUoom anir Mgvtlt 
 
 WILD ASTERS 
 
 IN gold and purple galaxies 
 Ye star the countryside; 
 Ye twinkle in the Autumn breeze, 
 
 And then ye halfway hide 
 Your lustre in a cloud of green, 
 
 By modesty to gain 
 A subtler grace to spell the scene, 
 Wild Asters in the lane. 
 
 The blossoms in the fields of May, 
 Their dewy grace I knew, 
 
 But ne'er a one could witch the day 
 With such a winsome hue; 
 
 The clover blooms allured the bee 
 For luscious treasure fain, 
 
 But ye are dearer far to me, 
 Wild Asters in the lane. 
 
 Perhaps it is the Autumn sky 
 
 Reflected in your look, 
 Perhaps the cricket's lonely cry 
 
 Ye list beside the brook, 
 109 
 
jHasliloom autr JEgrtlc 
 
 There's something to your presence lends 
 
 A charm that's half a pain; 
 A pathos rare your light attends, 
 Wild Asters in the lane. 
 
 Who knows that flowerets never feel, 
 
 Nor thrill with joy or dole, 
 That when they die no spirits steal 
 
 To seek a distant goal! 
 'Twere surely wiser were it planned 
 
 That when your colors wane, 
 They flee to glad another land, 
 Wild Asters in the lane. 
 
 Ye never saw a city street; 
 
 It were a crime to tear 
 You from your shy and cool retreat 
 
 And take you fainting there; 
 Let Memory your beauty shrine, 
 
 And treasure free from stain; 
 
 Unseen, but ne'er forgot, be mine, 
 
 W T ild Asters in the lane. 
 
 110 
 
i«at>t)loow auir jWgrtU 
 
 THE CHEROKEE ROSE 
 
 WHITE-BROWED and gold-hearted, at 
 morning a-sway, 
 'Mid glossy green leaflets, a joy to the day, 
 In my garden you seem like a dryad astray, 
 
 As fair and as fearless of foes. 
 Sweet Flower, have you wandered your sisters 
 
 to see? 
 Your lot is far gayer, unpruned in a tree, 
 Where the mockingbird sings and the wild 
 bumble-bee, 
 My blithe-hearted Cherokee Rose. 
 
 Astonishment beams in your innocent eyes 
 And marvel I not at your look of surprise 
 As you gaze at the blossoms of myriad dyes 
 
 That the prim garden borders disclose. 
 But cherish no envy. You need not the 
 
 aid 
 Of the gardener toiling in sun and in shade; 
 There's a charm that is peerless by art 
 unarrayed, 
 
 It is yours, O Cherokee Rose. 
 
 Ill 
 
To the crest of the old ivied cedar you climb, 
 For the raindrops to kiss, for the zephyrs to 
 
 rhyme; 
 Do you know in a garden such freedom is 
 
 crime? 
 Pray gaze on the prim Jacqueminots. 
 How crisply they bear them! Caressed by the 
 
 light, 
 Each rich crimson petal is curved just aright. 
 Who knows — they may bloom in a ballroom 
 
 tonight, 
 While you slumber, sweet Cherokee Rose. 
 
 But little you care, O you darling of Spring! 
 
 All night you will sleep as the cedar boughs 
 swing; 
 
 And at morn to the eastward your grace you will 
 fling 
 To welcome the dawn as it glows. 
 
 While the poor Jacqueminots near a hot chande- 
 lier, 
 
 On a heart like to break, 'neath a lash with a 
 tear, 
 
 Will shatter and fall ere the dawn draweth 
 near, 
 Passion-blighted, my Cherokee Rose. 
 
 112 
 
JWaatiloom at«r JW^trtle 
 
 Enough, there are hearts that are pure and are 
 
 true, 
 And the eyes of their owners are as soft as the 
 
 dew! 
 I know such a maid, bonny Rose, do not you? 
 
 And this nook 'neath the cedar she knows. 
 For 'twas here that I wooed her. My heart, how 
 
 it leapt! 
 As I told her my love, to my bosom she crept. 
 Did you hear? 'Neath the roses all secrets are 
 
 kept; 
 Keep mine, O Cherokee Rose. 
 
 113 
 
Jttaytuoom auir JWsttle 
 
 MID - AFTERNOON 
 
 I LOVE the calm mid-afternoon, 
 With sunbeams well aslant, 
 When, on the breezes half-aswoon, 
 Is borne the bees' low chant — 
 Those drowsy rhymes that never cease, 
 
 And ever soothe the brain, 
 Till, freed from care, the heart at peace 
 Forgets its olden pain. 
 
 I love the calm mid-afternoon 
 
 Where in some garden nook 
 My fancy dons its fairy shoon 
 
 Above some old-time book 
 Whose knights are brave, and ladies fair, 
 
 And hearts are always true, 
 And loyal hope wins guerdon rare, 
 
 Just as it ought to do. 
 
 I love the calm mid-afternoon 
 When for one too-brief hour 
 
 The fevered world is all in tune 
 And sorrow reft of power. 
 114 
 
JWa»fjloow autr JW»rtlr 
 
 Alack-a-day ! Of bliss the whole 
 Can ne'er upon us gleam; 
 
 And yet — 'tis but a dreary soul 
 That knows not how to dream. 
 
 115 
 
JHagWooro auir JW»rtU 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 THE roses are shattered upon the dank 
 mould, 
 All scentless and withered their frail petals lie ; 
 How dreary the wind, and its whispers how cold ! 
 
 Amid the brown rushes how eerie its sigh! 
 At the death of the flowers the Autumn leaves 
 trembled ; 
 A fate that was tristful foreshadowed their own. 
 Ah, sad is my heart — in circles assembled 
 Afar to the southward the swallows have flown. 
 
 Now still ye, wee Cricket, amid the dusk there ! 
 
 Such woe overburdens a piping so thin. 
 Ye never can voice it; your dirges forbear; 
 
 Naught eases my sorrow, no solace I win. 
 Far better in silence lost beauty remember 
 
 While fancy relimns us the joys we have known. 
 Yea, hush we our hearts — 'tis sodden November. 
 
 And far to the southward the swallows have 
 flown. 
 
 116 
 
i«ai?Moom auir JWj?rtle 
 
 THE WIND IN THE NIGHT 
 
 ODID ye hear the wind as it moaned, as it 
 moaned — 
 O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
 Not star was in the dark 
 That a mortal eye could mark 
 When arose the eerie strain 
 As of hapless souls in pain 
 On their flight — 
 O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
 
 O did ye hear the wind as it shrieked, as it 
 shrieked — 
 
 O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
 I trembled in my dread, 
 Yea, I shuddered in my bed. 
 Stricken souls — where did they go? 
 Were they guilty? Was it woe? 
 Was it fright? 
 O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
 
 O did ye hear the wind as it wailed, as it wailed — 
 O did ye hear the wind in the night? 
 117 
 
But silence came at last 
 To the sorrow in the blast, 
 For no torture lives for aye — 
 E'en the wicked find a day 
 Free from blight: 
 I know it by the wind in the night. 
 
 118 
 
j«aymoow auir JEjjrtle 
 
 A PETAL OF A SHATTERED ROSE 
 
 WEE petal of a shattered rose, 
 A tiny thing of white, 
 The sport of every wind that goes 
 
 To meet the Autumn night; 
 How eerie in the waning light — 
 
 How piteous its grace! 
 Where wends it now in feeble flight, 
 To what dark resting place? 
 
 Where are the mellow bees it knew — 
 
 Where is the butterfly, 
 The gallant blithe that came to woo 
 
 While yet the noon was high? 
 Where all the pretty pageantry 
 
 That made the garden gay? 
 I only catch the cricket's cry 
 
 Amid the grasses gray. 
 
 The scattered leaves from oak tree torn 
 
 That in the gust flit by 
 With rustlings weird have strength to mourn, 
 
 To voice at least a sigh; 
 119 
 
iWtefffilootn autr Mpvtlt 
 
 Poor petal, far more frail than they, 
 
 It dumbly meets its death, 
 Though pleasure fleet, and hope betray, 
 
 Sweet to its latest breath. 
 
 The day is cold. The year is old. 
 
 There's not a star to cheer. 
 It wrings the heartstrings to behold 
 
 A little thing in fear; 
 A little thing — it dims the eye — 
 
 That hath no voice to moan, 
 And only seeks a spot to die 
 
 In darkness and alone. 
 
 A moment lulls the piercing blast — 
 
 It flutters to the ground, 
 And neath a wayside hedge at last 
 
 The long-sought rest is found. 
 There let the wrinkled spider weave, 
 
 And shroudlike be his weft; 
 Ay, let him weave, and let him grieve - 
 
 There's naught of Summer left. 
 
 120 
 
JWayUloom autr JHffttle 
 
 A CRICKET SONG 
 
 THE Cricket sang in the night 
 From the wan and withered grass, 
 And his song was a song of blight, 
 Of hopes that wane and pass; 
 Asleep, I stirred my restless head, 
 For I saw the roses shattered and dead; 
 And the birds — the birds with summer fled, 
 
 From afar they wailed, " Alas! " 
 Through the long night in my dreams it rang 
 And rang, the song Cricket sang. 
 
 The Cricket sang in the night, 
 And, oh, 'twas an eerie strain. 
 
 The strings of my heart grew tight 
 To echo the thin refrain; 
 For I felt a dear, dead hand in mine — 
 Not warm, but chill as the chill sea brine; 
 And I saw two eyes with teardrops shine — 
 
 That olden look of pain! 
 And at morn, when I rose in grief to go, 
 I wondered how did the Cricket know! 
 
 121 
 
&tm# mh j^ataro 
 
 123 
 
jWagtiloow antr J»»rtle 
 
 THE OLD MAN AT THE TOLL GATE 
 
 THERE is an old man at the toll gate; 
 His features are weird and grim. 
 Though I hate and loathe it greatly 
 
 I must greet the face of him. 
 For on the way I must fare, and so, 
 Though he gives me pain and works me woe, 
 Through his horrible, horrible gate I must go, 
 The dreadful old man at the toll gate. 
 
 This gaunt graybeard at the toll gate, 
 
 He stretches his fingers old, 
 And his withered and covetous grasping 
 
 Can never be bribed with gold; 
 But ever he stands in relentless mood, 
 His eager clutch is greedy and rude, 
 And yet what he takes can do him no good, 
 
 This gaunt graybeard at the toll gate. 
 
 This horrid old man at the toll gate, 
 As my trembling footstep nears, 
 
 With a smile I cannot beguile him, 
 I cannot persuade him with tears 
 125 
 
He leans and leans in his ghastly glee 
 To take of my treasures his hateful fee; 
 While I shudder and look his choice to see, 
 The horrid old man at the toll gate. 
 
 This old miser man at the toll gate, 
 
 To his guarded latch I've crept 
 With the hope that I might pass it 
 
 By chance while its warder slept. 
 Vainly I seek to be shrewd or sly; 
 He's always awake when I come nigh, 
 And I pay his fee with a weary sigh 
 
 To the old miser man at the toll gate. 
 
 The greedy old man at the toll gate, 
 
 He waits with covetous eyes. 
 He has garnered the most that I treasured, 
 
 And little I've left me to prize. 
 He has tithed my strength from year to year, 
 He has taken the faces I loved most dear — 
 Alas, I have now not much to fear 
 
 From Time, the old man at the toll gate. 
 
 126 
 
JWafitiloow anir JWsrtle 
 
 FOREBODING 
 
 IF love could pass as die away 
 The summer winds at ebb of day 
 That through the amber silence stray, 
 
 Sweet heralds of repose, 
 Whispering in the ear of Night 
 The memory of the Morning's light, 
 
 The fragrance of its rose, 
 Then we might love and never dread 
 The awful void when love is dead. 
 
 127 
 
$ma$i>ioam au5 JW»rtU 
 
 THE FAIRY IN THE FIRELIGHT 
 
 THERE'S a Fairy in the firelight 
 Upon my ingle-stone, 
 And oftentimes she sings to me 
 
 Of what hath long since flown; 
 No louder than a whisper, 
 Far sweeter than a bird, 
 It is the dearest music 
 That mortal ever heard. 
 
 There's a Fairy in the firelight, 
 
 An Elf that is so shy 
 She never makes her melody 
 
 If anyone is nigh; 
 And as she sings she moves her wings 
 
 And waves her wand to me, 
 And while that wand is waving 
 
 What pictures I can see! 
 
 There's a Fairy in the firelight, 
 I know not how, but when 
 
 She sets my heart a-dreaming, 
 I am a child again; 
 
 128 
 
mzgmom auir jtt^rtle 
 
 The world hath lost its sorrow, 
 There is no blight, no bane, 
 
 And every dread afar hath fled, 
 The past can give no pain. 
 
 There's a Fairy in the firelight, 
 
 And when the flame is low, 
 They win no thought, the living, 
 
 From me amid the glow, 
 But while the music lingers 
 
 Beside the embers red, 
 They gather near my soul to cheer, 
 
 The Spirits of my dead! 
 
 There's a Fairy in the firelight, 
 
 And if by fancy brought, 
 The solace is so wonderful 
 
 I know 'tis heaven-wrought — 
 I know she is a messenger 
 
 Unto a dwelling bleak, 
 From loving eyes that long for me, 
 
 From lips that fain would speak. 
 
 129 
 
jUflgUIoom an* JHsrtlt 
 
 SONG 
 
 WHAT are the dark Winds saying 
 Now that the days are drear, 
 The meadow grass a-graying, 
 
 On the withered fern a tear? 
 What are the dark Winds saying? 
 O lone, lone, Heart, they are praying 
 A prayer for the passing year. 
 
 What are the weird Winds sighing 
 
 Now that the year is old, 
 And the thistle-down is flying 
 
 Like a wraith o'er the chill, dank mold? 
 O lone, lone Heart, they are sighing 
 A dirge for a sweet hope dying, 
 
 And a faithful love untold. 
 
 130 
 
JHagfclootu autr JWgrtle 
 
 FORGIVEN 
 
 AS I strayed through the wood in the wither- 
 ing day 
 And the moon wore a veil of gray, 
 I listened to the song that the twilight weaves — 
 The dim, low strain of the quivering leaves 
 
 That only the wind can repeat; 
 And in the half-night, with its weird, weird 
 light, 
 I felt my heart a-beat. 
 
 For it seemed in that lone place, 
 That my fair first Love was nigh; 
 In the shivering dusk, with its breath of musk, 
 I could almost hear her sigh. 
 
 As I strayed through the wood in the blossoming 
 night, 
 And the moon waxed shyly bright, 
 By her wan, sweet lustre it seemed to me 
 That my old Love's face I could verily see; 
 
 And I longed — how I longed — to be shriven ! 
 " O Sweetheart, speak! But a word I seek — 
 To know that the dead hath forgiven! " 
 131 
 
Then it seemed in that lone place, 
 While mine eyes with tears were blurred, 
 Down the woodland aisle I saw her smile; 
 And I knew that my prayer was heard. 
 
 132 
 
jWaffWoom auti J»»rtle 
 
 THE ROSE AND THE STAR 
 
 WHY is the rose so gay in its filmy beauty 
 clad, 
 And why is the star of eve alway, in the cloudless 
 
 west so sad? 
 The rose lives only for a day, and at dark in the 
 
 dust it lies, 
 While the star shines still o'er river and hill, a 
 
 joy to mortal eyes — 
 Why, I say, is the rose so gay, and the evening 
 
 star never glad? 
 
 The voice of the wind I caught, 
 
 O'er a shattered rose it blew, 
 And I know its words, as it wandered by, 
 
 In the garden old were true. 
 
 " The rose is gay, though brief its breath, 
 Because it ne'er hath looked on death; 
 
 But the evening star on high — 
 Why should it not be sad? Alas, 
 It hath watched a million summers pass, 
 Like beautiful visions over a glass, 
 
 And — a myriad roses die! " 
 133 
 
JWagfcloow ana JWfittle 
 
 THE WAYS OF MEMORY 
 
 STRANGE are the ways of Memory. 
 Who knoweth what her sheaf will be? 
 She gleans the while we sleep. 
 She heedeth not the hours a-chime, 
 But gathers 'neath the scythe of Time 
 The treasure she would keep. 
 
 She threads her path mid joy and grief, 
 Takes here a thorn, and there a leaf; 
 
 There's nothing 'neath her ban. 
 'Tis very strange, her how — and why; 
 Much that we prize she passeth by; 
 
 None may divine her plan. 
 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
 At morningtide, at eve, at noon 
 
 She weaves her quiet spell. 
 She chooseth here, rejecteth there; 
 And slowly grows her garland rare, 
 
 Each flower an immortelle. 
 
 Sometimes we strive with might and main 
 To guide her choice; 'tis all in vain. 
 Upon the land and sea 
 134 
 
JWagUlooro autf Msvtlt 
 
 She follows us with haunting gaze, 
 And on our hearts her hand she lays — 
 No whither can we flee. 
 
 Strange are the ways of Memory. 
 Who knoweth what her choice will be, 
 
 What treasure she will prize? 
 Perchance a rose dead many a year, 
 The light upon a silent tear 
 
 Within a loved one's eyes. 
 
 135 
 
JWastiloow atrtx Jtt»rttt 
 
 BY -GONE DAYS 
 
 OBY - GONE Days, O By-gone Days, 
 More distant every year, 
 The dreary seasons slowly pass 
 And you but grow more dear; 
 Like faithful stars whose radiance 
 
 The upper deeps illume, 
 In dreams by day, as well as night, 
 I watch your beauty bloom. 
 
 O By-gone Days, dear By-gone Days, 
 
 The happy birds of Spring, 
 They strove in vain your grace to lilt, 
 
 'Twas past their power to sing. 
 As dewdrops gleam upon the rose 
 
 That meets the kiss of morn, 
 So haloed Hope each budding joy 
 
 Now shattered and forlorn. 
 
 O By-gone Days, fair By-gone Days, — 
 
 I see a garden knoll; 
 Amid the golden jasmine bells 
 
 The brown bees toil and troll; 
 136 
 
A mock-bird in the myrtle boughs 
 
 Sings carols o'er his nest — 
 Sooth, angel ears in Paradise 
 
 No sweeter song e'er blest! 
 
 O By-gone Days, long By-gone Days — 
 
 There are no sunbeams now 
 As bright as those that slanted then 
 
 Through every blooming bough; 
 Such perfumes now no blooms keep, 
 
 No winds so softly blow 
 As those that haunt me in my sleep 
 
 From days of long ago. 
 
 O By-gone Days, lost By-gone Days 
 
 That never can return, 
 Though blue your skies, your blossoms rare, 
 
 Not most for these I yearn. 
 All these I might have learned to lack, 
 
 And never more to see — 
 But, oh, the voices that I loved, 
 
 The eyes that smiled on me! 
 
 137 
 
JHafitJlootu anir JW»rtle 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 
 
 I HEARD a voice in the night, 
 It came from far away. 
 'Twas the voice of my vanished youth; 
 
 In the gloom I heard it say: 
 " Where are the deeds you vowed to do — 
 Where are the laurels bright of hue? 
 There's naught in your hands but dust and 
 rue, 
 And your face is worn and wistful. 
 Once I held your promise true; 
 The end is drear and tristful." 
 
 It paused. And again in the night 
 
 I caught the sorrowful tone 
 Fading and dying away, 
 
 Like the echo of a moan: 
 " I was so happy, happy then! 
 Where are the prizes of sword and pen? 
 I limned you high mid the sons of men, 
 
 And glory-crowned forever. 
 Alas, we never shall meet again — 
 
 No, never — never — never !" 
 
 138 
 
It spoke no more. In the night 
 
 I breathed a weary sigh; 
 And then to the tristful voice 
 
 I softly made reply: 
 " O vanished youth, that laughed in glee, 
 'Twas you, 'twas you that promised me: 
 Where are your visions fair to see? 
 
 Flown, like the dew from the heather; 
 Each, alone, his weird must dree, 
 
 But all may mourn together." 
 
 139 
 
jHafftiloom ana Jttfftrttt 
 
 SONG 
 
 HOW long it seems since I was young, 
 And all the world was fair; 
 How merry were the songs I sung, 
 
 And how I scoffed at care! 
 Tis only youth that's gay and bold — 
 I am so old, I am so old! 
 
 My summer was all love and glee, 
 
 I've seen its grace depart. 
 Now bitter winds of memory 
 
 Wail round my autumn heart. 
 Yes, love hath fled, and friendship's cold 
 I am so old, I am so old. 
 
 140 
 
jttafffcloom untf iWjjrtle 
 
 A DEAD BUTTERFLY 
 
 HIS wings are yet with beauty tinted, 
 Their hues are still as lightly fair 
 As when their fragile glory glinted 
 
 Gleeful through the Summer air. 
 Though motionless — no breezes breasting, 
 Careless whence their fragrance blows — 
 So bright in death, he seems but resting 
 On a rose. 
 
 Ah, let the bees untiring labor, 
 
 Filled each with forethought and with fear, 
 And scorn with sullen hum their neighbor, 
 
 For him the rosebud sheds a tear; 
 And all the garden seems more tristful — 
 
 How mournfully each blossom sways ! 
 Or is it Fancy makes me wistful 
 As I gaze? 
 
 Now had his slender hold been stronger 
 On Summer joys too briefly kenned, 
 
 Or had his happy days been longer, 
 Lingering on till Autumn's end, 
 141 
 
jttaotiloom ana j»gvtU 
 
 Could he have lived, and only left us 
 
 When the cup of bliss was drained — 
 Ah, 'tis that Time so soon bereft us 
 We are pained. 
 
 The bee that dies with golden honey 
 
 Safely hoarded in a hive 
 Is like a miser and his money, 
 
 We scarce can wish him still alive. 
 But here no sordid thought steals on us 
 
 To shame our grief — 'tis all sincere; 
 For the cheery grace that won us 
 He is dear. 
 
 So haste, kind Night, with dewy glances 
 
 His tiny bier in lustre lave; 
 Fulfil, fulfil my longing fancies — 
 
 Let forms unseen now delve his grave. 
 While the white June roses shatter 
 
 Let the Pixies take their guest, 
 Where the petals faintly patter, 
 Let him rest. 
 
 142 
 
jHapttioom autr JWffttle 
 
 I WANT TO GO A-BERRYIN , 
 
 I WANT to go a-berryin' — 
 How strangely like a tune 
 Echo those words around my desk 
 
 This sultry afternoon! 
 The figures all to berries turn; 
 
 I can't make out a bill: 
 I want to go a-berryin' 
 
 On Farmer Bolton's hill. 
 
 I want to go a-berryin', 
 
 There's nothin' half so sweet; 
 
 The longin' stirs my blood until 
 It tingles in my feet. 
 
 I see the red, red clusters in 
 The field above the mill: 
 
 I want to go a-berryin' 
 
 On Farmer Bolton's hill. 
 
 I want to go a-berryin* — 
 
 But not to go alone; 
 I want to go with Mary Jane 
 
 As in the years a-flown. 
 
 143 
 
i&ft9filoom auir Jttgrtle 
 
 Just one tin pail between us — how 
 
 Our han's would meet and thrill ! 
 I want to go a-berryin' 
 
 On Farmer Bolton's hill. 
 
 I want to go a-berryin'. 
 
 What things we used to say! 
 Ah, Mary Jane, she always had 
 
 The sweetest sort o' way! 
 To hear her little laugh — oh my ! 
 
 'Twould set my soul a-thrill 
 When we were out a-berryin' 
 On Farmer Bolton's hill. 
 
 I want to go a-berryin'. 
 
 Alas, why did I leave 
 The only girl I ever loved — 
 
 I wonder did she grieve! 
 How could I hope to find afar 
 
 Aught that her place could fill, 
 Or sweeter joys than berryin' 
 On Farmer Bolton's hill? 
 
 I want to go a-berryin' — 
 
 I want to, oh, so much, 
 To go I'd give just all the gold 
 
 I ever hope to touch. 
 144 
 
J«anl)inom auir JHfirtU 
 
 But though the eyes of Mary Jane, 
 
 Like stars, are beckonin' still, 
 No more shall we go berryin' 
 On Farmer Bolton's hill. 
 
 145 
 
JHafitiloom auJr $&pxtU 
 
 THE BACHELOR'S CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 SANTA CLAUS peeped from the hearth- 
 stone, 
 And I — I peeped from the bed. 
 " This call is quite queer! Pray, why are you 
 here? " 
 I summoned my courage and said. 
 " If you've come here a-seeking wee stockings and 
 
 shoes, 
 You've made a mistake in the matter of flues — 
 For this is a bachelor's chimney." 
 
 Santa Claus stared from the hearthstone, 
 
 And I — I stared from my bed. 
 His cheeks, they were pink, and he tipped me a 
 wink, 
 And quoth, with a wag of his head: 
 " Good Friend, don't ask me the reason I 
 
 came; 
 Just say if there's something you'd like — that's 
 
 the game. 
 Come, up with your stocking. I vow it's a shame 
 That this is a bachelor's chimney! " 
 
 146 
 
Jttaitfiloom atrtr Msvtlt 
 
 Santa Claus stood on the hearthstone, 
 
 And I, half rose from my bed. 
 But I uttered no word — for my heart was 
 stirred 
 And I thought of the years long sped. 
 " Is there nothing you lack? " He spoke with 
 glee. 
 I'm your fairy godfather, you know," said he. 
 " In my pack I've wonderful things — come 
 
 see 
 
 Yes, e'en for a bachelor's chimney." 
 
 Santa Claus laughed on the hearthstone, 
 But I — smiled not from my bed; 
 
 A great longing filled my soul, and killed 
 The joy that his kind face shed. 
 
 " The gift I desire — I fear 'twill cost — 
 
 Is the light of two eyes 'neath the marble 
 mossed — 
 
 Go, bring me the Love I loved — and lost! " 
 And the night wind moaned in the chimney. 
 
 Santa Claus shrank on the hearthstone, 
 
 And I, sank back on my bed; 
 And the embers fell — like a ghostly knell — 
 
 To ashes gray and dead. 
 
 117 
 
jWafffilootn a na J»grtu 
 
 " God pity the wish of your stricken soul! " 
 He sighed, and I saw a tear-drop roll. 
 " The boon that you crave is beyond my dole - 
 And he fled with the wind in the chimney. 
 
 148 
 
JttagtHoom anir JHgrtlt 
 
 THE OLD SONGS 
 
 I WANT to hear the old songs, 
 The songs I used to hear, 
 When every day brought happiness, 
 
 And Fancy flouted fear; 
 When sunset's glory ever new 
 
 Foretold a morn more bright — 
 I want to hear the old songs, 
 Oh, sing me one tonight, 
 
 I want to hear the old songs, 
 
 No thrilling, no roulade 
 Where music dons her lace and gems 
 
 And trips in masquerade. 
 But give to me the simple strain 
 
 That seeks the heart outright, 
 And nests within its deepest part — 
 
 Oh, sing me one tonight. 
 
 I want to hear the old songs, 
 
 Their names I need not tell; 
 The quaint old names mean naught to you, 
 
 But I can feel their spell. 
 149 
 
JHaffWoom at«r J»j?ttU 
 
 Each one, a key, can ope to me 
 
 The garden of delight 
 That blossomed in my vanished youth 
 
 Oh, sing me one tonight. 
 
 I want to hear the old songs — 
 
 I never hear them now — 
 The tunes that cheer the tired heart, 
 
 And smooth the care-worn brow. 
 Heard in the twilight's dreamy hour, 
 
 Best suited to their flight, 
 Each cadence like a blessing falls — 
 
 O, sing me one tonight. 
 
 I want to hear the old songs, 
 
 The gentle lullabies 
 That reft me of my weariness, 
 
 And closed my childish eyes; 
 The fabled music of the spheres 
 
 Beside those strains would blight, 
 The dear old songs my Mother sang — 
 
 Oh, sing me one tonight. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 150 
 
AUt 1 WO 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
LIBRARY OF 
 
 1111 
 
 016 
 
 CONGRESS 
 
 65 
 
 442 5