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Title: In the Morning

Author: Willis Boyd Allen

Release Date: January 25, 2022 [EBook #67246]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Footnotes have been placed at the end of their respective poem.

IN THE MORNING.

IN THE MORNING.

BY

WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

Den Abend lang währet das Weinen,

Aber des Morgens die Freude.

LUTHER’S VERSION.

Hear what the Morning says, and believe that.

EMERSON.

NEW YORK:

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND CO.

38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET.

1890.

Copyright, 1890,

BY WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

University Press:

JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.

To my Mother.

CONTENTS.

P   AGE

AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE

9

VITA NUOVA

11

NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND

15

DIAPASON

17

CHAMOUNIX

20

IN THE MORNING

22

MARIGOLD

25

“SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!”

27

TO M——, ON HER BIRTHDAY

29

“YOURS TRULY”

30

A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER

32

IN SOMNO VERITAS

36

THALATTA

38

UNKNOWN

39

MY CROSS

41

A VALENTINE

42

WHITE PINK

44

APRILLE

45

MAY

46

AUGUST

47

CARLO’S CHRISTMAS

48

THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW

50

TWO VISIONS

52

MY CREED

54

AGAIN?

55

PANSY

56

GOLDEN-ROD

57

TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY

58

TO A VERY SMALL PINE

59

MOSSES

61

THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS

63

CHRISTMAS SNOW

64

THE “CREATION”

65

THE HAPPY VALLEY

67

DOLLIE’S SPRING

71

THE THIRD DAY

73

THE SEVENTH DAY

73

FERN LIFE

75

Its Home

75

At School

76

Asleep

76

A Cradle-Song of the Night Wind

77

The Chime

77

The Hymn of the Northern Pines

78

At Last

79

PAUSES AND CLAUSES

80

TO M——, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS”

81

MEMORIAL POEM

83

DANDELION

90

MARJORIE

92

PRIMROSE

94

CONTENT

96

WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER

98

SEA-GIRLS

102

HOMEWARD

104

A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M——

107

TRANSLATIONS

113

In the North-land

113

A Lovely Flower

113

Eagerly I cry

114

He who for the first Time

114

Little Maid

115

It was as if the Heavens

115

IN MORNING-LAND

117

SIC ITUR AD ASTRA

119

THE COMET, NOVEMBER, 1882

121

“HIS STAR”

122

“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!”

124

PSALM LXXX

126

UNTO THE PERFECT DAY

127

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE

128

BLIND

130

REFUGE

133

GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO”

135

ON CHRISTMAS EVE

136

BY NIGHT

139

“STAR OF BETHLEHEM”

141

“BLESSED”

143

A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL

146

THE FOURTH WATCH

148

“WITH YOU ALWAY”

151

DECEMBER 31

152

IN MY ARM-CHAIR

154

AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE.

T wo sorrie Thynges there be,—

Ay, three:

A Neste from which ye Fledglings have been taken,

A Lamb forsaken,

A Petal from ye Wilde Rose rudely shaken.

Of gladde Thynges there be more,—

Ay, four:

A Larke above ye olde Neste blithely singing,

A Wilde Rose clinging

In safety to ye Rock, a Shepherde bringing

A Lamb, found, in his arms,—and Chrystemesse

Bells a-ringing.

IN THE MORNING.

VITA NUOVA.

desert, treeless, boundless,

The low sun round and red,

Air stifling, moveless, soundless—

And I alone with my dead.

Her head lay on my shoulder,

The crimson light ebbed fast;

Her face grew paler, colder—

The face of my own dead Past.

Then darkness, black and frightful,

Dropped from the eastern sky,

With never a star, but a night-full

Of horrors creeping by.

I saw how fiercely glistened

Their mad eyes, two by two,—

They screamed, and as I listened

They laughed like a demon crew.

See how that huge hyena

Grows bolder than the rest—

Slinks—snarls—in the arena,

For the corpse upon my breast!

I laughed like the brutes around me,

I snarled on my stony bed,

I severed the ties that bound me

And gnashed upon the dead.

The tawny-sided creatures,

Red claw and dripping fang,

The hideous, grinning features,

The awful mirth that rang,—

All vanished. Starless, boundless,

The night stretched o’er my head.

In the gray dawn, soulless, soundless,

I sat alone with my dead.

Then rustling forms drew nearer.

By the faint approaching day

The frightful things grew clearer,—

Great, unclean birds of prey

And carrion beasts, that waited

Until, on the booty rare,

Their hunger foul should be sated

With my poor Past, lying there.

Oh, I, too, sullen-hearted,

No word of anguish said;

Till bird and beast departed

I waited—dumb—by the dead.

The white east flickered with fire,

A lark flew singing by,

The glad light mounted higher,

Up-spread o’er all the sky.

My burden, fair and human,

Still rested on my hands,

When lo! a gracious Woman,

Swift walking o’er the sands,

Until she stood before me,

Breathed words of hope and cheer;

Her radiant eyes were o’er me,

Her presence warm and near,

And at her voice—oh, wonder!—

The dead herself awoke;

The birds no longer shunned her,

She smiled, and moved, and spoke,

Then, “FUTURE” named, to guide me

She softly sprang away;

The Woman stayed beside me—

Sun rose—it was full day.

NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND.

poet sat in his oaken chair,

The pen in his eager hand,

Awaiting the voice that should declare

His Lord’s divine command.

The sad winds sobbed against the pane,

The tempest’s tramp he heard

As it scourged the night with a hissing rain—

But the Poet wrote never a word.

Then came a burst of martial mirth,

And mighty cannon roared

Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth—

’Twas not the voice of the Lord.

In the Poet’s heart a memory rose

Of love’s first passionate thrill

That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows—

But the pen was idle, still;

When lo, a timid voice at the door,

And a child, with sweet delight,

Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er—

The poem was written that night.

DIAPASON.

n the crags of a far-off mountain-top

At earliest dawn a snowflake fell;

The North Wind stooped and cried to her, “Stop!

There is room in my icy halls to dwell!”

The snowflake gleamed like a crystal clear,

Then wept herself to a single tear,

Paused, trembled, and slowly began to glide

Adown the slopes of the mountain-side.

Desolate ledges, frost-riven and bare,

A tiny rivulet bore on their breast;

Cloud-gray mosses and lichens fair

Mutely besought her to slumber and rest.

The rivulet shone in the morning sun,

And touching them tenderly, one by one,

With dewy lips, like the mountain mist,

Each waiting face as she passed she kissed.

Among the shadows of pine and fir

A stream danced merrily on her way;

A thrush from his hermitage sang to her:

“Why dost thou haste? Sweet messenger, stay!”

The noontide shadows were cool and deep,

The pathway stony, the hillside steep,

The bird still chanted with all his art—

But the stream ran on, with his song in her heart.

Through broadening meadow and corn-land bright,

Past smoke-palled city and flowery lea,

A river rolled on, in the fading light,

Majestic, serene, as she neared the sea.

The sins and uncleanness of many she bore

To the outstretched arms of the waiting shore,

Till moonlight followed the sunset glow

And her crimson waves were as white as snow.

On the lonely ledges of Appledore

I listen again to the ocean’s song,

And lo! in its music I hear once more

The North Wind’s clarion, loud and long.

In that solemn refrain that never shall end

The murmurs of swaying fir-trees blend,

The brooklet’s merry ripple and rush,

The evening hymn of the hermit thrush,

The undertone of the mountain pine,—

The deep sweet voice of a love divine.

CHAMOUNIX.

ithin Thy holy temple have I strayed

E’en as a weary child, who from the heat

And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought

In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy aisle,

And trembling, awestruck, croucheth in his rags

Where high upreared a mighty pillar stands.

Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence

Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth

Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head;

Deep rolls the organ peal of thunder down

The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float

Around the great white altar set on high.

So lift my heart, O God, and purify

My thought, that when I walk once more

Amid the busy, anxious, struggling throng,

One cup of water from these springs of life,

One ray of sunlight from these golden days,

One jewel from the mountain’s spotless brow,

As tokens of Thy beauty, I may bear

To little ones who toil, and long for rest.

IN THE MORNING.

was morn,

And day was born.

Bright in the west the stars still burned,

But ever, as the great earth turned,

The eastern mountain-tops grew dark

Against the rosy heaven—and hark!

A single note from flute-toned thrush

Drops downward through the twilight hush;

Half praise, half prayer, I heard the song:

“Oh, sweet, sweet,

Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

The sun

Touched one by one

The firs along the distant crest,—

A silent host, with lance at rest;

Flashed all the world with jewels rare,

Quivered with joy the maiden-hair

Beside the brook that downward sprang

And rippling o’er its mosses, sang

With silvery laugh the same glad song:

“Oh, sweet, sweet,

Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

When lo!

Swift, to and fro,

A sombre shadow crossed its path,

Deep thunders rolled in awful wrath,

The thrush beneath the fir-trees crept,

The maiden-hair bowed low and wept;

The heavens were black, the earth was gray

The hills all blanched in the spectral day,—

The night-wind rose, and wailed this song:

“Oh, long, long,

Oh, joy is fleeting, life so long!”

Behold,

A shaft of gold

Shot through the wrack of cloud and storm,

The heart of heaven beat quick and warm;

From bird and stream, with myriad tongue,

The glad day carolled, laughed, and sung.

’Twas morning still! Her tear-drops bright

The maiden-hair raised to the light;

I heard, half prayer, half praise, the song:

“Oh, sweet, sweet,

Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

MARIGOLD.

arigold, marigold, wi’ thy wee cup o’ gold,

What is it mak’s thee sae bonnie an’ gay?

Sunshine has drappit, an’ filled up my cup o’ gold

Fu’ to the brim wi’ the licht o’ the day.

Marigold, marigold, surely ye canna hold

A’ the sweet sunshine ’at draps frae the sky!

Nay, I’ve a muckle o’ licht ’at I winna hold,

Saved up for you an’ for ithers to try.

Marigold, marigold, stan’in’ there a’ sae bold,

What’s in thy een, ’at mak’s ’em sae bright?

I keep ’em wide open, stan’in’ here a’ sae bold,

Luikin’ at heaven frae mornin’ to nicht.

Marigold, marigold, bairnie wi’ cup o’ gold,

What’s i’ thy hert, ’at mak’s thee sae strang?

Trust i’ the One ’at gave me my cup o’ gold

Lattin’ Him love me, a’ the day lang.

“SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!”

ighteen years ago the sunshine

Laughed to find a baby face;

Laughed to see the blue eyes sober,

In that golden, glad October,

Softly kissed the wisps of hair,

Softly kissed, and lingered there,

Like an answer to a prayer,

Like a whispered benediction,

Token bright of heavenly grace.

Standing on life’s sunlit threshold,

Gazing forth with eyes of blue

On the great round world before her,

On the kind skies brooding o’er her,—

From the baby hair the light

Never has departed quite;

Still it lingers, pure and bright.

Yes, the little maid is waiting,

With a purpose grand and true;

Waiting for whate’er the Father

Calls His child to do and bear;

Waiting, as a thirsty flower

Waits the morning dew and shower.

Summers come and summers go,

Sparrows flutter to and fro,

Autumn breezes murmur low;

“Seventeen, eighteen, Maidie’s waiting,

With the sunshine in her hair!”

TO M——, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

WITH A CHESS-BOARD.

our turn to move again, dear,

I’ the gude auld game ca’d Life;

It’s a warstle o’ joy an’ pain, dear,

A mixin’ o’ lauchter an’ strife.

An’ I fain wad be yer knight, dear,

To serve ye the livelong day;

Ready in armor to fight, dear,

To live or to dee, as ye say.

Near at han’ i’ the gloamin’ I’d bide, dear,

I’ saddle at gray o’ dawn—

Na, na, I’m no worthy to ride, dear,

Lat me be the White Queen’s pawn!

“YOURS TRULY.”

ours truly,” she signs the note; ah, me!

How little she dreams what that would be

To him who, trembling, reads the line,—

What if, indeed, she were truly mine!

What visions those two dear words can bring

To the lonely heart that is hungering

For a single touch of her dainty hand,

One swift, shy glance he could understand,

And know that the formal greeting sent

But half concealed what the writer meant,—

That she gave, throughout the eternities,

Her own sweet self, to be truly his!

There, there!—that fire, how it smokes—what, tears?

I’ll answer her letter—

“Dear Friend, I’ve fears

Your kind invitation I can’t accept; still

I’ll come if it’s possible.

Yours truly,          WILL.”

A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER.

he morning of Sabbath; a city at rest,

But waking serenely and donning its best,

For the warm March sun already is high.

Above, the arch of a white-blue sky;

Brown earth, with a touch of green, below;

Elm-boughs, uptost with a lift superb;

The melting ice and grimy snow

Playing meadow from curb to curb,

With small mud-rills in place of brooks,

And a sewer for sea!

Ah, hold, my friend,

I grant how childish-foolish it looks,

But perhaps they’ve faith for the very end,—

For streams and sewers, greatest and least,

Find ocean at last, in the misty East.

The good people all are off to the churches,

While I, left here in the idlest of lurches,

Must seek a preacher to preach me a sermon,

Ordained with open-air dews of Hermon;

A discourse conservative, grave, edifying,

And—come, sir, no laughing! I really am trying

To find, if I can, the road steep and narrow;

Ah, here he comes, flying, a straw in his bill!

I’ll beg him take pulpit; now hear, if you will,

A sermon preached by a sparrow.

“My text”—hear the bird!—“I take

From the street,”—that’s better,—“and make

Application as follows:

Down there where my comrades are basking,

There’s food to be had for the asking,—

Understand me,—no shirking,

Our asking means working,—

Each swallows

The meal that’s laid on his plate,

Content with enough. There’s my mate,

Her feathers a-fluff in the sun.

That brownest, prettiest one—

Your pardon! I ought to be preaching.

This, sir, is the gist of my teaching:

We sparrows take things as they come,

From four A. M. until six,

We work (using straw without bricks);

We stop now and then for a crumb

Thrown down by a child; full of cheer,

We twitter throughout the whole year,

Investing in no loans of trouble

Where the borrower always pays double.”

But your text was the Street, my good bird.

This sounds like the Bible!—

“I’ve heard

That life was the same, sir, in each;

And, though you want me to preach,

You’ll find that men, fowls, and book,

If you look,

Are all connected together,—

In short, are birds of a feather;

And from a genuine sermon

You’ll learn, sir,—this I’m firm on,—

The same Hand guides and governs all

Which holds us sparrows when we fall.”

No more. Before I could even remind him

Of lack of an adequate exhortation,

Proper pauses, and peroration,

He was off, his straw streaming far behind him.

His advice—well, certainly not very new,

Yet perhaps worth trying, I think—don’t you?

IN SOMNO VERITAS.

dreamed that I sat in my chamber

And watched the dancing light

Of the blaze upon my hearthstone,

And the red brands, glowing bright.

I listened to the rustle

Of the flames that rose and fell,

And I dreamed I heard a whisper,

A voice I knew full well.

The room no more was lonely,

A Presence sweet was there,

A girlish figure, standing,

Beside my own arm-chair.

I dreamed I spoke, and trembling

Lest she should prove to be

The creature of a vision,

I bade her sit by me.

Her grave brown eyes she lifted,

Her dear hand placed in mine,—

The air was sweet with incense

Of odorous birch and pine,—

And as we watched together

Those eager, dancing flames,

We talked of days forgotten,

And spoke our childish names.

I dreamed that heaven seemed nearer,

The skies a lovelier blue,

Then—was it still a vision?—

I dreamed my dream came true!

THALATTA.

ar over the billows unresting forever

She flits, my white bird of the sea,

Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never

A wing-beat nearer to me.

With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her

She timidly gazes below;

Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover,

And little recks she of his woe.

One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters,

One white plume floats downward to me;

Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters—

Night—darkness—alone with the sea.

UNKNOWN.

here’s a star a-light in the gloaming,

A gleam in the skies above;

There’s a flower at rest on her bosom,—

On the heart of her I love.

What says the star of the twilight?

What is the song of the flower?

A cloud has covered the star-beam;

The blossom lived but an hour.

Nay, ’tis the infinite heaven,

The depth beyond, that speak;

’Tis the heart that throbs ’neath the blossom,

Not the lip nor the fair white cheek.

The voice of the heavens is tender,

Its whisper is fond and low;

But the voice of the heart that is throbbing—

Its message I cannot know.

MY CROSS.

nly a tiny cross;

She plucked it from a mountain fir,

And wreathing it in soft, gray moss,

Gave it in memory of her,—

Yet—’tis a cross!

Only a soft, gray cross;

But, half-concealed, full many a thorn

Lay waiting there, beneath the moss,

To pierce the bosom where ’tis worn,

This wee, sweet cross.

Only a thorny cross,

Unconscious of the pain it gives;

Lifeless the fir, faded the moss,

Yet, while the hand that plucked them lives,

It is my cross.

A VALENTINE.

f but the furry catkin small

Could speak with gentle voice

And bid the sad, Rejoice!

A pussy-willow should be all

My valentine.

If but the golden daffodil,

With many a cheerful word,

Could tell what it hath heard

By meadow, wood, or murmuring rill,

It should be mine.

If but the valley-lilies pure

Could whisper in thine ear

A message thou wouldst hear,

Of One whose promises are sure,

Whose love divine,

Such flowers my valentine should be.

Yet sought I none of those,—

Only one crimson rose

To bear its Maker’s heart to thee,—

Lo, it is thine!

WHITE PINK.

he maiden left a timid kiss

Upon the mossy stone;

Her lover true, the maiden knew,

Would seek and find his own.

The lover never came again,

Nor guessed the woe he wrought;

Day after day neglected lay

The maiden’s kiss, unsought.

At length, upspringing from the moss

Through kindly sun and shower,

Its petals fair unfolded there

This gentle, snow-white flower.

APRILLE.

prille, alacke!

With sunnie laugh her snow-white cloke flung backe,

And gailie cast aside;

Then cryed,

With little wilfulle gustes of raine,

Because she could not have her cloke againe.

MAY.

ver the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass

Heaven like dew on the waking earth lies:

Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets;

Best of it all I find in your eyes.

AUGUST.

ugust, the month of virgins, is at hand.

Shrill-voiced, the locust pipes a-field;

With flash of burnished shield

Hovers the dragon-fly athwart the stream;

Like sea-bird slumbering in mid-day dream

Floats one white cloud above the drowsy land.

August, the month of virgins, is at hand.

Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy,—

Scarce heeds the softly murmurous tide,

Fair sky, nor aught beside;

Gazing afar, half troubled, half content,

Awaits with folded hands a message sent

Across the gleaming, restless, longing sea,—

Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy.

CARLO’S CHRISTMAS.

ay I come to your side, dear Mistress?

I am only a dog, you see,

And the Christmas joy and gladness

Perhaps are not meant for me.

Yet I think the Master would let me,

If I only begged to eat

The crumbs that fell from His table,

And to lie at His blessèd feet.

I have heard the wonderful story

Of the sleeping flocks by night,

Of Bethlehem and the angels

And the one Star, shining bright;

And I’ve longed, when I heard the story,

A shepherd-dog to be,

For then it might seem that Christmas

Was partly meant for me.

But I only look up at the Master

With a life that is veiled and dumb,

Content to share with the sparrow

His love, and the falling crumb.

May I lie at your feet, dear Mistress?

I am only a dog, you see,

But if I may serve you and love you,

Why, that is Christmas for me!

THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW.

n her palace porch a Princess—

The sun was red and low—

At her feet a subject kneeling—

Sweet, far-off bells were pealing—

He rose and turned to go.

“I give you my love!” quoth the Princess

To the subject, bending low.

Ah, Goldenhair, what hast thou given!—

The sun is round and red—

As thou standest there in the portal,

A Princess’ love, to a mortal!—

The bells toll for the dead—

A kiss from the lips of the Princess,

But never a word she said.

Still radiant stood the Princess—

The bells no longer tolled—

At her feet the subject kneeling—

The far-off chimes were pealing

Their sweet notes as of old—

“I give you my love!” quoth the Princess;

And the sun was a crown of gold.

TWO VISIONS.

vision of Morn,—the dew’s on the grass,

The ocean’s aflame, and a sweet fisher-lass

On its bosom’s unrest is afloat;

The sunlight is fair on her shy, upturned face,

As she dips the bright oars with the daintiest grace,

And the prow of her snowy-white boat

Its way urges softly through each foaming crest,

Like sea-bird, wings fluttering, closing to rest;

In her eyes shines the light of the glad day, new-born,—

The pure, gentle Spirit of Morn.

A Vision of Night,—the silvery stars

Alight in the East, ere its golden bars

Have imprisoned the slumberous sun;

The sea hoarsely breathing, the wind all astir,

The sparrow crouched low in the boughs of the fir,

But she, the Beautiful One,

Is awake, oh, awake, with her glorious eyes

Star-lighted and deep as the shadowy skies,

O’er the mist of her draperies, fleecy and white,

The radiant Spirit of Night.

MY CREED.

hat is my creed, you ask, dear?

I look in your grave brown eyes

And believe—in your womanly sweetness,

Your purity, clear as the skies.

I’ve faith—in your true, brave heart, dear,

Your life, with its joys and tears;

And far beyond storm-mist and sunshine,

Beyond weary days and long years,

I hope—in a Love that is waiting

With infinite tenderness there

To comfort us both, you and me, dear,

For the burden He gives us to bear.

AGAIN?

ide by side, from their misty home,

Fell two bright drops of rain;

The storm-wind hurled them far apart,

Never to meet again.

Hand in hand stood two dear friends,

Hearts wrung with sudden pain;

The storm-wind hurled them far apart,—

Never to meet again?

PANSY.

ittle flower with golden heart,

Strange, sweet mystery thou art.

Who can tell the thoughts that lie

In the depths of thy dark eye!

Dost thou dream of other lands,

Waving palm-groves, burning sands,

Days of languor, twilights tender,

Glorious nights of Orient splendor?

Shy, sweet type of lovers’ bliss,

Art thou an immortal kiss

By some fair sultana breathed,

To all faithful love bequeathed

By the tiny-sandalled bride,

Velvet-lipped, and starry-eyed?

GOLDEN-ROD.

’er the dusty roadside bending

With its wondrous weight of gold,

Can it be the rod enchanted

Midas used in days of old?

Hush! perchance it is a princess

In the sunlight nodding there,

Spell-bound by the wicked fairy,—

Sleepy little Golden-Hair!

Nay, it is Belshazzar’s banquet,

Where the drowsy monarch sups

With his swarm of courtiers, drinking

From the sacred, golden cups.

See, I pluck his tiny kingdom—

Long ago it was decreed—

And divide it, dear, between us,

You the Persian, I the Mede.

TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.

WITH A ROSE.

argaret, pearl of dainty pearls,

Fairest of dimpled daisies,

My rose its velvet sail unfurls

To bear thee love and praises.

It drifts from port, no longer mine—

Bring back, wee boat, my Valentine!

TO A VERY SMALL PINE.

hat song is in thy heart,

Thou puny tree?

Weak pinelet that thou art,—

Trembling at every shock,

Thy feebleness doth mock

Thy high degree.

When rage o’er sea and land

The tempests wild,

How canst thou e’er withstand

Their might, or baffle them

With that frail, quivering stem,

Poor forest child?

Nay, wherefore scoff at thy

Dimensions small?

For, folded close, I spy

A tiny bud, scarce seen

Within its cradle green;

And after all,

In ages yet to come

Thy stately form,

No longer dwarfed and dumb,

But chanting to the breeze

Sublime, sweet melodies,

Shall breast the storm!

Beneath thine outstretched arms

Shall children rest;

While, safe from all alarms,

Within thy shadows deep

Wild birds their tryst shall keep

And weave their nest.

May such a lot be his

Who tends thee now!

With heavenly harmonies

Serene amid his foes,

Outstretching as he grows

In root and bough.

MOSSES.

hildren of lowly birth,

Pitifully weak;

Humblest creatures of the wood,

To your peaceful brotherhood

Sweet the promise that was given

Like the dew from heaven:

“Blessed are the meek,

They shall inherit the earth.”

Thus are the words fulfilled:

Over all the earth

Mosses find a home secure.

On the desolate mountain crest,

Avalanche-ploughed and tempest-tilled,

The quiet mosses rest;

On shadowy banks of streamlets pure,

Kissed by the cataract’s shifting spray,

For the bird’s small foot a soft highway;

For the weary and sore distressed

In hopeless quest

Of a fabulous golden fleece,

Little sermons of peace.

Blessed children of lowly birth—

Thus they inherit the earth.

THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.

own the rocky slopes and passes

Of the everlasting hills

Murmur low the crystal waters

Of a thousand tiny rills;

Bearing from a lofty glacier

To the valley, far below,

Health and strength for every creature,—

’Tis for them “He giveth snow.”

On thy streamlet’s brink the wild deer

Prints with timid foot the moss;

To thy side the sparrow nestles,—

Mountain of the Holy Cross!

Pure and white amid the heavens

God hath set His glorious sign:

Symbol of a world’s deliverance,

Promise of a life divine.

CHRISTMAS SNOW.

hat so merry as snow?

Gleefully robing the grave old town

In garb fantastic of ermine and down;

Whispering at the window pane,

Then spreading its wee, white wings again

Till, alighting at last with noiseless feet,

On tiptoe in the muffled street

It dances to and fro.

What so pure as snow?

Flakes like the thoughts of a little child,

Undefiling and undefiled;

Wonderful, starry mysteries

Falling softly out of the skies,

Decking with white the bare, brown earth

In memory of the holy birth

At Bethlehem, long ago.

THE “CREATION.”

inter is past. The changing, softened sky,

The robin’s cheery note, the sea-bird’s cry,

The willow pussies peeping from their nest;

The modest sparrow, with his dappled breast,

Flitting beneath the lilacs by the wall;

The budding tree, the tender grass, with all

Its tiny hands uplifted to the sun,

Who reaches down and clasps them, one by one;

The mayflower sleeping on her snowy bed,

And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!”

Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully

As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!”

The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath,

And leaping swiftly down its rocky path,

Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool,

Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool;

The floating clouds, the fragrant earth, the sea,

With its low whispers of eternity,—

All join in one grand harmony of praise

To Him, Creator, Lord, Ancient of Days.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

ar away there sleeps a valley,

Cradled by the mighty hills,

Lulled to rest by sweetest music,—

Whispering winds and laughing rills.

Naught it knows of stormy passion,

Pestilence, or war’s alarms;

O’er it graze the peaceful cloud-flocks,

And the everlasting arms

Of the mountains, underneath it,

Fold it closely to their breast,

While at nightfall, on its bosom,

Golden moonbeams softly rest.

Seasons come and seasons go,—

Summer heats and winter’s snow,

Spring’s surprises, autumn’s peace,

Indian-summer’s golden fleece,

Purple-bordered, crimson-clasped,

By a hand already grasped

That hath costlier treasures brought

Than the wandering Argonaut.

A solemn hush is in the air.

Happy voices die away;

Dark-robed fir-trees murmur, Pray!—

Pray for Summer, young and fair.

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Dead! the weeping autumn wind

Shrouded her in fallen leaves;

Dead! amid her golden sheaves,—

Pray—ye that are left behind!

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Pray ye, pray! for Summer lies

Dead, upon the icy ground;

Heap for her a snow-white mound,

While the winter wind replies:

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Sweetly, through the low, sad murmur

Of the fir-trees’ requiem,

Flows a song of hope and gladness,

Strong, triumphant over them.

Summer is not dead, but sleepeth!

Soon the maiden shall arise,

And the world again be gladdened

With the sunshine of her eyes.

Then the valley, too, shall waken

From the pale trance of her night;

Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead,

Radiant in the morning light.

Years may come and go, but ever

Shall the valley rest among

Mountain mists and golden moonbeams;

While the hills, with myriad tongue,

Lullabys shall croon above it,

Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime,

Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander,

Storms chant harmonies sublime.

And for those who love the valley

Peace and rest are waiting there,

With the seasons onward moving,

Each more gladsome, each more fair.

DOLLIE’S SPRING.

eep within a mountain forest

Breezes soft are whispering

Through the dark-robed firs and hemlocks,

Over Dollie’s Spring.

Swiftly glides the tiny streamlet,

While its laughing waters sing

Sweetest song in all the woodland,

“I—am—Dollie’s—Spring!”

In the dim wood’s noontide shadow

Nod the ferns, and glistening

With a thousand diamond dew-drops,

Bend o’er Dollie’s Spring.

Shyly on its mossy border

Blue-eyed Dollie, lingering,

Views the sweet face in the crystal

Depths of Dollie’s Spring.

Years shall come and go, and surely

To the little maiden bring

Trials sore and joys uncounted,

While, by Dollie’s Spring,

Still the firs shall lift their crosses

Heavenward, softly murmuring

Prayers for her, where’er she wander,—

Far from Dollie’s Spring.

THE THIRD DAY.

LINES SENT WITH A FOSSIL FROND.

any thousand years ago

God looked down and bade me grow;

Why it was, I never knew—

Now I see it was for you!

THE SEVENTH DAY.

SENT WITH A CLUSTER OF MAIDEN-HAIR FERNS.

oubtless you are much surprised

That we are not fossilized,

Geologic, or antique,—

Only little ferns and meek.

Yet we grew at His command,

Touched by that same loving Hand

Which the day from night divided,

Planets on their courses guided,

Set on high the firmament,

Alps from Alps asunder rent,

All the earth with life invested;

And He made us while He—“rested.”

FERN LIFE.

I. ITS HOME.

ithin a shadowy ravine

Far hidden from the sun,

A fern its wee, soft fronds of green

Unfolded, one by one.

From morn till eve no twittering flock

Nor insect hovered nigh:

Its cradle was the lichened rock,

The storm its lullaby.

By night above the dark abyss

The stars their vigils kept,

And white-winged mists stooped low to kiss

The baby, while it slept.

II. AT SCHOOL.

Weeks passed away; the tiny fern

Frond after frond unfurled,

And waited patiently to learn

Its mission in the world.

By fir-trees draped in mosses gray

The willing fern was taught,

And once each day a single ray

Its sunny greeting brought.

III. ASLEEP.

Her cradle songs the North Wind sung

And whispered far and wide,

Until a thousand harebells swung

Along the mountain side.

She sung of far-off twilight land,

Moss-muffled forests dim,

And, to her mountain organ grand,

The aged pine-trees’ hymn.

IV. A CRADLE-SONG OF THE NIGHT WIND.

The pines have gathered upon the hill

To watch for the old-new moon;

I hear their murmuring—“Hush, be still!

’Tis coming—coming soon!”

The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife

Who broods below on her nest:

“Of all the world and of all my life

’Tis you I love the best!”

But the baby moon is wide awake,

And its eyes are shining bright;

The pines in their arms this moon must take

And rock him to sleep to-night.

V. THE CHIME.

Softly swinging to and fro,

Harebells tinkle, sweet and low!

All the world is fast asleep,

Birds and folks and woolly sheep;

Far above us towers the mountain;

Far below, an unseen fountain

From its rocky cradle deep,

Like a child, laughs in its sleep.

All our faces shyly hidden,

As the fir-trees oft have bidden,

Softly bending, sweet notes blending,

Moonbeams climbing,

Wee bells chiming,

Harebells tinkle, star-gleams twinkle,

To and fro,

To and fro,

Sweet—sweet and low.

VI. THE HYMN OF THE NORTHERN PINES.

Sure—sure—sure—

Are the promises He hath spoken,

His word hath never been broken.

Pure—pure—pure—

Are the thoughts and the hearts of His chosen,

As crystals the North Wind hath frozen.

Strong—strong—strong—

Underneath are the arms everlasting;

On them our cares we are casting.

Long—long—long—

Have we sung of the life He doth give us—

His mercy and love shall outlive us.

VII. AT LAST.

Far from its mountain home the fern

Has found a resting-place;

A maiden has begun to learn

To love its winsome face.

But when at night the north winds smite

Against the frosty pane,

The fern is listening with delight

To hear their voice again.

For in their solemn murmuring

The pine-trees chant once more,

The harebells chime, the thrushes sing,

The mountain torrents roar;

Again the dark-robed fir-trees stand

About its mossy bed,

And hold aloft with trembling hand

Their crosses o’er its head.

PAUSES AND CLAUSES.

TO MY LITTLE NIECE, KITTIE.

[With a Maltese Kitten.]

ittie Mabel, will you take

This gift, for the giver’s sake?

Verse and song and roundelay

Will be yours this merry day;

Mine are all unfit to send,

Tattered rhymes, too poor to mend.

But, although I haven’t any

Songs, my thoughts are swift and many.

All are flying straight to you,

And your heart, so sweet and true,

I am sure, dear, won’t decline

This small, furry Valentine.

TO M——, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS.”

Boston girl prefers a set of volumes that are uniform,

In Syriac, Chaldaic, Sanskrit, Arabic, or Cuneiform,

For these will test her paleontological ability,

And not insult her culture by superfluous facility.

She loves a scientific pedant, or, to use a synonyme,

A specimen, with printed name and label fair to pin on him.

Alas! I fear she will despise a book without a mystery,

That never once alludes to Art, or Mediæval History;

But as she is compelled each day to recognize and meet her kin,

I trust she will accept at least this tale of Mrs. Peterkin.

MEMORIAL POEM.

READ AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE BOSTON LATIN SCHOOL ASSOCIATION, APRIL 29, 1886.

Latin-School poem? ’Twere easy to write

On a theme so suggestive an epic at sight,

An ode, full of fire, or, if that wouldn’t do,

An Eclogue, or even a Georgic or two,

With allusions to classical roots, and Greek ponies

Hard ridden and worn—I confess that my own is.

A poet could scarce fail of making a hit,

Inspired by the presence of beauty and wit!

Alas, for the days of our ancestors bold,

When the wassail was drunk, brave stories were told,

While the mirth of the feasters grew louder and higher,

And the bard struck the quivering chords of the lyre,

Without an apology, blush, or evasion,

Or stammering reference to—“this occasion,”

As raising his voice o’er the tumult and din,

He recounted in song all the fights they’d been in.

Let bygones be bygones, the past be the past;

We live in the world of to-day, and at last

Society calls for less noise, more decorum,

Remarks less akin to the street than the forum;

Nay, mounting in civilization still higher,

The bard soon must go—perhaps even the lyre!

And if things should be ever at sixes and sevens,

There lies an appeal to his Honor Judge Devens.[1]

And what, do you ask, is this tirade about?

Why not, as in Hunting the Snark, “leave that out”?

Ah, can I forget why we schoolmates are here?

How often we laugh when we’d fain hide a tear!

The ripples are bright on the waves of mid-ocean;

Eyes dance and smiles play over depths of emotion;

Oh, dear Alma Mater, be patient to-night,

Our hearts, misconstrued, thou canst translate aright!

How memory pictures bright scenes to us all!—

The old, shaky building, the school-room, the hall,

The way the grim doctor read Greek verbs and Latin,

The desk where he wrote and the chair that he sat in,

His upraised forefingers and forehead portentous,

The terror we felt when we found that he meant us;

Eyes gleaming below that great frontlet of hair,—

Ah, could we have known of what really was there,

And fathomed that grand heart, so gentle and true,

Beneath the stern front that bent o’er me and you!

Those lessons—how useless and tiresome they seemed,

While we “mulled” over Cæsar, drew pictures, and dreamed;

How Xenophon’s mighty Anabasis came

To cloud our young lives, till we hated his name,

The characters playing strange pranks on the pages,

While still we droned on, “He—advanced—thirteen—stages.”

We wished the Ten Thousand had all broken loose

Before they began on their endless σταθμοῦς;

We preferred that they wouldn’t get on quite so fast;

We wished that their leader had not ἀναβάσ-ed;

But Xenophon brought them all safe to the sea,

He got out of the woods, and, at last, so did we.

Did you march on the Common? How proud were we then

To be reckoned in newspapers “two hundred men”!

How the uniforms shone as we wheeled o’er the grass—

No koh-i-noor gleams like those buttons of brass!

Our scabbards and sashes were artfully dangled,

And if they at times in our ankles got tangled,

The terror to others was full compensation

For dangers attending our perambulation.

Was it fun? There are those within reach of my words

Who remember when ploughshares were cleft into swords;

When hushed was the voice of youth’s laughter and mirth,

As the flag, broken-winged, fluttered, bleeding, to earth.

Are there men who will cherish their country’s last breath?

Are there three hundred thousand who love—to the death?

Hark!—the answering cry to that agonized call—

And the Latin-School boys are the foremost of all!

We have proved we’ve a banner, a country, a God,

By thousands of arguments—under the sod!

Who knows if the dear boys who fell in the fight

May not hold their reunion, as we do, to-night?

From the morning-land fair, and a rest never ending,

Their voices, well-loved, with our own still are blending;

Hark!—can we not hear the sweet echoes to-day,

As from camp grounds afar comes the soft reveillé?

Oh, soldiers, still serving in ranks like their own,

But a little more quiet, more dignified, grown,

Still fighting from morning till set of the sun,

Each day new defeats or fresh victories won,

Pressing onward, undaunted still, shoulder to shoulder,

With our hearts growing young as our muskets grow older,

Let us take for our motto, emblazoned in light,

That stern old command of Forward—Guide Right!

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Presiding at the Dinner.

DANDELION.

dandelion in a meadow grew

Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow;

Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew,

He was a right contented little fellow.

Each morn his golden head he lifted straight,

To catch the first sweet breath of coming day;

Each evening closed his sleepy eyes, to wait

Until the long, cool night had passed away.

One afternoon, in sad, unquiet mood,

I paused beside this tiny, bright-faced flower,

And begged that he would tell me, if he could,

The secret of his joy through sun and shower.

He looked at me with open eyes, and said:

“I know the sun is somewhere shining clear,

And when I cannot see him overhead,

I try to be a little sun, right here!”

MARJORIE.

h, dear,” said Farmer Brown, one day,

“I never saw such weather!

The rain will spoil my meadow hay

And all my crops together.”

His little daughter climbed his knee;

“I guess the sun will shine,” said she.

“But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown,

“Should bring a dry September,

With vines and stalks all wilted down,

And fields scorched to an ember—”

“Why, then, ’twill rain,” said Marjorie,

The little girl upon his knee.

“Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall,

“Now, what’s the use of living?

No plan of mine succeeds at all—”

“Why, next month comes Thanksgiving!

And then, of course,” said Marjorie,

“We’re all as happy as can be.”

“Well, what should I be thankful for?”

Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble

This summer has grown more and more,

My losses have been double,

I’ve nothing left—” “Why, you’ve got me!”

Said Marjorie, upon his knee.

PRIMROSE.

n the meadow, cool and sweet,

Where the cowslips bathe their feet,

On the banks of Scottish burns,

Down among the nodding ferns,

Where the shadows come and go,

Cheerful Primrose loves to grow.

Little flower she is, and meek;

And if she could only speak,

I am sure her words would be

Whispered very timidly.

Skylark, hush your joyous singing,

Bonnie harebells, cease your ringing,

Listen, listen, drowsy bee,—

Is the Primrose calling thee?

Tiny rootlets white and brown,

Leaves as soft as cygnet’s down,

Fringèd petals, dainty pink,

Peeping o’er the burnie’s brink,—

That is Primrose, sweet and true,

And I love her—do not you?

CONTENT.

ittle Herb Robert, what makes you so pink?

The daisy is taller and whiter.”

“The sun came along, and, what do you think?

It kissed me, and so I grew brighter.”

“Grasshopper, why are you merry to-day?”

“I always am glad, if you please, sir,

Because I can hop on the clover and hay,

Nor have to fly up in the trees, sir.”

“Sea-weed, poor creature! you’re left high and dry,

The tide has gone out; you are dying!”

“Ah, no, I am sure ’twill come back by and by.

I shall live, never fear; I’ll keep trying.”

“Song-sparrow, how can you sing all the day?”

“Sweet food to my young I am bringing,

And when I am working for them, in this way,

Of course I can never help singing.”

“Child, leave the hot, dusty roadside, and come.”

“I’d go, for I know that you love me;

But, please, I’d rather stay here, near my home,

For Papa’s in there, just above me.”

WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER.

TO W. B. W.

nce more ’tis the night before Christmas; once more

The Christ-child is entering each open door;

The holly-bough glistens, the earth is all white,

In the jubilant heavens the Star is a-light.

May I sit by your hearthstone once more, as of old?

My story—a brief one—shall quickly be told.

We bring you no Sèvres nor Japanese Kaga,

But only an innocent kind of a dagger.

(Allow me a few editorial “we’s,”

The plural is handy in rhymes such as these.)

The blade is no marvel, ’tis not Muramasa—

(“What’s that?” No one knows. Ask your daughter, from Vassar.)

Nay, we must admit, if perchance you should ask us,

’Twas forged in the States, and not at Damascus.

Too slim for a trinket, too large for a charm,

Too small for a weapon, too dull to do harm;

Too blunt for a bodkin, of life to deplete us,

’Twould not even serve for Hamlet’s quietus.

Cur igitur tibi gladiolum dabo—

Quemadmodum hoc explicare parabo?

Sie können nicht ganz die Verwerrung verstehen,

Ich will zum Puncte deswegen nun gehen.

Ce poignard petit est une clef de mon cœur,

Que je donne quelquefois à mon ami, ma sœur,

A celui, enfin, qui reçoit, dans mes lettres,

Les mots le plus tendres que je puis y mettre.

κἀγὼ πρὸς ὑμᾶς τὴν κλεῖδα λαβεῖν

ἐθέλειν ἐλπίζω καί με νῦν φιλεῖν.

(If once on a jingle like this voi entrate,

You must finish, or—ogni speranza lasciate!)

I wish I knew Indian, but somehow nobody

Seems ever to learn more than “Passamaquoddy,”

Or “Mooselucmaguntic,” “Welokennebacook,”

“Oquossuc,” “Musketequid,” and “Quantibacook.”

To compose in that language you will not deny

Is difficult. If you don’t think so—just try.

’Tis nonsense, dear friend, but I feel sure that you

Good-naturedly smile, and yet see ’tis true.

Unconscious as Lady Macbeth in her walking,

We give in our letters more self than in talking.

Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down

On our wandering footsteps in country and town,

Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see,

And read in His wisdom more surely than we.

Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt,

Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script.

Thank God that the Reader and Father are one,

That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun,

Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand,

And the torn covers folded at last by His hand.

Hark! Christmas bells ring for the birth of the Son—

Good-night! May He help us and bless us each one.

SEA-GIRLS.

flutter of white

On Appledore’s shoulder,—

The prettiest sight!

A flutter of white,

One by one they a-light

On the dark, jutting bowlder;

A flutter of white

On Appledore’s shoulder.

Six girls in a flock

Where the white sea is breaking

Against the gray rock.

Six girls in a flock—

Their gay voices mock

The din it is making;

Six girls in a flock

Where the white sea is breaking.

Each flutters and clings

To the torn granite edges,—

The merriest things!

Each flutters and clings.

Have they feathers and wings,

As they perch on the ledges?

Each flutters and clings

To the torn granite edges.

HOMEWARD.

A TWILIGHT SONG OF THE WHEEL.

way from the office and desk at last,

The business-haunted room,

The roar of a city, hurrying past,

The heat, the worry, the gloom,

To the glorious red of the sunset sky,

The sweet, cold wine of the air,

On the frozen road, my wheel and I,

A dusty, rusty pair!

Push—Push—

Two birds in a bush

Are laughing to see me hop;

On, with a bound

From the frozen ground,

With never a sway nor stop.

Over and over the pedals fly—

“Come on!” to the twittering bird I cry,

As over and over the wheels fly past her;

Over and over, still faster and faster,

On through the ice-cold stream of air,

On where the road is frozen and bare.

Roll—Roll—Roll—Roll—

Silent and swift as a death-freed soul.

Glide—Glide—

On the smooth, black tide

Of the ocean of night flowing in from the West,

Over and over, and on without rest,

Swifter and swifter, till over the crest

Of the hill, and down to the valley below,

Through the murk of the mist and the white of the snow—

Now my steed falters, as, breathless and slow,

Up the steep hillside he labors and grinds,

Grinds—Grinds—Grinds—Grinds—

Across and across he turns and winds,

Sand-clogged and rock-hindered, without hope or faith,

No longer a soul, but a sin-burdened wraith—

Till, reaching the summit, he spurns the dark hill,

And onward he plunges, for good or for ill,

Over and onward, and onward and over,

He reels and he spins like a jolly old rover.

Roll—Roll—Roll—Roll—

Backward he flies to our one dear goal,

Where the whirling shall cease, and the rider shall rest,

And soft, trembling lips to my own shall be pressed.

Slow—Slow—Slow,

Slowly—more slowly—we go—

What, darling, so far on the road to-night,

To welcome us both with your eyes’ sweet light!

The wheel no longer has need to roam—

Be quiet, old fellow! we’re safe, safe at home.

A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M——.

FROM THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND.[2]

I.

reathing, blowing,

The cool breeze is blowing,

High in the tree-tops,

Low in the grasses,

Softly it passes;

The daisies it kisses

And never one misses,

And laughs at the buttercups,

Breathing and blowing,

Its blessing bestowing

On all that it passes

Among the low grasses

And daisies and buttercups,

Never one misses,

But each one it kisses.

Softer and fainter it grows,

Faintly and softly it blows,

Breathing, sighing,

Dying,

Sweetly and softly it goes,

Goes—goes!

II.

Hark to the wind from the mountain-tops blowing!

Raining, snowing,

Scattering ice-drops and crimson leaves blowing!

Teasing the burnies

With all their soft fernies,

Bending and waving

Among the green mosses;

Roaring and raving,

The long hair it tosses

Of each little maiden

Beside the brown burnies

With crimson leaves laden

All bound for the sea,

With wee boaties laden,

All crimson to see,

And high in the tree-tops

It rushes and roars;

It leaps from the hill-tops

And hurls with its might on the long, rocky shores

The floods of the sea,

All the time roaring and shouting and blowing,

Icy drops throwing,

Blowing, snowing,

It roars!

III.

What shall the Soft Breeze do for thee?

What shall I do with my faint, sweet blowing,

Breathing, blowing,

My blessing bestowing?

I pray thee, Soft Breeze,

Do thou blow, for me!

Stir in the trees

And breathe in the grasses,

The soft, low grasses,

And when the tall buttercup,

Tall in the grasses,

Thy light foot passes,

Gather for me

A wee grain of gold from its treasures rare,

A ray of the sunlight it treasures there;

Then beg of the daisies a bit of their white,

Pure, pure white,

And two tiny petals, crimson tipped,

Because in God’s love they have just been dipped,

And bearing the sunlight, the whiteness and love,

Breathing, blowing,

Fair blessings bestowing,

Among the soft grasses

And tree-tops above,

High in the cloud-land’s silvery sheen,

Low in the winding valleys between,

Seek my wee girlie

Who’s just thirteen,

With hair so curly,—

The curliest hair you ever have seen,

The brownest hair you ever have seen,—

With eyes so blue,

Like skies so blue,

And hide thy gifts in her heart so true,

For to-day she’s just thirteen,

Thirteen.

IV.

What shall the Fierce Wind do for thee?

What shall I do, with my terrible roaring,

Raving, roaring,

Icy drops pouring?

I pray thee, Fierce Wind,

Do thou roar, for me!

Shatter the crags of the desolate mountain,

Scatter the drops of the trembling fountain,

Ride on the waves of the tossing sea,

Tossing and spouting,

Roaring and shouting;

Snatch a bright leaf from the burnie’s brink,

And a drop from the pool where the white lambs drink,

A wisp of hair from the maiden fern,

Bending over the laughing burn;

The health of the seas,

The life of the trees,

The beauty of fernies,

The faith of bright burnies,

Life and beauty and health and faith,

Whiteness and sunshine, love stronger than death,

These to the maidie that’s just thirteen

Shall all be given to-day, I ween,—

Shall all be given,

In blessing from Heaven,—

For now she’s just thirteen,

And her eyes are so blue,

Sweet skies so blue,

And her heart so true,

And to-day she’s just thirteen,

Thirteen.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Suggested by George MacDonald’s little book of that name.

TRANSLATIONS.

SONGS FROM HEINE.

n the north-land standeth a pine-tree

Alone, on a hill-top bare.

It sleepeth beneath a mantle

Of snow and frost-work rare.

It dreameth long of a palm-tree

Which, silent as a star,

On the burning desert mourneth

In Orient lands afar.

A LOVELY flower thou seemest,

So tender, sweet, and true;

And, as I gaze, steals o’er me

A sadness strange and new.

Upon thy peaceful forehead

I’d lay my hands, in prayer

That God may ever keep thee

As tender, true, and fair.

Eagerly I cry, awaking,

“Cometh she to-day?”

Eventide—my sad heart, breaking,

Speaks the answer, Nay!

In the night I know but sorrow

Till the dawn’s faint beam;

Mist-enwrapped, in each to-morrow,

Agony of dream.

He who for the first time loveth,

Godlike, worlds of bliss doth rule;

He who twice that joy essayeth,

Luckless wight—he is a fool.

Loving where no love returneth,

Such a fool, alas!—am I;

Sun and moon and stars are laughing,

I laugh, too,—and die.

Little maid, with lips so rosy,

With thy blue eyes, sweet and clear,

All my thoughts to thee are flying,

All my life is with thee, dear!

Slowly pace the leaden-footed

Hours that mark the winter’s night;

Ah, that I were now beside thee,

Gazing, murmuring my delight!

Kisses would I press, my darling,

On thy little hand to-night;

Nay—a tear should fall, unbidden,

On thy little hand so white.

(EICHENDORFF.)

It was as if the heavens

Had kissed the earth to rest,

And she lay dreaming of them

With flowers upon her breast.

The fields and murmuring woodland

Were bathed in fairest light,

So soft the breeze’s whisper,

So starry-clear the night!

On outspread wings uplifted

My spirit fain would roam

Through cloudland realms unbounded,

To rest at last—at home.

IN MORNING-LAND.

n morning-land the radiant, rosy skies

Each moment gleam with some new-born surprise,

Or flush with dawning hope; the balmy air

Is laden with a thousand perfumes rare

And thrilled with chords of strange, sweet melodies.

On that blest shore, which all around us lies,

Peace reigns supreme, and joyous carols rise

From every shaded copse and pleasaunce fair

In Morning-land.

Knowst thou the land? Wherever friendly eyes

Beam faith and constancy; where true love flies,

Glad tidings of good-will and peace to bear;

Where service is divine, God everywhere,—

There dawns the perfect day that never dies

In Morning-land.

SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.

stood in a valley; above me

Uprose a mighty hill;

The air was vibrant with music

Of insect, bird, and rill.

The flowers among the grasses

About my weary feet

Swung all their tiny censers,

Till perfume, heavy-sweet,

Was shed abroad in the sunlight

And wafted to and fro,

While droning bees at the altar

Their Aves chanted low.

A soft breeze touched my forehead,

And whispered, “Peace, be still!”

But ever above me towered

That silent, awful hill,

Whose peaks in mists were hidden,

Whose slopes were brown and bare;

And yet, as I gazed, I murmured,

“O God! If I were there!”

For I knew that the peace of the valley

Was never meant for me;

And I longed for the mountain summit,—

Its pure winds blowing free,

Its life of strength and vigor,

Its thoughts of the good and true,

Its steadfast crags of granite

In the far-off, heavenly blue.

I stand in the valley, and ever

I gaze at the mountain bare,

And I long for a hand to help me—

O God! That I were there!

THE COMET; NOVEMBER, 1882.

ondrous portent, set on high,

Moving through the silent sky,

Clothed in formless majesty,—

Who can read those words of light

On the star-lit wall of night?

“Mene, Tekel,” dost thou write?

Nay, thou bright Star in the East,

O’er no haughty monarch’s feast,

Prophet nor Chaldæan priest,

Doth thy gentle radiance shine;

Nobler resting-place is thine,

’Tis a Baby’s brow divine.

With the waning of the year

From afar thou dost appear,

Telling us that Christ is near.

“HIS STAR.”

hristmas Eve—and the mellow light

Of the Star in the East was aglow

O’er the Magi, hastening through the night,

In the desert, long ago.

Christmas Eve—and the gentle light

Of the Star in the East was aglow

O’er the lambs, asleep with their shepherds by night,

On the hillside, long ago.

Christmas Eve—and the golden light

Of the Star in the East was aglow

O’er a Baby’s brow, in the holy night,

In a manger, long ago.

Christmas Eve—and the blessèd light

Of the Star in the East is aglow,

As it shone of old, through the sweet, still night,

O’er Bethlehem, long ago.

“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!”

ob, cold wind of the sky,

For the rest that never shall come!

The stars have gathered on high,

The moon’s white lips are dumb,

And over her face like a shroud

Lies the wrack of the drifting cloud.

Moan, dark sea of the night!

Fling up thine arms and implore

The heavens for light, sweet light,—

One sparkle along the shore

From the sun that left thee to moan

In the horror of darkness—alone.

Shudder, thou one human soul,

Forever alone in the night;

Whose billows unceasingly roll

In desolate seeking for light!

The moon’s white face is thine own,

Thine, thine the wind’s monotone.

Thyself art the night—

O God, light, light!

PSALM LXXX.

urn us again, O God of Hosts, and cause

Thy face to shine.”

When fades the light of day,

And night in silence steals across the sky,

We know it is not that the glorious sun

Has left his steadfast throne amid the heavens,

But that our little earth has turned away

And hid its face till morning shall appear.

So may we, in our blackest night of doubt

And troubled thought, return once more to Thee,

Till Thou hast risen, O Sun of Righteousness,

And all the evil things of darkness born

Have fled before the shining of Thy face.

UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.

morning-glory bud, entangled fast

Amid the meshes of its winding stem,

Strove vainly with the coils about it cast,

Until the gardener came and loosened them.

A suffering human life entangled lay

Among the tightening coils of its own past;

The Gardener came, the fetters fell away,

The life unfolded to the sun at last.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE.

mighty world is hushed to-night

In sweet expectancy;

O’er snowy field and wood the stainless light

Of the clear moon

Shines broad and free;

While peacefully the earth—

A great white throne

Prepared for One who soon

Shall rise and claim it for His own—

Awaits His birth.

The hearts of all mankind are turned

Toward lowly Bethlehem;

For in the east the wondrous Star, that burned

In days of old,

Still beckons them.

Back o’er the centuries,

Storm-swept and bare,

It moves, until, behold!

It stands above the manger where

The Young Child lies.

O Christmas chimes, right joyfully

Ring out the tidings glad

To stars and frosty air and listening sky,—

“Good-will to men!”

Till all the sad,

The weary and oppressed,

Their gifts shall bring

To Him whose birth again

Sheds peace on earth, and, worshipping,

Shall be at rest.

BLIND.

hroughout the weary day an Eastern sun

Had poured his beams upon the whitened walls

Of Jericho, till e’en the drooping palms

Refused to comfort with their wonted shade

The passer-by. As in a furnace blast—

The glaring pavement spread beneath, o’erhead

A brazen, cloudless sky—all living things

Had gasped, with parching lips, and feebly prayed

For night.

’Twas eventide; the northern hills

Breathed forth a blessing on the multitude

That thronged incessant through the city gates.

Softly the mist crept forth, and o’er their heads

Her dewy wings unfolded. In the west

The molten brass of noontide turned to gold,

And shone like some fair missal’s page, with hymns

And promises illumined.

One there was

Among the restless souls beneath its glow,

For whom the heavenly message was not writ;

For whom no sunset gleamed, nor morning dawned.

Oft had he listened to the merry shout

And laughter of the children at their sports,

But ne’er had looked upon their sparkling eyes.

Alone, he walked in darkness through a life

Of nights, with never hope of day. But hark!

Upon his ear there falls a gentle voice,

Whose tones of strange and heavenly sweetness thrill

His very heart. “’Tis Jesus, ’tis the Christ

Of Nazareth!” The woes of heavy years,

The quick-born hope, the old-time, dull despair,

The agony of help so near at hand,

Yet passing, blend in one wild, bitter cry:

“Jesus, thou Son of David, I am blind!

Have mercy on me!”—and the Saviour hears.

Blind Bartimeus by the road-side waits

In anguish mute and trembling, when, O joy!

The bringer of glad tidings is at hand:

“Be of good comfort, rise, he calleth thee!”

O weary, heavy-laden one, whose eyes

Have long been sightless to behold the truth,—

Perchance in darkness walking even now,

And longing with an aching heart for light,—

The Master’s message echoes sweetly still:

“Be of good comfort, rise, He calleth thee.”

And humbly kneeling at His feet, the words

Of healing, spoken in the olden time

To him who prayed for help, thou too shalt hear:

“Receive thy sight, thy faith hath made thee

whole.”

REFUGE.

ow bad I am, O Lord, Thou knowest,

Deserving naught that Thou bestowest,

But wandering each day

Astray.

Thy gifts are perfect, never ceasing,

The debt against me still increasing,

And yet I turn to flee

From Thee!

Oft when my path is dark and narrow

There flutters down some tiny sparrow

To tell me of that love

Above.

When daylight comes, I’m e’er forgetting

The message sweet; my sins besetting

Return, my soul to stain

Again.

And so I cling to Thee, my Saviour,

Despairing by my own behavior

To cleanse myself from sin

Within.

My cares I yield—for me Thou carest;

I take my cross—its weight Thou sharest

Henceforth my will be Thine,

Not mine.

GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO.”

thorn-crowned head, the sins of all the world

Have pierced thy brow;

O gentle face, the woes of all the world

Thou bearest now!

O patient eyes, to heaven in meekness turned,

Meekness divine,

Within your suffering depths what wondrous light

Of love doth shine!

O faltering, parted lips, with anguish wrung,

Your words still live

And plead for us,—“They know not what they do—

Father, forgive!”

ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

he day’s loud footfalls die away,

And stealing forth from her retreat

Like a hooded nun, the twilight gray

Glides softly down the busy street.

With healing touch her gentle hand

Rests on the city’s fevered brow;

Its throbbing pulse is quiet now,

And peace descends on the weary land.

Since morn the dull December sky

Has wept and moaned incessantly;

The tall, gaunt forms of shivering trees

Have groaned and rattled their bony arms,

Till, startled by the restless breeze,

The withered sprites of summer leaves

Have gathered to whisper their vague alarms,

Now whirling aloft to the dripping eaves,

Now wavering slow to earth again,

Borne down by the pitiless, hopeless rain.

Upon my hearth the ruddy light

Dances and plays at the fire-dogs’ feet

Chasing the shadows out of sight;

Around the walls it follows them fast,

Hunts them into a corner at last,

Up the chimney, out into the night.

The blaze laughs loud with a music sweet,

My heart grows warm in its cheery glow,

And a thousand fancies come and go.

The perfumed breath of the birchen brand,

Rich with forest spices rare,

Bears heavenward many a hope and prayer

That only One can understand.

Oh that my life were sweet and pure

As the incense of this burning wood!

Oh that my faith were strong and sure

As the flame that ever strives toward God!

I hear the sound of the sleet and rain

Brushing against my window-pane;

The voice of the wind is sad and low,

The shadows return, and to and fro

They flit and hover uneasily,

Until at last they rest on me.

Heap high the sturdy fire-dogs’ backs

With boughs of hemlock, birch, and pine.

The crisp bark curls, and smokes, and cracks;

It comes at last, the spark divine,

And bursting forth in broad, free laughter,

The glorious blaze comes hurrying after,

Springs up the chimney with a roar,

Chasing the shadows away once more,

Shining far out upon the floor,

And sweeping away on its gladsome tide

The fears and doubts, o’er which I sighed,

To the depths of the sea, to the depths of the sea,—

The cares and sins that have haunted me!

I thank thee for thy help, sweet hour,

For thou hast helped me true and well;

I thank thee for the gentle spell

Beneath which thou dost wield thy power,

And when the twilight seeks at morn

Her convent walls within the west,

My soul shall know its truest rest,

And bless the day when Christ was born.

BY NIGHT.

’er Judah’s dark hill-tops the starlight is shining;

In silence the silvery light

Falls soft on the white, sleeping lambs and their shepherds,

By night.

Sleep on, trustful flocks, while shepherds are watching;

Fear not, for soon shall be born

The dear Lamb of God, in a Bethlehem manger,

This morn.

Keep watch, faithful shepherds, through gathering shadows,

Though the hillside be lonely and drear;

For lo, in the darkness the Shepherd of shepherds

Is near!

Sing on, ye bright angels, repeat the glad tidings,—

Joy, peace, and good-will on the earth;

Proclaim to the weary, the sad, and the suffering,

His birth.

Shine, radiant Star in the East, till thy glory

O’er Wise Men and manger is poured,

For Mary’s dear babe is the blessèd Christ Jesus,

Our Lord.

“STAR OF BETHLEHEM.”

entle-Faced child-flower—

One of the least—

Dost thou remember

The Star in the East,

Bethlehem’s hill-tops

Flushing with morn,

When in a manger

The dear Christ was born?

Lambs on the hillside

Peacefully slept;

Shepherds, abiding near,

Faithful watch kept.

Bright in the heavens

Shone a new star,

Guiding o’er deserts

Wise Men from afar.

White Flower of Bethlehem,

Lo, it is morn!

Shine on the manger

Where Jesus was born.

We, too, shall find Him,

Though humblest and least,

Led by thy radiance,

Bright Star in the East.

“BLESSED.”

lessed are they that mourn.”

The gentle tones,

A moment faltering, then strong and sweet,

Ring out upon the morning air. The throng

Wait silently, lest by a whispered sigh

Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard

From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace.

“Blessed”—the widow, shuddering, draws more close

Her sombre draperies, and bows her head

In agony of dumb and hopeless grief.

—“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob

Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday

They buried all most dear to him on earth,

And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears

Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands,

And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice.

“Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts

Among the eager, silent multitude

Cry out in bitter anguish that His words

Are vain and mocking!

Lo, the Saviour turns

With infinite compassion in His eye,

And stretching forth His hands as though to give

The blessing He has promised, speaks again:

“They shall be comforted!”

The morning sun

Breaks forth in triumph from the heavy clouds

That hid His face. The waves of Galilee,

Gleaming far distant in the misty east,

Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full

Of waking glory. But of all who feel

The gladness and the freshness of the morn,

Those only who have passed through deepest gloom

Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace

His words have given,—and they are comforted!

A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL.

he shepherds were keeping their watch by night,

In the field with their flock abiding;

And soft on the fleece of the lambs fell the light

Of a new-risen star,

From deserts afar

The wise ones to Bethlehem guiding.

What startles the watchers? A rustle of wings,

And a radiant figure above them.

The lambs are afraid, and the white, woolly things,

With tremulous bleat,

Nestle close to the feet

Of the faithful shepherds who love them.

“Fear not!” comes the message, exultant and strong,

“Good tidings of joy I am bringing!”

And lo! with the song of a heavenly throng,

“Peace on earth! For this morn

A Saviour is born!”

The hillsides of Judah are ringing.

The bright ones are gone; over thicket and stone

The starlight of Christmas is falling;

But the lambs, without even an angel, alone

In the great silent night,

With sudden affright,

For their lost shepherds vainly are calling.

They knew not a tenderer Shepherd was near,

His flocks to deliver from danger,

And comfort all desolate lambs in their fear,—

For peacefully lay,

On that first Christmas day,

Lord Christ, in a Bethlehem manger.

THE FOURTH WATCH.

idnight upon Gennesaret; the restless waves,

Like jewels on the troubled bosom of the sea,

Flash forth in rays of silvery light, or hide within

Her dark and flowing tresses. Soft, as in a dream,

The night-winds sigh and whisper o’er the little ship,

While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee

Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests

A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow.

Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all

The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass,

Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude

Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life

Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray,

Alone.

The night is dark, the Master is not come;

The sea arises, and on every side the waves

Gigantic, black, and topped with lurid crests of foam,

Leap madly through the gloom. Labors the little ship,

Hurled to and fro and beaten back upon her course.

With slow and stubborn stroke the rowers wearily

Are straining at the heavy oars. But hark! above

The sullen roar of wind and sea, a well-loved voice,

Vibrant and sweet with chords of heavenly music, speaks,

And they were sore afraid; but He saith unto them,

“Be of good cheer, ’tis I, be not afraid.”

And lo,

The tempest ceased! and when they had received their Lord,

The ship had come unto the haven they desired.

“WITH YOU ALWAY.”

hy seek ye for Jehovah

Mid Sinai’s awful smoke?

The burning bush now shelters

A sparrow’s humble folk;

The curve of God’s sweet heaven

Is the curve of the leaf of oak;

The Voice that stilled the tempest

To little children spoke,—

The bread of life eternal

Is the bread He blessed and broke.

DECEMBER 31.

nother year!

What is the story by the twelve-month told?

What treasure doth its memory enfold,—

Base coin, or gold?

Sternly hath it hard lessons taught,

Hath it new cares, new joys, new burdens brought?

Few smiles, and many a tear?

Another year!

What good and perfect gifts have gently come—

Knowing not whence, we have been blind and dumb!

We ate the crumb

Without the sparrow’s faith, but still,

Father of Lights, Thou shinest on, and will,

Thy frightened birds to cheer.

Another year!

The sunlight pours its blessings as of old,

Into the lap of each dear day,—its gold,

Its wealth untold.

As lessons new and sweet we gain,

Still hoping to the highest to attain,

We trust, and never fear.

Another year!

But to the brave and true, lo, time is not!

A thousand years are as a day, forgot

The hardest lot,

To those who walk beside their God,

Loving the path His patient feet have trod,

Knowing that He is near.

IN MY ARM-CHAIR.

lickers the ruddy firelight on the wall;

Now here, now there, the shadows restlessly

Dance in and out among the gleaming bars

That prison many a glimpse of sea and sky

Upon the pictured canvas. Brightly falls

The cheerful light upon familiar forms

Of volumes clothed in sober garb and gay,

Whose very names, in golden characters,

Invite to solace sweet, and peace of mind.

Footfalls incessant in the rainy street

Mingle their dreary cadence with the roll

And rhythmic echo of the iron wheel,

Half muffled by the storm’s dull monotone.

Within, the gentle presence of the flame,

With its soft rustle ever and anon,

Serves but to take away the very pain

Of silence absolute.

It is the hour

For contemplation meet. The air is thronged

With thoughts innumerable, fancies light,

That flit about on airy wing, or play

Among the fireborn shadows on the wall;

Till, touched by the Promethean glow, they take

A seeming form substantial, animate.

From out their thin octavo cells pour forth

The shapes ethereal of poet, sage,

Philosopher, and man of God, whose words

Make wisdom beautiful, and beauty wise.

Silent they rise before me, one by one,

E’en as the fabled genius, close involved

Within the tiny casket, gained at last

His proper self, and towered high above

His liberator. But of other mien

Are these strange forms around my hearth to-night.

With aspect grave, yet kind, they gaze on me

As old companions might on one they loved,

Who loved them in return. I know each one,

And recognize the habit of his life.

Old Gilbert White—whose flowing locks, and dress

Of quaint antiquity, precise and neat,

Recall his quiet walks in Selborne wood—

Has paused with curious, meditative eye,

Before an owl upon my mantle shelf,

And rapidly, in shadowy script, records

The sapient bird’s presentment.

Near at hand,

A man of kindly countenance and mild,

Impressed with lines of pure and noble thought,

Bends low in prayer; ere long resumes his pen,

And adds one more sweet hymn to those that bear

George Herbert’s name. Anon appears a face

More gentle than the rest, it seems, with eyes

Of deep and tender yearning. Silently

The figure turns aside, and by the hearth

Remains aloof, with dreamy gaze intent

Upon the glowing coals. What fantasies

Are imaged there, reflected from his mind,

And striving for the elixir of his touch

And wondrous pen, that give eternal life

To such as they! Lo, built of candent fire

The Old Manse drops its Mosses at his feet;

Italia’s strange physician whispers now

Of potent herb and flower. The Puritan,

His wonted sternness softened, deigns to tell

Of old-time guilt—the Scarlet Letter’s brand—

Till, glancing up, he shudders at the approach

Of stricken Hester, with her demon child.

So wanes the night. In quick succession move

Shades of the mighty dead before my eyes.

Again is played the Comedy Divine,

And gloomily the awful form of him

Whose mind such Titan offspring bore, attends

The movement of each scene. The cowl and robe,

Close at his side, betray that zealous monk

Whose life was Imitation of the Christ.

Amid the still increasing throng, behold

Sage Izaak Walton, creel and rod in hand;

But while I gaze upon his visage mild,

Expectant half to hear his counsel how

The wily carp to ensnare, the fiery bridge

O’er which my fancy boldly trod, and found

Her way to realms unreal, topples down

With mimic crash, and lies a ruined mass

Upon the hearth. Yet by its waning glow

I see the hurried parting of my guests,

Retreating each within his narrow cell;

As when beneath a monastery roof

The low, sweet chant of vespers dies away,—

The last faint echoes lingering still within

The moonlit cloisters,—silently the forms

Of holy men glide to and fro among

The shadows, till the hush of night descends

With brooding wings, and gathers all to rest.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Some words with hyphens, or without them, have been silently adjusted to be more consistent.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of In the Morning, by Willis Boyd Allen

IN THE MORNING.

To my Mother.

CONTENTS.

AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE.

VITA NUOVA.

NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND.

DIAPASON.

CHAMOUNIX.

IN THE MORNING.

MARIGOLD.

“SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!”

TO M——, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

“YOURS TRULY.”

A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER.

IN SOMNO VERITAS.

THALATTA.

UNKNOWN.

MY CROSS.

A VALENTINE.

WHITE PINK.

APRILLE.

MAY.

AUGUST.

CARLO’S CHRISTMAS.

THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW.

TWO VISIONS.

MY CREED.

AGAIN?

PANSY.

GOLDEN-ROD.

TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.

TO A VERY SMALL PINE.

MOSSES.

THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.

CHRISTMAS SNOW.

THE “CREATION.”

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

DOLLIE’S SPRING.

THE THIRD DAY.

THE SEVENTH DAY.

FERN LIFE.

PAUSES AND CLAUSES.

TO M——, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS.”

MEMORIAL POEM.

FOOTNOTE:

DANDELION.

MARJORIE.

PRIMROSE.

CONTENT.

WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER.

SEA-GIRLS.

HOMEWARD.

A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M——.

FOOTNOTE:

TRANSLATIONS.

IN MORNING-LAND.

SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.

THE COMET; NOVEMBER, 1882.

“HIS STAR.”

“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!”

PSALM LXXX.

UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE.

BLIND.

REFUGE.

GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO.”

ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

“STAR OF BETHLEHEM.”

“BLESSED.”

A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL.

THE FOURTH WATCH.

“WITH YOU ALWAY.”

DECEMBER 31.

IN MY ARM-CHAIR.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE