Chapter II: Part 2

Dear one, who crossed the border land
Into a world of love and song,
One of the tender white-robed band
To whom eternal joys belong!
Thy memory lives within my heart,
Will live until thy face I see;
The two worlds lie not far apart,
I soon will be at home with thee.

His Care

Gracious the sceptre that He wields,
Heart! do you understand?
All, all is His--His great arm shields
That which is bare, and that which yields,
Lord is He of the harvest fields,
And of the barren land.

With Her Sunshine, Breeze and Dew

Joyous May has come again
With her sunshine, breeze and dew,
Holding up her silken train,
See the blossoms, sweet and new.
Here a yellow primrose shows
All the world a heart of gold,
There a scarlet tulip glows,
By the breeze made overbold.

Joyous May, we welcome you,
Welcome you and all you bring,
Skies so shining and so blue,
Birds to twitter and to sing,
Children on the green to play,
Blushing maid, and eager swain,
At your coming, joyous May,
All the world grows young again.

What the Poppies Said

“We have to-day,” so the poppies said
To the west wind softly blowing,
“To-day to hold, in our bosom red,
The great white tears that the night has shed
And the sunbeams warm and glowing.”

“We have to-day,” said the lover bold,
“To spell out the sweet old story,
My heart for thine, and the tale is told--
O, be not, sweetheart, so shy and cold,
See, the world is filled with glory!”

The west wind sighed to the sea that night,
“’Tis a thought to give one sorrow,
The poppy boasts of her pearls of white,
The lover his store of dear delight,
But neither whispers _to-morrow_.”

Eve

She is an ideal daughter--mind you, friend,
You must not from my words infer she has
No faults. No angel is my Eve, not she,
But just a faulty fair thing, sweet of face,
And warm of heart, and with a tender flame
In her true eyes so innocent of guile,
With laughter on her lips, and loving words,
With something in each mood to draw
One’s soul the closer to her. Wondrous big
Her nature is--she’s something _more_ than kind.

If sorrow touches me in any way
It is to her I turn for comforting;
If sickness stretches me upon my bed,
And steals my strength and spirits quite away,
I want her near me with her slim cool hands,
Her zeal to nurse me back to health again,
Her smoothing of the pillows underneath
My head, that I may rest the easier;
To her this world is such a pretty place
She likes no one to leave it ere he must.

So plies her remedies with wondrous skill,
And talks the while of pleasant homely things--
The tasks that tarry for my getting well,
The garden showing plainly my neglect,
The swarming bees, the apple trees in bloom,
The lonesome collie blinking in the sun,
The filly being broken for the plough,
My southdown sheep, the green of barley fields,
My neighbors, and the daily wish that I
Might soon be out among them as of old.

This is the sort of nurse a sick man needs,
Not one who is forever breathing sighs,
And talking of the emptiness of life,
And urging one to wean his thoughts from earth,
Nor care a jot for life, since it is such
An empty, barren, disappointing thing.
Life! why, ’tis God’s good gift to each of us,
And some, I think, show much ingratitude
By slurring it forever with the wish
That they were rid of it for good and all.

Now, you have mortgages, and deeds, and bonds,
You have a lordly mansion of your own,
While I--I have a big old-fashioned house,
And a few fields. You sometimes look at me
And sigh to think I am not better off
In this world’s goods. Old friend I like you well
And would not have you waste your pity so;
Why, man, I’m all amazed that you are not
Quite envious of me, since I have got--
What you do lack--a daughter of my own.

It makes a man feel rich to have a girl
Like mine to pet and make ado of him,
To come about him with her tender ways,
And cozening, and pretty tricks of speech,
To cry a little when he goes away,
To watch for his return with eager eyes,
To come to him with laughter on her lips--
Ay, and sometimes a pout that shows itself
But to be kissed away--to keep his heart
From growing old with all the years that pass.

I would not give this little Eve of mine
For _twenty_ times her weight in solid gold,
’Tis a good world--you do not wonder now
That I’m so jolly and content alway;
You’re sighing like a furnace--’tis too bad!
I wish, old friend, you were as rich as I--
With such a glad young thing to come and lay
Her rosy cheek to yours when you are sad!
The man who has no daughter of his own
Is such a pauper, I could cry for him.

Ring Out Glad Song.

(A Diamond Jubilee Ode, 1897)

A perfect joy, the sages say,
Is more contagious than a grief;
A joy exceeding all belief
Is reigning in the world to-day.
Joy! See it spread on every side
The sea-girt Isles, so grand and proud,
Joy! Hear its paean sweet and loud
Go swelling--swelling--far and wide;
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God Save our Good Victoria!_

Old England warms now, through and through,
The rugged thing is full of love,
And pregnant with the thoughts that move
The great soul of a nation true,
Whom God’s hand hath been leading on
Through all the centuries dim and grey,
From ages dark, to dusk of dawn,
And then to full and perfect day.
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_

And green-clad Erin lifts her voice--
Full sweet the words ring on her tongue--
She will be always fair and young--
And always ready to rejoice.
The lochs, the streams, the granite hills,
Of bonnie Scotland are aglow,
(Stronghold of loyalty you know)
And to the sky the paean thrills:
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_

East, West, North, South, it seems to float,
And pulses stir, and mem’ries wake,
“For God and merrie England’s sake,”
How oft has rung that battle note!
But ah, a grander measure moves
This glad old world of ours to-day,
Rings through the wilds--through palm tree groves
And rugged north lands far away:
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_

Rings through the solitudes so lone,
Through places all aglow with bloom,
Through dim, waste tracts where lurks the gloom--
From Southern shores to Arctic Zone.
O mighty Empire, stretching far,
On solid, grand, foundations laid,
In love with peace, yet not afraid
To meet, if needs, grim visaged war.
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea:
God save our Good Victoria!_

Australia hears it as she stands
Fanned by the sea-winds all around,
And sends a voice to swell the sound
From fertile fields and pasture lands.
In Canada--blest spot of earth--
Joy revels on this perfect day,
And all aflame with pride of birth,
She sings out in her lusty way;
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE;
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_

The shadows long ago have fled,
Her song goes ringing clear and sweet,
From the Atlantic at her feet,
To the Pacific at her head;
From meadow wide, from forest tall,
From hill-top high and valley deep,
From rapids with their whirling sweep,
From river, lake, and waterfall:
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_

O Queen! we could not give thee less,
Well hast thou earned by noble thought,
By noble deeds thy hand hath wrought,
Our homage--and our tenderness.
Thy mother heart must thrill and move
To note the gladness of the time,
Hear thy name sung in every clime
By voices solemn--sweet with love.
_It is the YEAR of JUBILEE!
Ring out glad song o’er land and sea;
God save our Good Victoria!_

In the Conservatory

We came out of the dusk and gloom,
Into the glowing fragrant room,
Walled in and carpeted with bloom.

A merry group we made that day--
Our laughter rang out clear and gay,
For we were young, and it was May.

My cousin Dora walked with me--
Late from her home across the sea,
And fair as any flower was she.

Each pansy lifted up its face,
The slim fern shook her gown of lace,
A glory spread through all the place.

My lady, Lily’s waxen bell,
Bent down, ashamed to hear us tell
How sweet her color, and her smell.

The palms stood up like courtiers tall,
The smilax crept along the wall,
A sunbeam stole and kissed it all.

“Now Dora, we shall see,” I said,
“The Persian violet lift her head,
Blaze out in purple and in red!

The people seek her eagerly,
A rare aristocrat is she,
Proud of her fame as proud can be.”

“So many tongues, her praises sing,”
Said Dora, “through the world they ring,
She looks a heartless haughty thing.”

“Her country cousins sweet and shy,
That get their color from the sky,
Are fairer than herself,” said I.

And last of all we came to where
The lilac and the primrose fair
Their breath threw on the heavy air.

My cousin slipped the rows between,
Where yellow blossoms made a screen
Of their own foliage thick and green.

“Ah! this,” she said, “is a surprise,
An English primrose”--soft her eyes,
“Mark what a beauty in it lies!”

“O, primroses!” in careless tone,
Said Nell, “I’ve often seen them grown
Much prettier than this small pale one.”

My cousin bent her soft white cheek
Against the blossoms, pale and meek,
And still she stood and did not speak.

I think a tear or two she shed,
Ere lifted was the golden head,
“Poor little homesick flowers!” she said.

“I wonder do you droop, and dream
Of fleecy cloud, and sunny gleam,
Of meadow wide, and laughing stream.

I wonder if you wait to hear
The children’s voices, shrill and clear--
Sweet! homesickness is hard to bear.”

Then, gave us all a half-shamed look,
Ah, I could read her like a book,
Her heart was in some old world nook.

“It wants to feel,” she said, “the touch
Of dew, and sunlight, and all such--
Of wind that fondles overmuch.

But by-and-by it will get bold,
And show you people all the gold
Its pretty heart does surely hold.”

Back at my side she took her place,
And looking at her, I could trace
An added sweetness in her face.

We came into the dusk and gloom,
Out of the glowing fragrant room,
Walled in and carpeted with bloom.

A Bud

Did the angel pluck thee, my blossom fair,
Ere the morning sun had spent its glow,
While the dew of heaven lay bright and clear
In each folded leaf? Ah, the angels know,
They gather our sweetest, our heart’s delight
To bloom where there cometh not frost nor blight.

Envy

When Satan sends--to vex the mind of man
And urge him on to meanness and to wrong--
His satellites, there is not one that can
Acquit itself like Envy. Not so strong
As lust, so quick as fear, so big as hate--
A pigmy thing, the twin of sordid greed--
Its work, all noble things to under-rate,
Decry fair face, fair form, fair thought, fair deed,
A sneer it has for what is highest, best,
For love’s soft voice, and virtue’s robe of white;
Truth is not true, and pity is not kind,
A great task done is but a pastime light.
Tormented, and tormenting is the mind
That grants to Envy room to make its nest.

A Fancied Loss

If some day in your heart is born the thought
That one held dear is careless of the gift
Of tenderness, so fully, freely given,
I pray you, friend, to strangle it at birth.

There are no losses half so real to us,
As losses which are not--have never been--
A friendship gone! we say, and drop a tear
For wasted faith, and love, and loyalty.

When, if we did but know the simple truth,
The gladness in these foolish hearts of ours--
The gladness and the full content would leave
No room for sadness, and no place for doubt.

How Close?

How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close thine eyes can trace
The wondrous love He has for thee,
Upon His shining face.

How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close, that thou cans’t feel
The sense of safety that He brings
O’er all thy being steal.

How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close that thou canst hear
The whisper of His tender voice
Ring softly on thine ear.

How close will Jesus come to thee?
So close that doubts will cease--
Thy soul with sorrow weighed, and sin,
Find healing--joy--and peace.

In the Wood

To me, there comes a time in leafy June
When nature calls from wood, and stream, and field,
Calls low at dawn, calls loud and clear at noon,
Calls most persuasively when stars come out
Up in the blue, and other voices hush,
And _Come_! I hear her say, _come out with me_,
Come leave the low cramped rooms, the weary task,
Come take the path through meadow, and through wood,
Climb up the breezy hills and look abroad,
Climb down into the valleys deep and wide
And rest a space! There is no rest so full
As that which I will give you as you lie
On grassy knoll; I’ll give for lullaby
The rustle of the leaves tossed by the wind,
For covering the sunbeams meshed and snared
By waving boughs; I’ll fill your lungs with air
Made fragrant in the bowers I call my own.
Come! Come! I’ll keep you company, I have
A potion brewed, a wondrous healing thing,
Which brings forgetfulness of lurking care,
And rubs out from the mind the memory
Of loss, of striving and defeat--Come! Come!

I went, I left the city far behind,
I went because she called--my fair first love!
I went at sunrise that for one full day
I might be with her, thrill beneath her touch
As in the long ago when she did claim
The full affection of my untried youth.

O freshness, living freshness of a day
In June! Spring scarce has gotten out of sight
And not a stain of wear shows on the grass
Beneath our feet, and not a dead leaf calls,
“Our day of loveliness is past and gone!”
I found the thick wood steeped in pleasant smells,
The dainty ferns hid in their sheltered nooks,
The wild flowers found the sunlight where they stood,
And some hid their white faces quite away,
While others lifted up their starry eyes
And seemed right glad to ruffle in the breeze,
I revelled in the grandeur and the strength
Of towering trunks, and great wide-spreading limbs,
I revelled in the silence--far away
A noisy world I knew was waiting me,
But no sound from it reached me as I went
By tangled pathway through that wilderness.

At noon I came out to the fields, sat down
And ate my lunch with hearty appetite,
Just at the foot of a wide hill which hid
The highway quite from sight, and shut me in.

A meadow stretched itself out in the sun,
Each little blade of green did thrust its face
Up to the glow. The clover heads bent down
To let their visitors--the bees--pass out,
The heavy-footed honey bees. Ah, fond
Are they of the sweet juices stored in fragrant phials!
So fond, that in the breeze they smell them out
And straightway sally forth to taste the same,
And carry samples home. Down in the grass
A thousand insects hummed; a shallow stream
Laughed in the sunshine, speeding o’er the stones
To find the coolness of the shady wood.
The cattle laid their wide mouths to its breast
And slaked their thirst, and made their dappled sides
Swell out; then lowing forth their full content
They turned again to wade through knee-deep grass.
From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flew, with a call of love and joy,
That drew from her proved mate, perched on a bough
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
An answering note, replete with tenderness,
That sent the echo of its sweetness on
Into the dim old wood. A wild-rose spread
Its greenness o’er a corner of the fence,
And hung its tinted blossoms out to grace
The lowly spot, and make of it a bower.

But fairer than the meadow or the wood--
Than wild-rose blooming by the zig-zag fence--
Than nesting bird, or softly murmuring stream--
Than cattle standing knee-deep in the grass--
Than dew-washed fern, or golden-hearted flowers--
Fairer than sunbeam’s mesh or dappled shade--
Or aught that I had seen this day of days
Was she, the glad young thing whose buoyant feet
Trod the slim path which wound its changeful way
Down the tall hill, past alders all abloom.

A girl, a young girl, is a gracious sight,
A thing to make the eye light gaily up,
We see our youth in her--the joy of youth
Smiles out at us from her white-lidded eyes,
The careless grace of youth is on her lips,
The innocence of youth shines on her brow,
The prettiness of youth is on her cheek,
Her softness is the softness of a flower,
Her brightness and her beauty have the fresh
And healthy glow of morn. Her laughter stirs
A host of memories sleeping in our heart,
And makes a present hour of some far-off,
Some dear and half-forgotten yesterday.

I wonder if the day will ever come
When we will be so old--so old and dull
That we will listen to, yet never heed
The sweetest sound of all the sounds which ring
Out through this world’s big aisles--the rippling laugh
Which comes from red young lips--comes straight from some
Rich storehouse in the breast, a storehouse filled
With gladness great, and hope, and all things good?

She stopped to pluck a bouquet for her gown
From the sweetbriar that nodded in the sun,
And presently I heard a little “Oh!”
Of pain. That hand of hers the briar in greed
Had caught, and held so closely that its mark
Showed plainly on the warm and pink-palmed thing.
But she did pluck it, and its fragrance found
A place among the white folds at her neck,
And in the silken girdle which did creep
About the rounded slimness of her waist.

Then down she sat to rest her for awhile,
And I could hear her crooning to herself:

“O Sweetbriar, growing all alone
In shady, lonesome places,
By all but sun and dew unknown,
How full you are of graces!

O Sweetbriar, with your fragrance rare
You woo me to come nigh you,
Your breath so fills the heavy air
I cannot well pass by you!

O Sweetbriar, growing by the brook
The sleek, fat cattle wade in,
Say, will you share your cozy nook
With me--a happy maiden?

O Sweetbriar, do the dew-drops fall
And make your soft leaves glisten?
O Sweetbriar, does the west wind call,
And do you wait and listen?”

Lac Deschene

O pretty, shallow, mimic lake!
Hedged in by rushes and wild rice,
Why is it that the wind can wake
And make you angry in a trice?
You were so peaceful and so still
Before the wind crept round the hill!

The roystering, mischievous wind
That stooped and kissed you as you lay
In sunshine steeped--all bland and kind--
Then racing, went away--away
To stir the languor of the wood,
And make its mutterings understood.

And you, O pretty, shallow lake,
Must needs get ruffled and perplexed!
He kissed and fled, now wide-awake
You are at once, and cross, and vexed;
Lift your soft arms and let them fall--
There is no stillness now at all.

I think the pain of it is not
That it crept down to wake and kiss,
And give attentions all unsought,
I think the pain of it is this:
On your warm breast it did not stay,
It kissed, and then raced far away.

You are so jealous you must cry
And toss about in much unrest--
The rushes bend, the white gulls fly--
In this wild mood I like you best.
You were too peaceful, and too still
Before the wind crept round the hill.

Deserted

She stood that night with a face so set,
So filled with bitterness and despair,
Closing my eyes, I can see her yet,
Sorrowful, broken, but passing fair.

Her eyes were fixed on the sky above,
Where stars were shining so soft and clear;
Did the ghosts of innocence and love
Steal out of the gloom and stand quite near?

So young to quiver beneath such smart!
A fairer brow ’twould be hard to find--
The pity of it! a broken heart,
And childhood lying so close behind.

I heard her whisper, “’Twas long ago
That I laughed for joy at the touch of morn,
Kneeled down and prayed in the light and glow--
Ah me! I cry now--tempest-torn:

“‘Thank God for night, and the world asleep’--
Their eyes pierce through me the long, long day--
Thank God for the darkness, soft and deep,
That folds me, and hides me quite away!”

My Neighbor

Say not, _I love the Lord_, unless you find
Within you, welling up by day and night,
A love, strong, full, and deep, for humankind--
Unless you find it always a delight
To show the weary one a resting-place--
To show the doubting one Faith’s shining way--
To show the erring one the door of Grace--
To show the sorrowing one where they may lay
Their broken hearts,--the heaviness--the care--
The grief, the agony too sharp to bear.

When each man is the neighbor whom we love,
According to the gracious measure of His word,
Then may we lift our eyes to heaven above,
And say with rapture sweet: _I love the Lord_.

Hollyhocks

Say, did you ever go to a place
Where nobody lived you cared about,
An’ jest go wanderin’ up an’ down,
Into all the great big stores, an’ out.

An’ meetin’ sich heaps, an’ heaps of folks,
That pass you by with never a nod,
Till you got to feelin’ through an’ through
Jest right down lonesome, an, ’most outlawed.

An’ you tell yourself if someone said
“_Will you have this place?_” You’d say, No thanks!
I wouldn’t live here for all the world,
Give me the fields, an’ the brooks an’ banks.

Why the stuff that grows in your lots here
Can’t touch one side of our country stuff,
You have things tended to, right up fine,
But nature is sweet, though maybe rough.

An’ your blossoms aren’t half so nice,
Nor your creepin’ vines, nor growin’ grass,
Why! ’cause ours swim in the sun all day,
An’ yours stretch their necks to see him pass.

So you try somehow to pass the time,
A-wanderin’ up, and a-wanderin’ down,
So sick of yourself, but sicker still
Of the folks you meet, in that old town.

Such dressy folks that don’t care a snap,
Not knowin’ you from Adam’s off ox,
An’ by an’ by you lift up your eyes,
An’ see such a clump of hollyhocks,

A-holdin’ their own in some grand place,
With their shiny leaves spread in the sun,
Noddin’ so friendly, seemin’ to say
“Come in old neighbor, an’ share the fun!”

There’s no flower nicer it seems to me,
There’s nothin’ prettier grows nor blows,
Though some folks call them old-fashioned things,
A-thinkin’ them homely I suppose.

But you come across them some fine day
When you’re so homesick you can’t get air
Enough for your lungs down through your throat,
Because of the lump that’s stoppin’ there.

An’ say, I would’nt wonder a bit
In you felt a mist come in your eyes
At sight of the bright familiar things,--
The nicest flowers under the skies.

For they set me thinkin’ of a house,
That stands by itself among the trees,
With a big wide porch, an’ stragglin’ walk
Bordered by jest such flowers as these,

Till you hear the old familiar sounds,
The chirpin’, the buzzin’ soft an’ low,
An’ sniff the breath that comes with the wind
From the ripe, red clover down below.

Till a big warm feelin’ swamps your heart,
You’re not so lonesome, there on their stalks
Are friends a-plenty, smilin’ at you,
The pretty old-fashioned hollyhocks.

Folks write of pansy, rose, and fern,
But if I was a poet an’ could rhyme,
I wouldn’t bother with common things,
I’d write of hollyhocks, every time.

The Miscreant

He glares out from the gathering dusk
With furtive glancing eye,
A creature hunted, and at war
With every passer-by.

Such a malignant face he turns,
You feel a sudden fear,
Born of the knowledge which proclaims
An evil thing is near.

A man goes by--ah, mark that scowl--
A woman young and fair,
Evil the look he bends on her--
Then comes a gallant pair.

A laddie tall, and by his side
A baby-girl, who cries
_Good night!_ out to the miscreant,
And laughs up in his eyes.

At strife is he with all the world,
But for a moment’s space,
Something akin to tenderness
Flares up in that dark face.

Her Birthday

Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes,
And the dower of youth and zest,
It is kind of heaven to give us this day,
When the world is looking its best,
When the crimson roses are all abloom
With their sisters of paler grace,
When the sun makes warm, and the dew makes glad
Each velvety beautiful face.

When the breeze which comes seems a heavy breath,--
From the lungs of the earth o’ergrown
With the fairest things, and the sweetest things
That ever was seen, or known,
When the bird has an added note of pride
In each carol of joy he sings,
_Do you know? can you guess? my pretty mate,
And the wee things under my wings!_

Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes
And the fair young cheek and brow,
Your birthday, my girl with the smiling lips,
What things shall I wish for you now?
Come close--put your two hands into my own
While I wish you a happy year,
While I wish you the best that heaven can give
To a maiden so sweet and dear.

While I wish you love with never a stint,
For the riches of love are great--
While I wish that shadows may flee your path,
And the glorious sunshine wait,
While I wish you the happiness, full and deep,
The gladness and brightness of life,
A place in your heart for the white dove of peace,
But none for the whisper of strife.

Your birthday, my girl with the tender eyes
And the shimmering braids of hair--
I say as I look through a mist of tears,
It is good to be young and fair,
It is well to lean on the Father’s arm,
Love forces the words in a flood:
_God bless my girl with the tender eyes!
God bless her and keep her good!_

Slander

The man who with the breath lent him by heaven
Speaks words that soil the whiteness of a life
Is but an assassin, for death is given
As surely by the tongue, as by the knife.
He does the devil’s basest work--no less--
Who deals in calumnies--who throws the mire
On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press
His foul lips to. The pity of it! _Liar_,
Yet half believed, by such as deem the good
Or evil but the outcome of a mood.
O slanderer, if fierce imps meet in hell
For converse, when the long day’s toil is through,
Of _you_ they have this worthy thing to tell,
_He does the work we are ashamed to do!_

Summer Holidays

School’s out! they cried, two happy wights;
School’s out for such a while,
The old bell won’t ding-dong to-day
And make us run a mile.
It seems too good--no lessons now
To tire us right out,
We’ve not a single thing to do
But run, and play, and shout.

We’re going fishing in the creek
With bran new hook an’ line,
We’re going hunting in the woods,
O, holidays are fine!
We’re going to wade out in the pond
And scare the ducks and drake,
We’re going haying in the field,
And swimming in the lake.

We’re going to jump, we’re going to sing,
And yell, and make a noise--
’Cause holidays come from the sky
For tired-out, shut-up boys.
That mean old bell that called so loud
Each time that it was rung,
_Come right straight in and hurry up!_
Has just to hold its tongue.

Violet

O wrinkled, withered little flower,
You were so pretty and so blue
The day that you were given me,
By Mariana, fair and true.

Angry and jealous had I been
That fragrant budding day in spring--
Strange, that a man should let his mind
Be vexed by some light simple thing!

She had gone walking with my friend,
A splendid fellow, with a face
As handsome as Apollo’s own,
And figure full of manly grace.

And seeing that he gave to her
What seemed to me a tender gaze,
And that she was in happy mood,
My jealousy was all ablaze.

I called her traitor in my heart--
Was she not mine by every right?
Had I not held her to my breast,
And whispered things one starlight night?

I strode away to where the waves
Rushed on the beach with sullen roar,
She cared not for me, why should I
Think fondly of her any more?

Yet, when she softly called my name,
My heart beat quick with love and wrath,
And through the twilight soft and dim
I saw her coming down the path.

Then love was dumb, and anger spake,
The eyes of her grew proud and shy,
I called her heartless, and coquette--
What but a jealous fool was I?

She turned to leave me, then I grew
Ashamed of all my bitter speech,
But she seemed now so far from me,
I could not hope her grace to reach.

“Wait, Mariana, wait, and say
Farewell to one you hold in scorn!”
I cried, “and give to him I pray
One of the flowers you have worn.”

O, Violet, she lifted you
Up with her slender finger tips,
Laid you for one brief moment’s space
Against the redness of her lips.

Then gave you softly to my hand--
O, Violet, so sweet and shy!
In all God’s universe there was
No happier man, I wot, than I.

My Lady of the Silver Tongue

My Lady of the Silver Tongue,
Do you not feel a thrill of shame?
The woman is so fair and young--
Why seek to steal away her fame?
Nay, never mind that haughty stare,
For you and I must measure swords,
To tell you to your face I dare,
A lie lurked in your pretty words.

Did you not say awhile ago
“_I am her friend_,”--in earnest tone--
And soft that voice of yours, and low--
“_I am her friend when all is done_;”
As though a friend a doubt would fling,
And evil tongues to wagging start!
_I am her friend_--ah, there the sting,
No friend will grieve and hurt a heart!

Your eyes are very warm and kind,
And sweet the smile upon your lips,
I read the truth--I am not blind--
False are you to your finger-tips,
And I would rather be, to-day,
The slandered woman, fair and young,
Than be yourself, so proud and gay,
My Lady of the Silver Tongue!

A friend’s heart holds no wronging doubt,
No envy--meaner far than hate--
With tenderness it pieces out
The small shortcomings, and the great.
So when you slander--blush for shame--
Or, to some gossip’s tale attend,
I pray you take some other name,
And never say, _I am her friend_.

For loyalty is not a jest,
No sweeter word is said or sung,
Take time to learn that truth is best,
My Lady of the Silver Tongue.

Sweeping to the Sea

O river, sweeping to the sea!
How clear your waters are,--
So clear they mirror faithfully
Each fleecy cloud and star.

O river, running to the sea!
How fresh the breath you fling,
As on you speed right merrily
From winds that chase and sing!

Minerva’s Essay

“_Men, give more frankness and less flattery_,”
So read Minerva from her essay fine.
“_Men, give more frankness and less flattery_,”
Much emphasis she laid upon this line.
“We are no foolish children to be fed
On empty words of unearned praise, forsooth,
Too long in such poor ways have we been led,
Give us no compliment--give us the truth,
Think not a woman pines to hear you tell
How beautiful her form, how fair her face,
Think not she whispers to herself, ‘’Tis well!’
When you proclaim her rich in every grace.
You think to please her--Ah, sir, vain your dream,

When next such fulsome praises you may speak,
Mark well her eyes, and read their scornful gleam,
And note the angry blush, on brow and cheek.
Be fair, speak out your thoughts as they may rise,
Nor seek to hide them, since the truth is grand
All praise unmerited we do despise,
If you could read our mind, and understand.
Men, give more frankness, and less flattery,
Remember, we are neither dull, nor blind,
Men, give more frankness, and less flattery,
If you would win the trust of womankind.”

Much marvelled I at dear Minerva’s lay,
But thought she truly meant each earnest word,
And so neglected telling her straightway
How much her genius had my bosom stirred;
Neglected telling her that if two wings
But grew out from her shoulders soft and white,
Fair would she be as seraph mild that sings
The songs of love in Paradise to-night,
Neglected telling her the flowers she wore
Drooped with the heat of their own jealousy,
And whispered to each other o’er and o’er:
“Ah, how much sweeter is this maid than we!”
She begged for frankness from all men--from me--
For this her wondrous eloquence was poured.
So afterwards when she did question me,
I--foolish man--confessed that I was bored.
And when she showed her gown of palest blue,
Shook for me all its dainty ruffles out,
I would not praise it--though I wanted to--
Her red lips straight took on a pretty pout.
“Did not we graduates look very nice?”
She asked, and patted one rebellious curl.

“Frankness, not flattery,” I murmured twice,
“Let me remember it my own dear girl!”
“I’ve seen you looking lovelier,” I said,
“I like your hair best when it softly flows,
Not piled in one big bunch upon your head--
The powder showed quite plainly on your nose.”
Who was it said, “O, inconsistency,
Thy name is woman?” Surely he was right,
I spoke my thoughts, refrained from flattery,
Lo, for reward comes this brief note to-night:

“I think to longer be engaged to you
Would be a foolish thing, and very wrong.

POST-SCRIPT:

Gray says he dreamed the whole night through
Of me, and of my essay wise and strong.
If you should call to night, at eight, pray bring
My notes--and--and--the photo, and the curl,
I will return your presents and your ring,
To think, that _you_ should grow into a churl.”

I’m going to tell Minerva when we meet
That it was just a little joke of mine,
And nevermore--my cure is quite complete--
Will I believe a woman’s essay fine.

To the Queen

We send thee greetings on this morn in May,
Long live the Queen, right fervently we pray!
We daughters of this country young and fair
Join all our voices, singing songs of thee,
O may the words ring clearly on the air,
And reach the island cradled in the sea.
Our Queen! lo, at the words a thrill of pride,
Of tenderness, and trust springs into life.
Our Queen, who rules so well her kingdom wide,
Our Queen, so soft in peace, so bold in strife.

Our Queen! the love of loyal hearts we give,
We join our voices and we proudly say,
God bless the sweetest Woman--and long live
The greatest Ruler in the world to-day!

In the Old Church

“The fine new kirk is finished, wife--the old has had its day,
’Tis like ourselves, a trifle worn, and out of date, and gray.

Stained windows and a tower high--I like not such a show,
Beside the cost is something great, and money does not grow.
Now when they come to me for help I’m going to tell them, plain,
That since they’ve built to please themselves they’ll ask my
help in vain.”

Then sat the woman at his side: “’Tis meet God’s house should be
As good a one as we can give,” she answered tenderly.
“And we who’ve worshipped all the years in that old church so gray,
Should go with songs, and thankful hearts, into the new to-day.
For think of all the precious hours we have had over there--
The hours of penitence and tears, the hours of peace and prayer.

I went to-day to say good-bye, and as I stood alone,
The memory of blessings shared came to me, one by one.
I heard the message from the Word, the sermon good and wise,
I heard the songs of love and hope ring clearly to the skies;
And looking over to the pew we’ve worshipped in for years,
I seemed to see so many things, to see them through my tears.

I saw us sitting there when we were young, and glad, and strong,
Ere we had learned that sorrow lends a sweetness to life’s song
When every golden Sabbath day found us in love with life--
The world was fair, and God was good, and we were man and wife.
One pretty far off summer morn my dim eyes seemed to see,
A morn when I sat by your side, our first-born on my knee;

His fair head lay upon my arm, and rich was I, and proud,
I whispered in the Master’s ear things spoken not aloud;
And then our other bonnie lads grew plain unto my eyes,
And Belle--our lassie fair and good, our lassie sweet and wise.
I felt again her little hand clasped tightly in my own--
A mother holds her daughter dear, and I had but the one.

My soft eyed one, my loving one, with braids of yellow hair--
Ah me! I could not help but know the little one was fair.
In the old church I thought upon our hour of grief and pain,
Of loneliness--_she went away and came not back again_--
When broken-hearted ’neath the loss we bowed beneath the rod,
There, close about us in that hour, we felt the arm of God.

I saw us older grown and bent, each tall son in his place,
I saw the minister who stood with heaven in his face,
His worn old face we loved so well, his eyes that seemed to see
The golden light that lights the shore of God’s eternity;
And yet how simple was his heart, how kindly was his way,
And how he cared for all his flock, nor wearied night nor day!

If one strayed far he followed it, and won it back to fold,
If one fell down he lifted it with tenderness untold;
He fell asleep his labor done--how sweet must be the rest
Of one who made his motto this, _The Lord shall have my best_.

Good-bye, old church! Good-bye, I said, and left its portals wide,
And then I turned and looked upon the new church just beside;
Upon its windows tall and stained the yellow sunbeams played,
It stood, the temple of the Lord, in loveliness arrayed.
“I thought,” she said, and stroked his hand, “of one who takes his rest,
I seemed to hear his deep voice say: _The Lord shall have my best_.”

The sun crept lower in the sky, the world lay sweet and fair,
A bird trilled softly from its throat a song that was a prayer.
The old man looked up at his wife, with tears his cheeks were wet,
“Ay, there are many things,” he said, “we may not, dear, forget.
We’re growing old, wife, like the day our sun sinks in the west,
I’ll say with him we both loved well, _The Lord shall have my best_.”

September

September comes across the hills
Her blue veil softly flowing,
Her flagons deep of wine she spills,
And sets the old world glowing.

Yon robin’s piping her a tune--
How runs his carol tender?
“I knew you once as pretty June,
When you were young and slender.

And though you’ve grown a gracious thing,
Full-blossomed, grand and stately,
I still can see a hint of spring--
Your youth’s but left you lately.”

Spring o’ the Year

“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Was there ever a song so gay,
As the song the meadow-lark sings to me
When we meet in the fields each day?

“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Then pauses a moment to look
At soft green leaves on shrub and tree,
And buttercups gay in the brook.

“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
No more weather gloomy and sad,
Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!
Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you glad?

“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Isn’t it blue--the sky above?
Watch ’em, watch ’em, these mates of mine,
Building their nests, and making love.

“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Ho! I sing it morning and night,
Never were meadows quite so green,
Never were posies quite so bright.

“_Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!_”
Out rings his song so sweet and shrill,
Its gladness catches you unawares,
With its gurgle, and laugh, and thrill.

Mildred

My lady Mildred tells me oft
That she is mistress now of me,
Her voice is very sweet and soft,
But, ah, an autocrat is she.

Go, say the red lips, and I go,
Come, and I hasten to her side,
Her warm smile sets my heart aglow,
Her quaintness is my joy and pride.

I used to say in phrases fine
That I was master of myself,
The proud boast is no longer mine;
I’m subject to a wilful elf.

My Mildred with the rose-leaf face,
A tyrant spirit sways your breast,
For humbly though I sue your grace,
You will not grant a moment’s rest.

I’ve served you for a whole long year--
The woman new has come to stay--
But tell me, now, have you no fear
That I will mutiny some day.

You give yourself a lofty air,
Your throne an ill-used father’s knee--
_Now worry fly, slink off dull care,
I have my girl, and she has me_.

My lady Mildred without doubt,
Your tender eyes are full of mirth,
And by and by, your laugh rings out,
The gladdest sound in all the earth.

The Old Valentine

I sent my sweetheart a valentine on one St. Valentine’s day,
A long time ago, when my hair was brown, ah, now it is sprinkled
with grey!
My sweetheart was pretty as she could be, a wild rose bloomed in
each cheek,
Her auburn hair rippled down to her waist, her eyes were tender and meek.

And, O, my sweetheart was dear to me, though nobody could have guessed
From my careless glance, or my careless word, the tenderness in my
breast.
I sent my sweetheart a valentine, a flowery and foolish thing,
All covered with blue forget-me-nots, and cupids gay on the wing.
Two hearts pierced through, a ruffle of lace, a knot of ribbon, a dove,
And, better than all, a space whereon I could write a message of love;
So burning the midnight oil I wrote with infinite patience and care,
This one earnest verse (for rhyming came hard) to send to my lady fair:
“I love you, I love you with all my heart, And fain would I call
you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl, Let me be your valentine!”

This yellow old page from the book of youth was put in my hand to-day,
As I growled, “Our Tom has fallen in love in a nonsensical way;
He is making a fool of himself--ha! ha! he is writing poetry now,
To his Anna’s lips, and his Anna’s hair, his Anna’s beautiful brow.”

“Why what rubbish is this?” I asked my wife, a portly but sweet-faced
dame,
Who smilingly showed me the verse underneath which I had written my name;
Shamefaced, I read it again and again--let me confess to a truth--
I felt like disowning the yellow thing that belonged to the days
of youth.

Till I pictured myself an excited lad penning the words of care,
Knowing her answer would fill my heart with rapture or dark despair.
It was yesterday, who says we are old? “I do,” says Mary, my wife,
“But age has nothing to do with it, since the choosing was done
for life.”

I bowed my grey head over her hand, “my sweetheart,” I whispered low,
On this Valentine’s day I tender you the verse written long ago.

“I love you, I love you with all my heart,
And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl,
Let me be your Valentine.”

The Boy of the House

He was the boy of the house you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad,
He was never tired and never sick,
And nothing could make him sad.

If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end
But his bed-time came too soon.

Did some one urge that he make less noise,
He would say with a saucy grin,
“Why, one boy alone doesn’t make much stir--
I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!

“There’s two of twins--oh it must be fun
To go double at everything,
To holler by twos, and to run by twos,
To whistle by twos, and to sing!”

His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy,
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.

You met him out in the garden path,
With the terrier at his heels,
You knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.

The maiden auntie was half distraught
At his tricks, as the day went by,
“The most mischievous child in the world!”
She said, with a shrug and a sigh.

His father owned that her words were true,
And his mother declared each day
Was putting wrinkles into her face,
And was turning her brown hair grey.

His grown-up sister referred to him
As a trouble, a trial, a grief,
“The way he ignored all rules,” she said,
“Was something beyond belief.”

But it never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in clatter and din,
And had only one regret in the world--
That he hadn’t been born a twin.

* * * * *

There’s nobody making a noise to-day,
There’s nobody stamping the floor,
There’s an awful silence up-stairs and down,
There’s crape on the wide hall door.

The terrier’s whining out in the sun--
“Where’s my comrade?” he seems to say,
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There’s no frolic for you to-day.

The freckle-faced girl from the house next door,
Is sobbing her young heart out,
Don’t cry little girl, you’ll soon forget
To miss the laugh and the shout.

The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him “darling” and “sweet,”
The maiden aunt is holding the shoes
That he wore on his restless feet.

How strangely quiet the little form,
With the hands on the bosom crossed!
Not a fold, not a flower out of place,
Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!

So solemn and still the big house seems--
No laughter, no racket, no din,
No startling shriek, no voice piping out,
“I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!”

There’s a man and a woman pale with grief,
As the wearisome moments creep;
Oh! the loneliness touches everything--
The boy of the house is asleep.

For He was Scotch and so was She

They were a couple well-content
With what they earned and what they spent,
Cared not a whit for style’s decree,
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

And O, they loved to talk of Burns;
Dear, lithesome, tender, Bobby Burns!
They never wearied of his song,
He never sang a note too strong,
One little fault could neither see,
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

They loved to read of men who stood
And gave for country, life and blood,
Who held their faith so dear a thing
They scorned to yield it to a king;
Ah! proud of such they well might be--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

From neighbor’s broil they kept away--
No liking for such things had they,
And O, each had a cannie mind!
Each could be deaf, and dumb, and blind;
Of words--nor pence--were none too free--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

I would not have you think this pair
Went on in weather always fair,
For well you know in married life
Will come, sometimes, the jar and strife;
They couldn’t always just agree--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

But near of heart they ever kept,
Until at close of life they slept,
Just this to say when all was past--
They loved each other to the last,
They’re loving yet in heaven, maybe--
For he was Scotch, and so was she.

The Legend of Love

There’s a cup on the very topmost shelf
Of the cupboard built in the wall,
On one side a vine is traced on the delf
With forget-me-nots blue and small;
On the other the words stand boldly up
That were once a pride and a joy,
For a legend it bears, this old-fashioned cup,
Which runs, “For a good little boy!”

’Twas bought by a mother with eyes as blue
As forget-me-nots pretty and shy,
When youth was her portion, and love was true,
And the days went merrily by.

On the cottage floor where the sunbeams crept,
Played her own sturdy lad of three,
And but yesterday he smiled and he slept
Such a pretty babe on her knee.

He followed her down to the garden gate
On her way to the little town,
“Now hurry right back, and don’t you be late,”
He said with a pout and a frown.

He must have some toys for the Christmas-tide,
So she bought him a tiny sled,
And a nice little box of sweets beside
To go into his mouth so red.

“Was there anything else!” she asked herself,
“She could buy for the laddie small?”
It was then that she saw the cup of delf
Which stands on the shelf in the wall.

“For a good little boy,” ah, that meant him,
With a face as sweet as a rose,
“He is good,” she said, and her eyes grew dim,
“From his curly head to his toes.”

And she carried her treasures one by one
To the cottage down in the lane,
Where the winter sunbeams brightly shone
On his face at the window pane.

He was proud of the sleigh with its jingling bells
And the box was a thing of joy,
“But the cup is best,” he said, “for it tells
That I’m such a good little boy.”

O poor little mother, your eyes so blue,
Faded out with the wash of tears!
O poor little mother, your heart so true,
It broke with the weight of years!

And there, on the very topmost shelf,
The old-fashioned cup it has stood,
Since a day long ago when she owned to herself
That her boy was no longer good.

There is dust on it now, but believe me, dear,
It was once a pride and a joy,
With its legend of love, so bright and so clear,
Which runs, “For a good little Boy.”

Our Father

Teach us, dear Lord, all that it means to say
The words, _Our Father_, when we kneel to pray,
Our Father thou, then every child of thine
Is, by the bond, a brother, Lord, of mine.

Teach us, dear Lord, all that it means to say
_Thy will be done_, when we kneel down to pray--
Thy will be done--then our proud wills must break
And lose themselves in love for Thy dear sake.