Chapter C: B. a (3)

_Concert._ Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth’s tide,
Ho! ships of Boston Bay,
Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide
To this Thanksgiving Day!
We pray to God with fervent lips,
We praise the Lord to-day,
As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,
But psalms from Boston Bay.

THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674).

Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell,
A little house whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;
Under the sparres of which I lie
Both soft and dry;
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my doore
Is worn by th’ poore,
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat.

’Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearth
With guiltlesse mirthe,
And givest me wassaile bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soiles my land
And givest me for my bushel sown
Twice ten for one;
Thou makest my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day.
All these, and better, thou dost send
Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resigne
As wholly Thine:
But the acceptance, that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.

THANKSGIVING.

WILLIAM D. HOWELLS.

Lord, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought!
Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still!
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.
For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer;
For pain, death, sorrow, sent
Unto our chastisement;
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.

_Harper’s Magazine._

THANKSGIVING ODE.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Once more the liberal year laughs out
O’er richer stores than gems or gold;
Once more with harvest-song and shout
Is nature’s bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings,
Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;
Her lap is full of goodly things,
Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

O favors every year made new!
O gifts with rain and sunshine sent!
The bounty overruns our due;
The fullness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, and flowers bloom on;
We murmur, but the corn-ears fill;
We choose the shadow, but the sun
That casts it shines behind us still.

God gives us with our rugged soil
The power to make it Eden-fair,
And richer fruits to crown our toil
Than summer-wedded islands bear.

Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board of home?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom’s arm
Can change a rocky soil to gold;
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with Northern ices cold.

And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!

ELSIE’S THANKSGIVING.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Dolly, it’s almost Thanksgiving; do you know what that means, my dear?
No? Well, I couldn’t expect it; you haven’t been with us a year,
And you came with my auntie from Paris, far over the wide blue sea,
And you’ll keep your first Thanksgiving, my beautiful Dolly, with me.

I’ll tell you about it, my darling, for grandma’s explained it all,
So that I understand why Thanksgiving always comes late in the fall,
When the nuts and the apples are gathered, and the work in the field is
done,
And the fields, all reaped and silent, are asleep in the autumn sun.

It is then that we praise Our Father who sends the rain and the dew,
Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every morning new;
Unless we’d be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we must sing and pray,
And think about good things, Dolly, when we keep Thanksgiving Day.

But I like it very much better when from church we all go home,
And the married brothers and sisters and the troops of cousins come,
And we’re ever so long at the table, and dance and shout and play,
In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends Thanksgiving day.

THANKSGIVINGS OF OLD.

E. A. SMULLER.

Oh, the glorious Thanksgivings
Of the days that are no more!
How, with each recurring season,
Wakes their mem’ry o’er and o’er!
When the hearts of men were simpler,
And the needs of life were less,
And its mercies were not reckoned
By the measure of excess.

Heaven send the glad Thanksgiving
Of that older, simpler time!
Tarry with us, not in fancy,
Not in retrospective rhyme;
But in true and living earnest
May the spirit of that day,
Artless, plain, and unpretending,
Once again resume its sway!

CHRISTMAS.

THE DAY OF DAYS.

_Solo._ ’Twas eighteen hundred years ago,
Not in a region of ice and snow,
But far in the land of the early morn,
The oldest of lands, our Christ was born.

_Concert._ Of all the joy-days under the sun,
Of all the holidays, there’s but one
That comes to the heart, and clings to the home—
Christmas has come!

_Solo._ Still through the length of the multiplied years,
Sunshine of pleasure, and rainfall of tears,
Changes and growth in wonderful ways,
Christmas remains the great day of days.

_Concert._ The day of the hope that casteth out fear,
The day of all days that brings good cheer
In the country’s peace and the city’s hum—
Christmas has come!

_Solo._ Now in the uttermost ends of the earth
The story is told of the Christ-child’s birth;
And millions, wherever the sun’s rays fall,
Are kin in the hope that is dear to all.

_Concert._ All over the lands and far out on the seas
Is a lifting of voices and bowing of knees;
And alike to us all, if we rest or roam,
Christmas has come!

_Solo._ Wherever the blessings of mortals increase,
With customs and laws that give joy and peace;
Where science and art yield comfort and bliss,
All over the world there is no day like this.

_Concert._ Of all the joy-days under the sun,
Of all the holidays, there’s but one
That touches the heart and clings to the home—
Christmas has come!

CHRISTMAS IN OLDEN TIME.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Heap on more wood!—the wind is chill;
But, let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.
And well our Christmas sires of old
Loved, when the year its course had rolled
And brought blithe Christmas back again
With all its hospitable train,
With social and religious rite
To honor all the holy night.
On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas-eve the mass was sung.
Then opened wide the Baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed her pride.
All hailed with uncontrolled delight
And general voice the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then came the merry maskers in
And carols roared with blithesome din.
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note and strong.
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.

A CHRISTMAS THOUGHT ABOUT DICKENS.

BERTHA S. SCRANTON.

Westminster is gray at midnight,
With shadows from wall to wall;
They have noiseless feet, these shadows,
And make no sound as they fall.
But I ween they will creep together,
A goodly band to-night,
Over a silent marble name,
In the Christmas-eve twilight.

All the tiny dear child-people
We hold in our hearts to-day,
Who will live when that same marble
Has crumbled to dust away.
“Little Em’ly’s” ghost that haunteth
The minster’s shadowy aisle,
With the grave, sweet face of Agnes,
And the child-wife Dora’s smile.

Then will come, I ween, with the others,
Poor Smike with his patient air,
And the seven little Kenwigs,
With their braided tails of hair.
And Jenny Wren, I can promise,
Will surely be there again,
With her slanting rows of children,
Crying, “Who is this in pain?”

Little Nell will wake and listen,
When the white, white world is still
And the great chimes through the midnight
From the belfry tower thrill.
The little Cratchits will hearken
And wait till the goose is done,
And the voice of tiny Tim will cry,
“God bless us every one!”

But ah! for the living mourners
On either side of the sea,
For whom no more the brave hand writes,
The heart beats cheerily.
And ah! for the saddened chambers,
Where his watchers ever wait,
They unto whom life yields but pain,
And who keep its vigil late.

Westminster is gray with shadows,
But his children never die!
Through all the Christmas times to come
Will his carol notes ring high.
The dreamer has but awakened,
And the master’s work is done,
But the bells on Time’s great steeple
Ring, “God bless us every one!”

[In the following selection the numbered stanzas can be given in concert with a musical accompaniment.]

THE STAR IN THE WEST.

QUEBEC—1635.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

’Tis the fortress of St. Louis,
The Church of Recoverance,
And hang o’er the crystal crosses
The silver lilies of France.
In the fortress a knight lies dying,
In the church are priests at prayer,
And the bell of the Angelus sweetly
Throbs out on the crimsoned air.

The noblest knight is dying
That ever served a king,
And he looks from the fortress window
As the bells of the Angelus ring.
Old scenes come back to his vision,
Again his ship’s canvases swell
In the harbor of gray St. Malo,
In the haven of fair Rochelle.
He sees the emparadised ocean
That he dared when his years were young,
The lagoons where his lateen-sail drifted
As the Southern Cross over it hung;
Acadie, the Richelieu’s waters,
The lakes through the midlands that rolled,
And the cross that he planted wherever
He lifted the lilies of gold.
He lists to the Angelus ringing,
He folds his white hands on his breast,
And far o’er the clouded forests
A star verges low in the West!

I.

“Star on the bosom of the West,
Chime on, O bell, chime on, O bell!
To-night with visions I am blest,
And filled with light ineffable!
No angels sing in crystal air,
No clouds ’neath seraphs’ footsteps glow,
No feet of seers o’er mountains fair
A portent follows far; but lo!
A star is glowing in the West,
The world shall follow it from far—
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on!
Shine on, shine on, O Western Star!

II.

“In yonder church that storms have iced—
I founded it upon this rock—
I’ve daily kissed the feet of Christ,
In worship with my little flock.
But I am dying—I depart,
Like Simeon old my glad feet go,
A star is shining in my heart.
Such as the Magi saw; and lo!
A star is shining in the West,
The world shall hail it from afar!
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on!
Shine on, shine on, O Western Star!

III.

“Beside the Fleur de Lis of France,
The faith I’ve planted in the North,
Ye messengers of Heaven, advance;
Ye mysteries of the Cross, shine forth!
I know the value of the earth,
I’ve learned its lessons; it is done;
One soul alone outweighs in worth
The fairest kingdom of the sun.
Star on the bosom of the West,
My dim eyes follow thee afar.
Chime on, chime on, O Christmas bells!
Shine on, shine on, O golden Star!

IV.

“What rapture! hear the sweet choirs sing,
While death’s cold shadows o’er me fall,
Beneath the lilies of my King—
Go, light the lamps in yonder hall.
Mine eyes have seen the Christ Star glow
Above the New World’s temple gates.
Go forth, celestial heralds, go!
Earth’s fairest empire thee awaits!
Star on the bosom of the West,
What feet shall follow thee from far?
Chime on, O Christmas bells, chime on!
Shine on forever, golden Star!”

’Twas Christmas morn; the sun arose
’Mid clouds o’er the St. Lawrence broad,
And fell a sprinkling of the snows
As from the uplifted hand of God.
Dead in the fortress lay the knight,
His white hands crossed upon his breast,
Dead, he whose clear prophetic sight
Beheld the Christ Star in the West.
That morning, ’mid the turrets white,
The low flags told the empire’s last,
They hung the lilies o’er the knight,
And by the lilies set the cross.

Long, on Quebec, immortal heights,
Has Champlain slept, the knight of God;
The Western Star shines on, and lights
The growing empire, fair and broad.
And though are gone the knights of France,
Still lives the spirit of the North;
The heralds of the Star advance,
And Truth’s eternal light shines forth.

THE LITTLE MUD-SPARROWS.

(_A Jewish Legend._)

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.

I like that old sweet legend
Not found in Holy Writ,
And wish that John or Matthew
Had made Bible out of it.

But though it is not Gospel,
There is no law to hold
The heart from growing better
That hears the story told:

How the little Jewish children
Upon a summer day
Went down across the meadows
With the Child Christ to play,

And in the gold-green valley
Where low the reed-grass lay,
They made them mock mud-sparrows
Out of the meadow-clay.

So, when these all were fashioned
And ranged in flocks about,
“Now,” said the little Jesus,
“We’ll let the birds fly out.”

Then all the happy children
Did call, and coax, and cry—
Each to his own mud-sparrow:
“Fly, as I bid you—fly!”

But earthen were the sparrows,
And earth they did remain,
Though loud the Jewish children
Cried out and cried again—

Except the one bird only
The little Lord Christ made.
The earth that owned Him Master,
—His earth heard and obeyed.

Softly He leaned and whispered:
“Fly up to heaven! fly!”
And swift His little sparrow
Went soaring to the sky.

And silent all the children
Stood awe-struck looking on,
Till deep into the heavens
The bird of earth had gone.

I like to think for playmate
We have the Lord Christ still,
And that still above our weakness,
He works His mighty will;

That all our little playthings
Of earthen hopes and joys
Shall be by His commandment
Changed into heavenly toys.

Our souls are like the sparrows
Imprisoned in the clay—
Bless Him who came to give them wings,
Upon a Christmas Day!

A CHRISTMAS QUESTION.

REV. MINOT J. SAVAGE.

[For concert recitation. In order to avoid monotony in the repetition of the question, the first line of the first stanza can be read with direct falling slides; of the second, with direct rising slides; of the third, with emphasis on the first word; of the fourth, with a perfect monotone; of the fifth, with emphasis on the second word; of the sixth, with direct rising slides.]

I.

When will He come?
A captive nation dwell upon
The river-banks of Babylon;
What is the word they speak?
The prophet’s eye looks down the years
And kindles as the sight appears—
“Messiah! him ye seek!
Lo! the Lord’s anointed comes! and then
Shall dwell the heavenly kingdom among men!”

II.

When will He come?
The Christian answers, “Long ago
The King was born in manger low.
Him wicked men have slain,
And now we wait with longing eye,
And fix our look upon the sky;
For He will come again,
We pray and watch since He has gone away;
For when He comes He’ll bring the perfect day.”

III.

When will He come?
“Lo, here! Lo, there!” the foolish shout,
And think that God will come without.
But ever has it been,
In spite of fabled tales that tell
Of magic and of miracle,
That He has come within.
Only through man, and man alone,
Does God build up his righteous throne.

IV.

When will He come?
When iron first was hammered out;
When far shores heard the seaman’s shout;
When letters first were known;
When separate tribes to nations grew;
When men their brotherhood first knew;
When law first reached the throne:
Each separate upward step that man has trod
Has been a coming of the living God.

V.

When will He come?
While you are looking far away,
His tireless feet are nigh to-day;
Each true word is His voice.
All honest work, all noble trust,
Each deed that lifts man from the dust,
Each pure and manly choice,
Each upward stair man’s toil-worn feet do climb,
Is just another birth of God sublime.

VI.

When will He come?
He’ll come to-morrow if you will;
But cease your idle sitting still.
Yes, He will come to-day.
He will not come in clouds; but through
Your doing all that you can do
To help the right alway.
Do honest work, and to the truth be true,
And God already has appeared in you.

WINGS.

DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.

“Mother, oh, make me a pair of wings,
Like the Christ-child’s adorning;
Blue as the sky, with a gold star-eye—
I’ll wear them on Christmas morning.”

The mother worked with a careless heart
All through that merry morning;
Happy and blind, nor saw behind
The shadow that gives no warning.

He struck—and over the little face
A sudden change came creeping;
Twelve struggling hours against Death’s fierce powers,
And then—he has left her sleeping.

Strange sleep that no mother’s kiss can wake!
Lay her pretty wings beside her;
Strew white flowers sweet on her hands and feet,
And under the white snow hide her.

For the Christ-child called her out of her play,
And, thus our earth-life scorning,
She went away. What, dead, we say?
_She was born_ that Christmas morning.

_Wide Awake._

THE NATIVITY.

LOUISA PARSONS HOPKINS.

From Nazareth to Bethlehem,
Their holy journey leading them
By silver-towered Jerusalem.

Beneath the palm-tree’s tossing plume,
Amid the harvest’s rich perfume,
No house could give them rest or room.

So entering at the wayside cave,
Where mountain-rills the limestone lave,
The child was born a world to save.

They laid him in the manger white;
The lowing oxen saw the sight,
And wondered at the dazzling light.

The mother’s heart in sacred bliss
Could dream no sweeter heaven than this,
To greet her babe with mother’s kiss.

And bending down with sacred awe,
For a lost world the angels saw
Love, the fulfilling of the law.

* * * * *

A Christmas day, to be perfect, should be clear and cold, with holly branches in berry, a blazing fire, a dinner with mince-pies, and games and forfeits in the evening. You cannot have it in perfection if you are very fine and fashionable. A Christmas evening should, if possible, finish with music. It carries off the excitement without abruptness, and sheds a repose over the conclusion of enjoyment.—LEIGH HUNT.

CHRISTMAS BELLS.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

[For musical accompaniment]

I heard the bells on Christmas-day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, swinging on its way,
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursèd mouth
The cannon thundered in the South
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
“God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!”

CHRISTMAS ROSES.

MAY RILEY SMITH.

I gave into a brown and tirèd hand
A stem of roses, sweet and creamy-white.
I know the bells rang merry tunes that night,
For it was Christmas time throughout the land,
And all the skies were hung with lanterns bright.

The brown hand held my roses gracelessly;
They seemed more white within their dusky vase;
A scarlet wave suffused the woman’s face.
“My hands so seldom hold a flower,” said she,
“I think the lovely things feel out of place.”

O tirèd hands that are unused to flowers;
O feet that tread on nettles all the way!
God grant His peace may fold you round to-day,
And cling in fragrance when these Christmas hours,
With all their mirthfulness, have passed away!

NEW-YEAR’S.

ADDRESS TO THE NEW YEAR.

DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.

O good New Year! we clasp
This warm, shut hand of thine,
Loosing forever, with half sigh, half grasp,
That which from ours falls like dead fingers’ twine.
Ay, whether fierce its grasp
Has been, or gentle, having been, we know
That it was blessed: let the old year go.

Friend, come thou like a friend;
And, whether bright thy face,
Or dim with clouds we cannot comprehend,
We’ll hold our patient hands, each in his place,
And trust thee to the end,
Knowing thou leadest onwards to those spheres
Where there are neither days nor months nor years.

A NEW YEAR.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Why do we greet thee, O blithe New Year!
What are thy pledges of mirth and cheer?
Comest, knight-errant, the wrong to right?
Comest to scatter our gloom with light?
Wherefore the thrill, the sparkle and shine,
In heart and eyes at a word of thine?

The old was buoyant, the old was true,
The old was brave when the old was new.
He crowned us often with grace and gift;
His sternest skies had a deep blue rift.
Straight and swift, when his hand unclasped,
With welcome and joyance thine we grasped.
O tell us, Year—we are fain to know—
What is thy charm that we hail thee so?

Dost promise much that is fair and sweet—
The wind’s low stir in the rippling wheat,
The waves’ soft plash on the sandy floor,
The bloom of roses from shore to shore,
Glance of wings from the bowery nest,
Music and perfume from east to west,
Frosts to glitter in jeweled rime,
Blush of sunrise at morning’s prime,
Stars above us their watch to keep,
And rain and dew, though we wake or sleep?

Once more a voice, and I hear it call
Like a bugle-note from a mountain wall;
The pines uplift it with mighty sound,
The billows bear it the green earth round;
A voice that rolls in a jubilant song,
A conqueror’s ring in its echo strong;
Through the ether clear, from the solemn sky
The New Year beckons, and makes reply:

“I bring you, friends, what the years have brought
Since ever men toiled, aspired, or thought—
Days for labor, and nights for rest;
And I bring you love, a heaven-born guest;
Space to work in, and work to do,
And faith in that which is pure and true.
Hold me in honor and greet me dear,
And sooth you’ll find me a Happy Year.”

_Harper’s Bazar._

A WISH.

MARGARET VELEY.

If I could find the Little Year,
The Happy Year, the glad New Year—
If I could find him setting forth
To seek the ancient track—
I’d bring him here, the Little Year,
Like a peddler with his pack.

And all of golden brightness,
And nothing dull or black,
And all that heart could fancy,
And all that life could lack,
Should be your share of the peddlers ware,
When he undid his pack.

The best from out his treasure
A smile of yours would coax,
And then we’d speed him on his way,
At midnight’s failing strokes;
And bid him hurry round the world,
And serve the other folks!

ANOTHER YEAR.

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

Sweetly hath passed the year; the seasons came
Duly as they were wont, the gentle spring,
And the delicious summer, and the cool,
Rich autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff—and so are chronicled.

We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noontide slumber; we have plucked
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings.

When the cool winds came freshly from the hills,
And when the tinting of the autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of winter, and rejoiced
Over the fullness of the gathered sheaf.

THE CHILD AND THE YEAR.

CELIA THAXTER.

Said the child to the youthful year:
“What hast thou in store for me,
O giver of beautiful gifts! what cheer,
What joy dost thou bring with thee?”

“My seasons four shall bring
Their treasures: the winter’s snows,
The autumn’s store, and the flowers of spring,
And the summer’s perfect rose.

“All these and more shall be thine,
Dear child,—but the last and best
Thyself must earn by a strife divine,
If thou wouldst be truly blest.

“Wouldst know this last, best gift?
’Tis a conscience clear and bright,
A peace of mind which the soul can lift
To an infinite delight.

“Truth, patience, courage, and love,
If thou unto me canst bring,
I will set thee all earth’s ills above,
O child! and crown thee a king!”

* * * * *

We are bound, by every rule of justice and equity, to give the New Year credit for being a good one until he proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in him.—CHARLES DICKENS.

THE SEASONS.

A SONG OF WAKING.

KATHARINE LEE BATES.

The maple buds are red, are red,
The robin’s call is sweet;
The blue sky floats above thy head,
The violets kiss thy feet.
The sun paints emeralds on the spray
And sapphires on the lake;
A million wings unfold to-day,
A million flowers awake.

Their starry cups the cowslips lift
To catch the golden light,
And like a spirit fresh from shrift
The cherry tree is white.
The innocent looks up with eyes
That know no deeper shade
Than falls from wings of butterflies
Too fair to make afraid.

With long, green raiment blown and wet
The willows, hand in hand,
Lean low to teach the rivulet
What trees may understand
Of murmurous tune and idle dance,
With broken rhymes whose flow
A poet’s ear shall catch, perchance,
A score of miles below.

Across the sky to fairy realm
There sails a cloud-born ship;
A wind sprite standeth at the helm,
With laughter on his lip;
The melting masts are tipped with gold,
The ’broidered pennons stream;
The vessel beareth in her hold
The lading of a dream.

It is the hour to rend thy chains,
The blossom time of souls;
Yield all the rest to cares and pains,
To-day delight controls.
Gird on thy glory and thy pride,
For growth is of the sun;
Expand thy wings whate’er betide,
The Summer is begun.

“EARLY SPRING.”

ALFRED TENNYSON.

I.

Once more the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,
And domes the red-plowed hills
With loving blue;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The throstles too.

II.

Opens a door in Heaven
From skies of glass;
A Jacob’s-ladder falls
On greening grass,
And o’er the mountain-walls
Young angels pass.

III.

Before them fleets the shower,
And burst the buds,
And shine the level lands,
And flash the floods;
The stars are from their hands
Flung through the woods.

IV.

O follow, leaping blood,
The season’s lure!
O heart, look down and up,
Serene, secure,
Warm as the crocus-cup,
Like snow-drops, pure!

V.

For now the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,
And thaws the cold and fills
The flower with dew;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The poets too.

_Youth’s Companion._

MAY.

May comes laughing, crowned with daffodils,
Her dress embroidered with blue violets,
So gracious and so sweet she scarcely lets
A thought return of all the winter’s ills.
The orchards with enchanting wealth she fills;
In the green marshes golden cowslip sets,
And all the waking woodland spaces frets
With shy anemones. But ah, she wills
At times to frown in sudden wayward mood;
The violets shiver clinging to the ground,
She’s cold and blustering where once she wooed,
And oftentimes in petulant tears is found;
But like sweet women, who sometimes are cross,
Her smiles come back the sweeter for their loss.

_Good Cheer._

JUNE.

She sits all day plaiting a wild-rose wreath,
This daughter of the Sun, come from afar.
Sweeter is she than her bright sisters are
Who follow her across the flowery heath.
A daisy is her sign, and underneath
The meadow’s foamy flow the clovers wear
Their uniforms of white and red, and bear
Their cups of sweet to scent their mistress’ breath.
What dawns are thine, O dear, delicious June,
When at the drawing of thy curtain’s fold
The birds awake and sing a marvelous tune
To the young Day that comes in rose and gold!
What twilights when the gray dusk hides thy face
That thou mayst come with more enchanting grace!

_Travelers’ Record._

GOLDEN-ROD.

LUCY LARCOM.

Midsummer music in the grass—
The cricket and the grasshopper;
White daisies and red clover pass;
The caterpillar trails her fur
After the languid butterfly;
But green and spring-like is the sod
Where autumn’s earliest lamps I spy—
The tapers of the golden-rod.

This flower is fuller of the sun
Than any our pale North can show;
It has the heart of August won,
And scatters wide the warmth and glow
Kindled at summer’s mid-noon blaze,
Where gentians of September bloom
Along October’s leaf-strewn ways,
And through November’s paths of gloom.

As lavish of its golden light
As sunshine’s self, this blossom is;
Its starry chandeliers burn bright
All day; and have you noted this—
A perfect sun in every flower,—
Ten thousand thousand fairy suns,
Raying from new disks hour by hour,
As up the stalk the life-flash runs?

Because its myriad glimmering plumes
Like a great army’s stir and wave,
Because its gold in billows blooms,
The poor man’s barren walks to lave;
Because its sun-shaped blossoms show
How souls receive the light of God,
And unto earth give back that glow—
I thank Him for the golden-rod.

INDIAN SUMMER.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

From gold to gray
Our mild sweet day
Of Indian summer fades too soon;
But tenderly
Above the sea
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter’s moon.

In its pale fire
The village spire,
Shows like the zodiac’s spectral lance,
The painted walls
Whereon it falls,
Transfigured stand in marble trance.

SEPTEMBER, 1815.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

While not a leaf seems faded, while the fields,
With ripening harvests prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy cimeter, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware,
And whispers to the silent birds, “Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.”
For me, who, under kindlier laws, belong
To Nature’s tuneful choir, this rustling dry,
Through the green leaves, and yon crystalline sky,
Announce a season potent to renew,
’Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

OCTOBER.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Ay, thou art welcome, Heaven’s delicious breath,
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny South, oh! still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee, ’mid bowers and brooks,
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh,
And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

FADED LEAVES.

ALICE CARY.

The hills are bright with maples yet;
But down the level land
The beech-leaves rustle in the wind
As dry and brown as sand.

The clouds in bars of rusty red
Along the hilltops glow,
And in the still sharp air the frost
Is like a dream of snow.

The berries of the brier rose
Have lost their rounded pride,
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.

The cricket grows more friendly now,
The dormouse sly and wise,
Hiding away in disgrace
Of nature from men’s eyes.

The pigeons in black and wavering lines
Are swinging toward the sun;
And all the wide and withered fields
Proclaim the summer done.

His store of nuts and acorns now
The squirrel hastes to gain,
And sets his house in order for
The winter’s dreary reign.

’Tis time to light the evening fire,
To read good books, to sing
The low and lovely songs that breathe
Of the eternal spring.

NOVEMBER.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

The mellow year is hasting to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last;
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast,
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose
Oft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly glassed
Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past
And makes a little summer where it grows,
In the chill sunbeam of the faint, brief day.
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks confine,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with somber ivy-twine.

WINTER.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter, seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the moldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.

DECEMBER.

LOUISA PARSONS HOPKINS.

Blow, northern winds!
To brace my fibers, knit my cords,
To gird my soul, to fire my words,
To do my work—for ’tis the Lord’s—
To fashion minds.

Come, tonic blasts!
Arouse my courage, stir my thought,
Give nerve and strength that as I ought
I give my strength to what is wrought
While duty lasts.

Glow, arctic light!
And let my heart with burnished steel
That bright magnetic flame reveal
Which kindles purpose, faith, and zeal
For truth and right.

Shine, winter skies!
That when each brave day’s work is done
I wait in peace from sun to sun,
To meet unshamed, through victory won,
Your starry eyes.

* * * * *

Under these names, January, February, March, April, how much is hid that the eye cannot see! Uncover the months and interpret them. In a low and sweet way our Almanac began to speak as if he were a harp, and as if the spirit of the year like a gentle wind was breathing through it.—HENRY WARD BEECHER.

JANUARY.

ROSALINE E. JONES.

Who can love you, January?
You are gruff and ugly—very.
How you roar!
And a sorry tale you utter,
In a maniacal mutter,
At my door.

Then you sob and sigh and pine,
In a mindless, minor whine,
And again
A wild, grewsome ditty slips
From your frozen, rigid lips,
Fierce as pain.

Like some creature strung to hate,
Wrestling with its cruel fate,
Conquering
Only as you flee apace,
Glaring back with grim, wry face,
Mimicking.

Hush your savage minstrelsy
To a mellower symphony,
Soft and deep.
Know you no mellifluous rune?
No low, lulling cradle croon,
Wooing sleep?

No soft breath from slumbrous isles,
Where eternal summer smiles
Halcyon?
Beat your tattoo for your raids,
And decamp for Hadean shades.
Pray begone!

FROST WORK.

MARY E. BRADLEY.

No fairies left? You need not tell me so,
For in the night upon my window pane
Grew wondrous things that made me surely know
The fairies are at their old tricks again.

O wonder working spirit! if I could
But learn of you the secret of the snow—
How frost is given by the breath of God,
And where the hidden water courses flow;

And where begotten is the dew that strings
Her lovely pearls upon the meanest weed,
And what sweet animating influence brings
The blossom splendid from the trivial seed;

Could I but ride the south wind and the north,
And fathom all the mysteries they hold,
See how the lightning, leaping wildly forth,
And how the turbulent thunder is controlled,

I would no more be fretted by the greed
And selfishness of men; their puny spite,
Nor any worldly loss or cross indeed,
My lifted soul could evermore affright.

And wherefore now? The laughing fairy seems
To mock at me the spangled window through;
And I laugh also, waking from my dreams
To take up daily loss and cross anew.

But with a sense of things divinely planned,
That makes me sure I need not fear disdain,
From One who holds the thunder in his hand,
Yet stoops to trace the frost work on the pane.

FLOWERS.

NO FLOWERS.

How bleak and drear the earth would seem
Were there no flower faces
To give the hills, the woods and fields
Their pleasing charms and graces!
Could spring be spring without a flower
To smile at April’s weeping?
Would robins trill so gay a song,
Or May day be worth keeping?

And only think how bare the hedge
Would look without its posies!—
How queer ’twould be to have a June
That did not smell like roses!
No dandelions on the sward
For childhood’s busy fingers;
No morning-glories, drinking dew,
While golden sunrise lingers!

No violets, with hoods of blue,
To nod at mild spring’s coming;
No clover blossoms—would we hear
The busy bees’ soft humming?
And were there no forget-me-nots,
No buttercups or daisies,
The children would be lost for sports,
The poet lost for phrases.

No flowers, with their refining power
No wafts from yon sweet heaven—
No tokens of a love divine
To erring mortals given!
Ah, flowers your smiling faces prove
The Source of all our pleasures
Would not pronounce creation good
Without thee, floral treasures!

FERNS.

Ferns, beautiful ferns,
By the side of the running waters,
Lovely and sweet and fresh,
As the fairest of earth-born daughters;
Under the dreamy shade
Of the forest’s mighty branches,
Curving their graceful shapes
To the playful wind’s advances.

Ferns, delicate ferns,
Neighbors of emerald mosses,
Having no thought or care
For worldly attainments or losses.
Children of shadow serene,
Fresh at the heart through the summer,
Over the cool springs they lean,
Where the sunbeam is rarely a comer.

Ferns, feathery ferns,
Delicate, slender and frail,
Nursed by the streamlet, whose song
Is music for hillside and vale.
Purity, modesty, grace,
Emblems of these to the mind,
Loving the quietest place
That ever a sunbeam will find.

SWEET PEAS.

Oh, what is the use of such pretty wings
If one never, never can fly?
Pink and fine as the clouds that shine
In the delicate morning sky.
With a perfume sweet as the lilies keep
Down in their vases so white and deep.

The brown bees go humming aloft;
The humming-bird soars away;
The butterfly blows like the leaf of a rose,
Off, off in the sunshine gay;
While you peep over the garden wall,
Looking so wistfully after them all.

Are you tired of the company
Of the balsams so dull and proud?
Of the coxcombs bold and the marigold,
And the spider-wort wrapped in a cloud?
Have you not plenty of sunshine and dew,
And crowds of gay gossips to visit you?

How you flutter, and reach, and climb!
How eager your wee faces are!
Aye, turned to the light till the blind old night
Is led to the world by a star.
Well, it surely is hard to feel one’s wings,
And still be prisoned like wingless things.

“Tweet, tweet,” then says Parson Thrush,
Who is preaching up in a tree;
“Though you never may fly while the world goes by,
Take heart, little flowers,” says he;
“For often, I know, to the souls that aspire
Comes something better than their desire!”

_St. Nicholas._

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

I wandered lone where the pine trees made
Against the east their barricade;
And, guided by its sweet
Perfume, I found within a narrow dell
The trailing spring flower, tinted like a shell,
Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.

From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines
Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines
Lifted their glad surprise,
While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees
His feathers, ruffled by chill sea breeze,
And snowdrifts lingered under April skies.

As, pausing, o’er the lowly flowers I bent,
I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent,
Which yet find room,
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day,
And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.

A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS.

In the rarest of English valleys
A motherless girl ran wild,
And the greenness and silence and gladness
Were soul of the soul of the child.
The birds were her gay little brothers,
The squirrels her sweethearts shy;
And her heart kept tune with the raindrops,
And sailed with the clouds in the sky;
And angels kept coming and going,
With beautiful things to do;
And wherever they left a footprint,
A cowslip or primrose grew.

She was taken to live in London—
So thick with pitiless folk—
And she could not smile for its badness,
And could not breathe for its smoke;
And now as she lay on her pallet,
Too weary and weak to rise,
A smile of ineffable longing
Brought dews to her faded eyes;
“Oh, me! for a yellow cowslip,
A pale little primrose dear!
Won’t some kind angel remember,
And pluck one and bring it here?”

They brought her a bunch of cowslips;
She took them with fingers weak,
And kissed them, and stroked them, and loved them,
And laid them against her cheek.
“It was kind of the angels to send them;
And now I’m too tired to pray,
If God looks down at the cowslips,
He’ll know what I want to say.”
They buried them in her bosom;
And when she shall wake and rise,
Why may not the flowers be quickened,
And bloom in her happy skies?

DAFFODILS.

ROBERT HERRICK.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth, to meet decay,
As you or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer’s rain,
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.

CHRYSANTHEMUMS.

MRS. MARY E. DODGE.

Bravest of brave sweet blossoms in all of the garden-row;
Fair, when most of the flowers shrink from the winds that blow;
Gay, when the dismal north wind wails through the tree-tops dumb;
Breathing a breath of gladness is the brave Chrysanthemum.

One is of tawny color; another of cardinal glow,
As the cheek of a sun-warmed maiden and reddest of wine will show;
While some are of gorgeous yellow, like gold in a monarch’s crown,
And some of a royal purple, dusted with softest down.

Some of a creamy whiteness, touched to a rosy blush,
As the snow of the lovely Jungfrau glows with a sunset flush;
Some flame at the heart, pearl-petaled; and lavender-hued are some;
Yet each of them, crude or cultured, just a brave Chrysanthemum.

ROSES.

It is summer, says a fairy,
Bring me tissue light and airy;
Bring me colors of the rarest,
Search the rainbow for the fairest
Sea-shell, pink and sunny yellow,
Kingly crimson, deep and mellow;
Faint red in Aurora beaming,
And the white in pure pearl gleaming.

Bring me diamonds from the spaces
Where the air the earth embraces;
Bring me gold-dust by divining
Where the humming-bird is mining;
Bring me sweets as rich as may be
From the kisses of a baby;
With an art no fay discloses
I am going to make some roses.

THE MESSAGE OF THE SNOWDROP.

Courage and hope, true heart!
Summer is coming though late the spring,
Over the breast of the quiet mold,
With an emerald shimmer—a glint of gold,
Till the leaves of the regal rose unfold
At the rush of the swallow’s wing.

Courage and hope, true heart!
Summer is coming though spring be late;
Wishing is weary and waiting is long,
But sorrow’s day hath an even-song,
And the garlands that never shall fade belong
To the soul that is strong to wait.

RAGGED SAILORS.

O ragged, ragged Sailors!
I pray you answer me:
What may you all be doing
So far away from sea?

“We’re loitering by the roadsides,
We’re lingering on the hills,
To talk with pretty Daisies
In stiff and snowy frills.

“And though our blue be ragged,
Right welcome still are we
To tell the nodding lasses
Long tales about the sea!”

DIALOGUES.

THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE.

ALEXANDER DUMAS.

NOTE.—The scandal concerning this famous necklace—upon which the story is founded—was one of the many misfortunes endured by the unhappy Queen Marie Antoinette.

Characters:

MARIE ANTOINETTE, Queen of France.
Monsieur BOEHMER, Merchant.

_Monsieur Boehmer._ We do not come to offer anything to your Majesty, we should fear to be indiscreet; but we come to fulfill a duty concerning the necklace which your Majesty did not deign to take.

_Marie Antoinette._ Oh! then the necklace has come again! It was really beautiful, M. Boehmer.

_M. B._ So beautiful that your Majesty alone was worthy to wear it.

_M. A._ My consolation is that it cost a million and a half francs, and in these times there is no sovereign that can give such a sum for a necklace; so that although I cannot wear it, no one else can.

_M. B._ That is an error of your Majesty’s. The necklace is sold.

_M. A._ Sold! To whom?

_M. B._ Ah, Madame, that is a state secret.

_M. A._ Oh, I think I am safe. A state secret means that there is nothing to tell.

_M. B._ With your Majesty we do not act as with others. The necklace is sold, but in the most secret manner, and an embassador—

_M. A._ I really think you believe it yourself! Come, M. Boehmer, tell me at least the country he comes from, or, at all events, the first letter of his name.

_M. B._ Madame, it is the embassador from Portugal.

_M. A._ The embassador from Portugal! There is none here, M. Boehmer.

_M. B._ He came expressly for this, Madame.

_M. A._ Well, so much the better for the Queen of Portugal. We will speak of it no more.

_M. B._ We could not let the diamonds leave France without expressing our regret to your Majesty. It is a necklace which is now known all over Europe, and we wished to know definitely that your Majesty really refused it before we parted with it.

_M. A._ My refusal has been made public, and has been too much applauded for me to repent it.

_M. B._ Oh, Madame, if the people found it admirable that your Majesty preferred a ship of war to a necklace, the nobility at least would not think it surprising if you bought the necklace after all.

_M. A._ Do not speak of it any more!

_M. B._ It has touched your Majesty’s neck; it ought not to belong to any one else. We will return to-morrow.

_M. A._ Impossible! I have amused myself with these jewels; to do more would be a fault.

_M. B._ Your Majesty, then, refuses them?

_M. A._ Yes, oh yes. Take the necklace back. Put it away immediately!

QUEEN ISABELLA’S RESOLVE.

EPES SARGENT.

Characters:

ISABELLA, QUEEN OF SPAIN.
DON GOMEZ, a Grandee.
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

_Isabella._ And so, Don Gomez, you think we ought to dismiss the proposition of this worthy Genoese?

_Don Gomez._ His scheme, your Majesty, is fanciful in the extreme. I am a plain man. I do not see visions and dream dreams like some men.

_I._ And yet Columbus has given us good reasons for believing that he can reach India by sailing in a westerly direction.

_D. G._ Delusion, your Majesty! Admitting that the earth is a sphere, how would it be possible for him to return, if he once descended the sphere in the direction he proposes? Would not the coming back be all up-hill? Could a ship accomplish it even with the most favorable wind?

_I._ What have you to say to these objections, Columbus?

_Col._ With your Majesty’s leave, I would suggest that if the earth is a sphere, the same laws of adhesion and motion must operate at every point on its surface.

_D. G._ Don’t try to make _me_, a grandee of Spain, believe such stuff as that there are people on the earth who walk with their heads down, like flies on a ceiling! Would not the blood run into my head if I were standing upside down?

_Col._ I have already answered that objection. If there are people on the earth who are our antipodes, it should be remembered that we are also theirs.

_I._ To cut short the discussion, you think that the enterprise, which Columbus proposes, is one unworthy of our serious consideration?

_D. G._ As a matter-of-fact man, I must confess that I do so regard it. Has your Majesty ever seen an embassador from this unknown coast?

_I._ Have you ever seen an embassador from the unknown world of spirits?

_D. G._ Certainly not. Through faith we look forward to it.

_I._ Even so, by faith, does Columbus look forward, far over the misty ocean, to an undiscovered shore. Know, Don Gomez, that the _absurdity_, as you style it, shall be tested, and that forthwith.

_D. G._ Your Majesty will excuse me if I remark that I have from your royal consort himself the assurance that the finances of the government are so exhausted by the late wars that he cannot consent to advance the necessary funds for fitting out an expedition of the kind proposed.

_I._ Be mine, then, the privilege! I have jewels, by the pledging of which I can raise the amount required; and I have resolved that they shall be pledged to this enterprise without more delay.

_Col._ Your Majesty shall not repent your heroic resolve. I will return—be sure I will return—and lay at your feet such a jewel as never queen wore yet, an imperishable fame that shall couple with your memory the benedictions of millions yet unborn in climes yet unknown to civilized man. There is a conviction in my mind that your Majesty will live to bless the hour you came to this decision.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

GEORGE ELIOT.

Characters:

TOM TULLIVER.
MAGGIE TULLIVER.

_Maggie._ I’ll help you now, Tom. I’ve come to the school to stay ever so long. I’ve brought my box and my pinafores—haven’t I, father?

_Tom._ _You_ help me, you silly little thing! I should like to see you doing one of my lessons. Why, I learn Latin, too. Girls never learn such things. They’re too silly.

_M._ I know what Latin is very well. Latin’s a language. There are Latin words in the dictionary. There’s _bonus_, a gift.

_T._ Now you’re just wrong there, Miss Maggie. You think you’re very wise. But “bonus” means “good,” as it happens—bonus, bona, bonum.

_M._ Well, that’s no reason why it shouldn’t mean “gift.” It may mean several things—almost every word does. There’s “lawn”—it means the grass-plot as well as the stuff pocket-handkerchiefs are made of.

_T._ Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie.

_M._ Oh, what books! How I should like to have as many books as that!

_T._ Why, you couldn’t read one of ’em. They’re all Latin.

_M._ No, they aren’t. I can read the back of this, “History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”

_T._ Well, what does that mean? _You_ don’t know.

_M._ But I could soon find out. I should look inside and see what it was about.

_T._ Oh, I say, Maggie, we must keep quiet here, you know. If we break anything, we’ll have to cry peccavi.

_M._ What’s that?

_T._ It’s the Latin for a good scolding.

_M._ Is your Mrs. Stelling a cross woman, Tom?

_T._ I believe you!

_M._ I think all women are crosser than men. Aunt Glegg’s a great deal crosser than Uncle Glegg, and mother scolds me more than father does.

_T._ Well, you’ll be a woman some day, so _you_ needn’t talk.

_M._ But I shall be a _clever_ woman, Tom.