Chapter III: Part 3

The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim,
"Tell Christ," she says, "a mother waits who fain would speak
with Him."
Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note
Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float;
And hearing it, straight from His throne
Comes down to her the Kingly One
With shining face and eyes that hold
Such wealth of love and peace,
She feels her trembling heart grow bold,
Her doubt and grieving cease.
"Dear Lord!" she cries, and lowly kneels, "I have a prayer to make;
O do Thou hear and answer it for Thine own mercy's sake,
Since heaven will not seem fair to me
If one dear face I may not see.

"Dear Christ, a mother's love is great
To shield, to guide, to watch, to wait.
The last kiss that I gave on earth was to my wayward son,
Whose soul, though deeply stained by sin, may yet by love be won
To penitence, to higher walk, to purer, holier way;
O wilt Thou let me to go to him and guard him night and day?

"Thou wert a babe in Bethlehem, a mother guarded Thee.
I pray Thee now, for her dear sake, to hearken unto me!
Remember how she held Thee close, and crooned Thee, sweet and low,
The lullabies that mothers sang long centuries ago,
And bared her snowy breast to Thee,
And stroked Thy forehead tenderly.

"And kissed Thee oft, and told herself, again and yet again,
To hold Thee thus one hour outweighed the travail and the pain!
Dear Christ, this city is most fair; its glories thrill and move;
O doth it grieve Thee that my heart cleaves to an earthly love?
That on mine eyes heaven's beauties dim
Because my heart is back with him?

"With him--the wandering son of mine, the wayward one--whose need
Of patient love and guiding hand is very great indeed!
Think not I love Thee not, dear Lord, nor long for heaven's rest;
'Tis only that the mother-heart throbs fiercely in my breast.
On this glad morning of Thy birth,
O grant me leave to visit earth!"

Lo! on her head she feels the touch of tender wounded hand,
"Fear not," she hears, "a love like thine the Christ can understand.
No mother prays in vain to Me on this day of the year,
For when the faltering words she speaks fall on My waiting ear,
I do remember that My cheek
Lay on a bosom warm,
I do remember Bethlehem,
And Mary's cradling arm."

LOVE'S LESSON.

One lesson let us bear in mind--
Be very gentle with our own,
Be to their faults a little blind,
Nor wound them by a look or tone.

Put self behind! turn tender eyes;
Keep back the words that hurt and sting;
We learn, when sorrow makes us wise,
Forbearance is the grandest thing.

Be patient lest some day we turn
Our eyes on loved one fast asleep,
And whisper, as we lean and yearn,
"How often I have made you weep!

"Some loved you not and words let fall
That must have pierced your gentle breast,
But I, who loved you best of all,
Hurt you far more than all the rest."

One lesson let us keep in mind--
To hold our dear ones close and fast,
Since loyal hearts are hard to find,
And life and love so soon are past.

IMMORTALITY.

The fluttering leaves above his grave,
The grasses creeping toward the light,
The flowers fragile, sweet, and brave,
That hide the earth clods from our sight,

The swelling buds on shrub and tree,
The golden gleam of daffodil,
The violet blooming fair and free
Where late the winds blew harsh and chill,

The lily lifting up its breath
Where snowdrifts spread but yesterday--
All cry: "Where is thy sting, O death?
O grave, where is thy victory?"

Each Eastertide the old world sings
Her anthem sweet and true and strong,
And all the tender growing things
Join in her resurrection song.

AUGUST.

God in His own right hand doth take each day--
Each sun-filled day--each rare and radiant night,
And drop it softly on the earth and say:
"Touch earth with heaven's own beauty and delight."

A SONG OF HARVEST HOME.

Praise God for blessings great and small,
For garden bloom and orchard store,
The crimson vine upon the wall,
The green and gold of maples tall,
For harvest-field and threshing-floor!

Praise God for children's laughter shrill,
For clinging hands and tender eyes,
For looks that lift and words that thrill,
For friends that love through good and ill,
For home, and all home's tender ties!

Praise God for losses and for gain,
For tears to shed, and songs to sing,
For gleams of gold and mists of rain,
For the year's full joy, the year's deep pain,
The grieving and the comforting!

THE USURER.

Fate says, and flaunts her stores of gold,
"I'll loan you happiness untold.
What is it you desire of me?"
A perfect hour in which to be
In love with life, and glad, and good,
The bliss of being understood,
Amid life's cares a little space
To feast your eyes upon a face,
The whispered word, the love-filled tone,
The warmth of lips that meet your own,
To-day of Fate you borrow;
In hunger of the heart, and pain,
In loneliness, and longing vain,
You pay the debt to-morrow!

Prince, let grim Fate take what she will
Of treasures rare, of joys that thrill,
Enact the cruel usurer's part,
Leave empty arms and hungry heart,
Take what she can of love and trust,
Take all life's gladness, if she must,
Take meeting smile and parting kiss--
The benediction and the bliss.
What then? The fairest thing of all
Is ours, O Prince, beyond recall--
Not even Fate would dare to seize
Our store of golden memories.

MIRACLES.

Love met a worldling on the way,
And softly crept into his breast.
Straight Self and Greed refused to stay
Where Love had dared to make his nest.

Love met a mourner on the road,
And said: "I'll bear thee company."
Full soon the mourner lost his load
Of grief, and care, and misery.

Into a grim and cheerless home
Love forced his way through barriers tall;
Fled wretchedness, and chill, and gloom--
The golden sunshine flooded all.

PEACE.

Unbroken peace, I ween, is sweeter far
Than reconciliation. Love's red scar,
Though salved with kiss of penitence, and tears,
Remains, full oft, unhealed through all the years.

LIFE'S GRANDEST THINGS.

What is the greatest work of all?
The work that comes every day;
The work that waits us on ev'ry hand
Is work that, for us, is truly grand,
And the love of work is our pay.

What is the highest life of all?
It is living, day by day,
True to ourselves and true to the right,
Living the truth from dawn till the night,
And the love of truth for our pay.

What is the grandest thing of all--
Is it winning Heaven some day?
No, and a thousand times say no;
'Tis making this old world thrill and glow
With the sun of love till each shall know
Something of Heaven here below,
And God's _well done_ for our pay.

STRENGTH.

Write on Life's tablet all things tender, great and good,
Uncaring that full oft thou art misunderstood.
Interpretation true is foreign to the throng
That runs and reads; heed not its praise or blame. Be strong!
Write on with steady hand, and, smiling, say, "'Tis well!"
If when thy deeds spell _Heaven_
The rabble read out _Hell_.

THE TIME AND THE DEED.

Art going to do a kindly deed?
'Tis never too soon to begin;
Make haste, make haste, for the moments speed,
The world, my dear one, has pressing need
Of your tender thought and kindly deed.
'Tis never too soon to begin.

But if the deed be a selfish one,
'Tis ever too soon to begin;
If some heart will be sorer when all is done,
Put it off! put it off from sun to sun,
Remembering always, my own dear one,
'Tis ever too soon to begin.

DISCONTENT.

My soul spoke low to Discontent:
Long hast thou lodged with me,
Now, ere the strength of me is spent,
I would be quit of thee.

Thy presence means revolt, unrest,
Means labor, longing, pain;
Go, leave me, thou unwelcome guest,
Nor trouble me again.

I longed for peace--for peace I cried;
You would not let her in;
No room was there for aught beside
The turmoil and the din.

I longed for rest, prayed life might yield
Soft joy and dear delight;
You urged me to the battlefield,
And flung me in the fight.

We two part company to-day.
Now, ere my strength be spent,
I open wide my doors and say:
"Begone, thou Discontent!"

Then something strong and sweet and fair
Rose up and made reply:
Who gave you the desire to dare
And do the right? 'Twas I.

The coward soul craves pleasant things,
Soft joys and dear delights--
I scourged you till you spread your wings
And soared to nobler heights.

You know me but imperfectly--
My surname is Divine;
God's own right hand did prison me
Within this soul of thine,

Lest thou, forgetting work and strife,
By human longings prest,
Shouldst miss the grandest things of life,
Its battles and unrest.

A PRAYER OF LOVE.

A prayer of love, O Father!
A fair and flowery way
Life stretches out before these
On this their marriage day.
O pour Thy choicest blessing,
Withhold no gift of Thine,
Fill all their world with beauty
And tenderness divine!

A prayer of love, O Father!
This holy love and pure,
That thrills the soul to rapture,
O may it e'er endure!
The richest of earth's treasures,
The gold without alloy,
The flower of faith unfading,
The full, the perfect joy!

No mist of tears or doubting,
But in their steadfast eyes
The light divine, the light of love,
The light of Paradise.
A prayer of love, O Father!
A prayer of love to Thee,
God's best be theirs for life, for death,
And all Eternity!

WILD STRAWBERRIES.

The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways--
Ho! for the fields and the wildwood!
The scents, the sights, and the dear delights--
Ho! for our care-free childhood!

Heavy the air with a fragrance rare,
Strawberries ripe in the meadow,
Luscious and red where the vines are spread
Thickly in sun and shadow.

The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways,
Chorus of wild birds calling:
"Strawberry ripe! Ho! strawberry ripe!"
From dawn till the dew is falling.

SPRING.

O the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep,
And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast
asleep.

The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its
breast with leaves,
Give never a murmur or sigh of woe--they are dead--no dead thing
grieves.

No carol of love from a song-bird's throat; the world lies naked and
still,
For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the
gruesome chill.

Not a flower--a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft--
To lay its bloom on the dead river's lips, that have kissed them
all so oft.

But look! a ladder is spanning the space 'twixt earth and the sky
beyond,
A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace--the strong, the subtle,
the fond!

Spring, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and
the fragrant breath,
Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.

Spring, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam's heart
Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare--see the sap in the great
trees start!

Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color
bright,
A stirring and spreading of something fair--the dawn is chasing
the night!

Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein,
The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her
own again.

Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in
her hair,
With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;

Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes,
Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead to arise!

For see, as she bends o'er the coffin deep--the frozen valley
and hill--
The dead river stirs,--ah, that ling'ring kiss is making its heart
to thrill!

And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud,
Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!

The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old,
And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

MADAM GRUNDY.

Madam, they say, has lost her way.
Tell me, has she passed thither?
Let her alone and she'll come home,
And bring her _tales_ all with her.

THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS.

Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
Pipe their gladness--sweeter, shriller--one would think the world
was green.
O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
Mark the warm October haze!
Mark the splendor of the days!
And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low--
"We are naked," so the fields say, "stripped of all our golden dress."
"Heed it not," October answers, "for I love ye none the less.
Share my beauty and my cheer
While we rest together here,
In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year."

All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime's light and grace,
All the riches of the harvest, crown her head and light her face;
And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass.
O the warm October haze!
O the splendor of the days!
O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

GOD'S WARMTH IS SHE.

O glad sun, creeping through the casement wide,
A million blossoms have you kissed since morn,
But none so fair as this one at my side--
Touch soft the bit of love, the babe new born.

Towards all the world my love and pity flow,
With high resolves, with trust, with sympathy.
This happy heart of mine is all aglow--
This heart that was so cold--God's warmth is she.

HER PRAYER.

Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed
Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine--
This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand
Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press
Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain
Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness
Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!
Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low,
And pity me when Thou dost think of them.

"My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss
Morning and noon and night--her ways so wise,
The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss,
The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes.

"I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own,
Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry.
She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone--
My arms are empty and my bosom dry.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring
Healing for this great anguish that I bear!
A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing,
God might have left her to her mother's care!

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel
Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove
Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal--
Press out the bitterness, fill up with love!

"O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep!
O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm
Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep!
Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!"

DECORATING THE OLD CHURCH.

Gray old gardener, what do you bring?
"Laurel and ivy and bay,
With palms for the crowning of a King--
The morrow is Christmas Day.

"Holly with thorns, and berries like blood
On its shiny greenness flung.
O the pierced side, and the thorny crown,
And the cross whereon He hung!

"The mistletoe, meaning All-healing,
Hangs close to the holly's thorn,
Lest we forget that on Christmas Day
The Healer of Souls was born.

"Ivy's for faith; on the altar rail
Let it creep where all may see;
It crept till it kissed a cheek so pale
That night in Gethsemane.

"Bay's for remembrance, full and sweet;
It speaks with its fragrant breath
Of manger and cross and a lowly tomb,
And a love that conquered death.

"And laurel leaves for the wreath I bring,
The laurel for victory,
And palms for the crowning of a King--
The morrow is Christmas Day."

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 underrate,
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.

THE SONG OF THE BELLS.

He frowned and shook his snowy head.
"Those clanging bells! they deafen quite
With their unmeaning song," he said.
"I'm weary of it all to-night--
The gladness, sadness. I'm so old
I have no sympathy to spare,
My heart has grown so hard and cold,
So full of self, I do not care
How many laugh, or long, or grieve
In all the world this Christmas eve.

"There was a time long, long ago--
They take our best, the passing years--
For the old life, and faith, and glow.
I'd give--what's on my cheek? Not tears!
I have a whim. To-night I'll spend
Till eyes turn on me gratefully--
An old man's whim, just to pretend
That he is what he used to be;
For this one night, not want nor pain
Shall look to me for help in vain."

"A foolish whim!" he muttered oft,
The while he gave to those in need;
But strangely warm and strangely soft
His old face grew, for self and greed
Slipped from him. Ah, it made him glow
To hear the blessing, thanks, the prayer.
He looked into his heart, and lo!
The old-time faith and love were there.
"Ring out, old bells, right gladly ring!"
He said, "Full sweet the song you sing."

QUEBEC.

Quebec, the gray old city on the hill,
Lies, with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
Of other days and her beloved dead.
The doves are nesting in the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim
Above a field of battle stretching wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past,
The strife, the valor of the long ago
Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast
She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her gray old face.

MEN O' THE FOREST MARK.

What we most need is men of worth,
Men o' the forest mark,
Of lofty height and mighty girth
And green, unbroken bark.

Not men whom circumstances
Have stunted, wasted, sapped,
Men fearful of fighting chances,
Clinging to by-paths mapped.

Holding honor and truth below
Promotion, place and pelf;
Weaklings that change as winds do blow,
Lost in their love of self.

Tricksters playing a game unfair
(Count them, sirs, at this hour),
Ready to dance to maddest air
Piped by the man in power.

The need, sore need, of this young land
Is honest men, good sirs,
Men as her oak trees tall and grand,
Staunch as her stalwart firs.

Steadfast, unswerving, first and last,
Fearless of front and strong,
Meeting the challenge of the blast
With high, clear battle song.

Not sapless things of the byways,
Lacking in life and strength,
Not shrivelled shrubs of the highways,
Pigmy of breadth and length,

But noblest growth of God's green earth--
Men o' the forest mark,
Of lofty height and giant girth
And green, unbroken bark.

A SONG OF CHEER.

Here's a song of cheer
For the whole long year:

We've only to do our best,
Take up our part
With a strong, true heart--
The Lord will do all the rest.

THE FIRSTBORN.

The harvest sun lay hot and strong
On waving grain and grain in sheaf,
On dusty highway stretched along,
On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.

The wind which stirred the tasseled corn
Came creeping through the casement wide,
And softly kissed the babe new born
That nestled at its mother's side.

That mother spoke in tones that thrilled:
"My firstborn's cradled in my arm,
Upon my breast his cry is stilled,
And here he lies so dear, so warm."

To her had come a generous share
Of worldly honors and of fame,
Of hours replete with gladness rare,
But no one hour seemed just the same

As that which came when, white and spent
With pain of travail great, she lay,
Thrilled through with rapture and content,
And love and pride, that August day.

The fairest picture of the past--
Life's tenderest page till all is done--
A glad young mother holding fast
God's wondrous gift--her little son.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
Here's to the Saint that blessed it!
And here's to the billows wild and free
That for centuries have caressed it!

Here's to the day when the men that roam
Send longing eyes o'er the water!
Here's to the land that still spells home
To each loyal son and daughter!

Here's to old Ireland--fair, I ween,
With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here's to her shamrock warm and green,
And here's to the hearts that love her!

LESLEY.

From the little bald head to the two little feet,
You are winsome, and bonnie, and tender, and sweet,
But not for this do I love you.

You're wilful, cajoling, not fond of restraint,
A creature of moods--no tiresome saint--
You're wise and you're wistful, and oh, you are quaint,
But not for this do I love you.

You're a rose of a maiden, the pink and the white
Of your face is to me a rare thing of delight,
But not for this do I love you.

That "agoo" on your lips is the tenderest thing,
And the eyes smiling at me, ye bonnie wee thing,
Are violets washed with the dewdrops of spring,
But not for this do I love you.

Come, nestle down close on my bosom, you dear,
The secret I'll whisper right into your ear,
Because you are _you_ do I love you,

Because you are you, just you, oh, my own,
Because you are Lesley, this reason alone
Will do for us, darling, until you are grown,
Because you are _you_ do I love you.

THE TRYST.

The harvest moon in yellow haze
Is steeping all the sea and land,
Is kindling paths and shining ways
Around the hills, across the sand.

And there are only thou and I--
O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note
The glory of the sea and sky,
I see a softly rounded throat,

A face uplifted, pure and sweet,
Two blue eyes filled with trust and love;
Enough, the sea sings at our feet,
The harvest moon sails just above.

A GOOD WOMAN.

Her eyes are the windows of a soul
Where only the white thoughts spring,
And they look, as the eyes of the angels look,
For the good in everything.

Her lips can whisper the tenderest words
That weary and worn can hear,
Can tell of the dawn of a better morn
Till only the cowards fear.

Her hands can lift up the fallen one
From an overthrow complete,
Can take a soul from the mire of sin
And lead it to Christ's dear feet.

And she can walk wherever she will--
She walketh never alone.
The work she does is the Master's work,
And God guards well His own.

DESPAIR.

We catch a glimpse of it, gaunt and gray,
When the golden sunbeams are all abroad;
We sober a moment, then softly say:
The world still lies in the hand of God.

We watch it stealthily creeping o'er
The threshold leading to somebody's soul;
A shadow, we cry, it cannot be more
When faith is one's portion and Heaven one's goal.

A ghost that comes stealing its way along,
Affrighting the weak with its gruesome air,
But who that is young and glad and strong
Fears for a moment to meet Despair?

To this heart of ours we have thought so bold
All uninvited it comes one day--
Lo! faith grows wan, and love grows cold,
And the heaven of our dreams lies far away.

OUR DEAD IN SOUTH AFRICA.

Day of battle and day of blood
Found you steady and strong, I ween;
Sons of the land of the Maple Leaf,
Face to the foe, you died for the Queen.

Brave boys, our boys, filling to-day
Nameless graves upon veldt and plain,
Here's to your mem'ry gallant and true,
Sons of our soil, who thought it gain

To fight and win, or to fight and fall!
Strong of purpose, you took your stand,
Proved with your life-blood red and warm
Canada's faith in the Motherland!

Brave boys, our boys, this have you done,
Drawn us closer, and bound us fast;
One are we with the Isle in the sea,
One in the future, the present, the past.

Brave boys, our boys, honor we owe,
Honor and homage a mighty debt--
You proved our love and our loyalty--
The land that bore you will not forget!
Canada's soldiers, Canada's sons,
The land that bore you will not forget!

THE BARLEY FIELDS.

The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,
Saffron pale, where a star of white
Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.

O the green of the barley fields grows deep,
The breath of the barley fields grows rare;
There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep--
The wind is holding high revel there,

Singing the song it has often sung--
Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:
"Sweet is the earth when the summer is young
And the barley fields are green and gold!"

THE IMPRISONED LARK.

Did you send your song to the gates of gold
In the days of long ago?
A song of sweetness and gladness untold,
Till fain was my lady to have and to hold--
Ah! my lady did not know.

'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song,
If we only understood.
Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong,
When the days stretch out so weary and long,
Dear little bird of the wood?

The sun came so boldly into your cell--
'Tis the springtime, pretty bird--
And full sweet the story he had to tell
Of doings in meadow and wood and dell,
Till your longing grew and stirred.

This cage of my lady's has silver bars,
And my lady's voice is mild,
But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars,
Forget the hurt of the prison bars
In the gladness of freedom wild!

To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade
Where dewdrops hide from the sun!
O fields where the blossoming clover swayed!
O voices familiar that music made
Till the full, glad day was done!

Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood,
And you stilled the laughing throng.
To make passionate longing understood
You took the height and depth of your mood
And flung them into a song!

These guests of my lady's did listen, I know,
When out through the silver bars
You sent forth a measure, liquid and low
As laughter of waters that ebb and flow
Under the shimmering stars.

You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best
Your longing heart held in store,
Till into the careless listener's breast
There flashed a sudden and vague unrest,
That grew into something more.

Eyes saw for a few brief moments' space
The heights that were never trod,
And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race
That was planned in the hours when youth and grace
Came fresh from the hand of God.

Only a homesick bird of the field
Trilling a glorious note!
Only a homesick bird of the wood
With heaven in your full throat!

WOMAN.

Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so,
A mingling of the bitter and the sweet;
Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low
Of hope and trust and happiness complete,
Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire,
Or make themselves but wells of tenderness
Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire--
Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress.
Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth,
And only heaven fully knows her worth.

THE MULLEIN MEADOW.

Down in the mullein meadow
The lusty thistle springs,
The butterflies go criss-cross,
The lonesome catbird sings,

The alderbush is flaunting
Her blossoms white as snow--
The same old mullein meadow
We played in long ago.

The waste land of the homestead,
The arid sandy spot,
Where reaper's song is never heard,
Where wealth is never sought,

But where the sunshine lingers,
And merry breezes come
To gather pungent perfumes
From the mullein-stalks abloom.

There's a playground on the hillside,
A playhouse in the glade,
With mulleins for a garden,
And mulleins for a shade.

And still the farmer grumbles
That nothing good will grow
In this old mullein meadow
We played in long ago!

LIVING FRESHNESS.

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.

LIFE'S DAY.

"Life's day is too brief," he said at dawn,
"I would it were ten times longer,
For great tasks wait for me further on."
At noonday the wish was stronger.

His place was in the thick of the strife,
And hopes were nearing completeness,
While one was crowning the joys of life
With love's own wonderful sweetness.

"Life's day is too brief for all it contains,
The triumphs, the fighting, the proving,
The hopes and desires, the joys and the pains--
Too brief for the hating and loving."

* * * * *

To-night he sits in the shadows gray,
While heavily sorrow presses.
O the long, long day! O the weary day,
With its failures and successes!

He sits in the shadows and turns his eyes
On the years that lie behind him.
"I am tired of all things now," he cries,
And the hot tears rise and blind him.

"Rest and stillness is all that I crave,
Such robbing of strength has grief done.
Make room, dear love, in your lowly grave--
Life's day, thank God, is a brief one!"

MORNING.

The eastern sky grew all aglow,
A tinted fleet sailed just below.

The thick wood and the clinging mist
Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.

To primrose, tulip, daffodil,
The wind came piping gay and shrill:

"Wake up! wake up! while day is new,
And all the world is washed with dew!"

GRACE.

(JUNE 13, 1899.)

So still you sleep upon your bed,
So motionless and slender,
It cannot be that you are dead,
My maiden gay and tender!

You were no creature pale and meek
That death should hasten after,
The dimples played within your cheek,
Your lips were made for laughter.

To you the great world was a place
That care might never stay in,
A playground built by God's good grace
For glad young folks to play in.

You made your footpath by life's flowers,
O happy, care-free maiden!
The sky was full of shine and showers,
The wind was perfume laden.

Your dimpled hands are folded now
Upon your snowy bosom,
The dark hair nestles on your brow--
O tender, broken blossom!

The white lids hide your eyes so clear,
So mirthful, so beguiling,
But as my tears fall on you, dear,
Your lips seem softly smiling.

And do you feel that it is home,
The city far above us?
And were they glad to have you come?
And will you cease to love us?

Methinks when you stand all in white
To learn each sweet new duty,
Some eye will note, with keen delight,
Your radiance and beauty.

And when your laughter softly rings
Out where God's streets do glisten,
The angels fair will fold their wings
And still their song to listen.

THE WAY TO DREAMLAND

With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maiden
Sails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss;
I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings uplifting
As he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss.

Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper,
List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this;
Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling,
As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss.

Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden
portals,
Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace,
jean Would we not leave joys and sorrows,
Glad to-days and sad to-morrows,
For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?

HER MISSION.

She is so winsome and so wise
She sways me at her will,
And oft the question will arise,
What mission does she fill?
O then I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me--
For me,
She just keeps house for me!

A full content dwells on her face,
She's quite in love with life,
And for a title wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned "wife."
Our children climb upon her knee,
And nestle on her breast,
And ah! her mission seems to me
The grandest and the best.

O then I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me--
For me,
She just keeps house for me!

FRIEND OR FOE?

There's a man I know--
A likeable man--
Whom you meanly wound
Whenever you can,
Remark with malice
His task is done ill,
He's poor of judgment
And weak of will.
I implore you, now,
As that poor man's friend,
Let persecution
Have speediest end.

Cease taunting the man
With blunders he makes,
Cease harping alway
On wrongs and mistakes.
Come, be his good friend--
Hail fellow, well met--
His failures forgive,
And his faults forget.
Who is the man you've
Discouraged and blamed?
The man is _yourself_--
Are you not ashamed?

For faults of the past
Make ample amends,
And you and yourself
Be the best of friends.

THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD.

O the hills of purple heather,
And the skies so warm and gray!
O the shimmer of the sea-mist
In the sea-wind far away!
O the calling of the torrent,
Sweeping down Ben Vorlich's side,
And my white flocks faring foldward
In the hush of eventide!

CHRISTMAS CONVERSION.

I can see her in the kitchen,
Apron on and sleeves rolled up,
Measurin' spices in a teaspoon,
Figs and raisins in a cup.

Now she's throwin' apple quarters
In that wooden bowl of hers,
'Long with lemon peel and orange,
An' she stirs, an' stirs, an' stirs.

Then she takes her knife an' chops it,
Chops so fast her hand jest flies.
Now I know what ma is up to--
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

I smell Christmas in our kitchen,
An' my heart gets big an' glad,
An' I, somehow, fall to wishin',
That I wasn't quite so bad.

An' I tell myself I'll never
Cheat at marbles any more,
Nor make faces at my teacher,
Nor hang round the corner store

'Stead of goin' on my errands;
Never touch the cookie pail,
Nor play hooky an' go skatin',
Nor tie cans on Rover's tail;

Never let ma think it's spellings
When it's only Robin Hood.
With the gladness comes the wishin'
To be, oh, just awful good!

'Bout this time of year it takes me--
Pa, he doesn't understand,
Always says: "You sly young codger,
You know Christmas is at hand."

But it isn't that, it's something--
Can't explain it very well--
Takes me when ma fills the kitchen
With this juicy Christmas smell.

When she chops the spice an' raisins,
With the peels an' Northern Spies,
Sleeves rolled up above her elbows,
Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

A BIT O' SHAMROCK.

We met her on the hillside green
Below old Castle Blarney;
Her name, she whispered, was Eileen,
Her home it was Killarney.

I see her yet, her Irish eyes
Blue gray as seas in summer,
And hear her welcome, on this wise,
Vouchsafed to each new-comer:

"I'll guide ye up the stairway steep,
And naught will ye be missing
O' battlement or donjon keep,
Or blarney stone for kissing.

"The tower that was McCarthy's pride,
The scene o' battles thrilling,
And where the Desmond kept his bride--
Me fee is but a shilling.

"Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm"--
Her low tones grow caressing--
"A bit o' shamrock green and warm,
To bring ye luck and blessing."

The "keepsake charm"--I have it yet--
A thing of guile and blarney;
Each green leaf dares me to forget
Fair Eileen o' Killarney.

SLANDER.

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.
That one who, with the breath lent him by Heaven,
Speaks words that on some white soul do reflect,
Is lost to decency, and should be driven
Outside the pale of honest men's respect.
O slanderer, hell's imps must say of you:
"He does the work we are ashamed to do!"

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

"_Poet by the grace of God._"

You sing of winter gray and chill,
Of silent stream and frozen lake,
Of naked woods, and winds that wake
To shriek and sob o'er vale and hill.

And straight we breathe the bracing air,
And see stretched out before our eyes
A white world spanned by brooding skies,
And snowflakes drifting everywhere.

You sing of tender things and sweet,
Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush,
The lilt of bird, the sunset flush,
The scarlet poppies in the wheat.

Until we feel the gleam and glow
Of summer pulsing through our veins,
And hear the patter of the rains,
And watch the green things sprout and grow.

You sing of joy, and we do mark
How glad a thing is life, and dear;
Of sorrow, and we seem to hear
The sound of sobbing in the dark.

The subtle power to sway and move,
The stamp of genius strong and true,
This, friend, was heaven's gift to you,
This made you great and won you love.

Your song goes ringing clear and sweet--
Though on earth's bosom, bare and brown,
All willingly you laid you down,
The music is not incomplete.

Sleep on, it is not by the years
We measure life when all is done;
Your rest is earned, your laurels won;
Sleep, softly sleep, we say with tears.

A HINT.

Among the vivid green I see
A yellow leaf,
And yonder in the basswood tree
An empty nest swings lonesomely--
The wheat's in sheaf.

CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT.

They lift their faces to the light,
And aye they are a gallant band;
The queen of all is snowy white--
A stately thing, and tall and grand.

See, close beside, in yellow drest,
Is the prince consort of the hour;
A bit of God's own sunshine prest
Into a glorious golden flower!

And mark the courtiers' noble grace--
Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine--
Their satin doublets slashed with lace,
Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.

Each maid-in-waiting is most fair--
Note well the graces she unfurls--
The winds have tossed her fluffy hair,
And left it in a thousand curls.

And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one,
Arrayed in palest lavender,
Ah! few there are, when all is done,
In beauty can compare with her.

The pink--I've seen at eventide
A something very like to this,
A cloud adrift upon the sky,
All rosy from the sun's last kiss.

Without the court, the chill and gloom
Of autumn twilight o'er the land;
Within, the grandeur and the bloom
Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.

HER LITTLE WAY.

'Tis woman rules the whole world still,
Though faults the critics say she has;
She smiles her smile and works her will--
'Tis just a little way she has.

THE CRITICISM.

The great man came to the country place,
To preach to farmers sturdy;
He said: "I'm in my happiest vein,
I'll be eloquent and wordy."

"Not often a great man like myself
Comes here to do the teaching--
A big event in these quiet lives--
They'll not forget my preaching."

The great man found him a text at length
In Ezekiel's ponderous pages;
From point to point of his sermon long
He travelled at easy stages.

He soared up high in the realms of thought,
Was rich in allegory.
"I have," said he, as he sat him down,
"Covered myself with glory.

"These simple rustics are overcome
With my rhetoric and power,
They're used to a sprinkling of thought
And I've given them a shower."

The great man got a terrible shock
As, the long service over,
He walked with a farmer grave and staid
Home through the fields of clover.

"Your people--ah--were they much impressed
With my sermon?" he queried.
"Preaching with earnestness, power and force
Has left me sadly wearied."

"A worse would a done us country folks"--
The farmer's tone a terse one--
"That is," reflectively, "if you
Happened to have a worse one."

JESSIE.

You miss the touch of her dear hand,
Her laughter gay and sweet,
The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile,
The patter of her feet.

The loving glances she bestowed,
The tender tales she told--
The world, since she has gone away,
Seems empty, drear and cold.

Dear, oft you prayed that God would give
Your darling joy and grace,
That pain or loss might never dim
The brightness of her face.

That her young heart might keep its trust,
Its purity so white,
Its wealth of sweet unselfishness,
Her eyes their radiant light,

Her fair, soft face its innocence
Of every guile and wrong,
And nothing touch to mar the joy
And gladness of her song.

God heard the prayer; His answer came--
Now, cease thy murmuring, cease--
"Come, little one, come home," He said,
"Unto the Land of Peace!"

You sheltered her upon your breast,
The child so quaint and wise,
To-day, where sorrow is unknown,
She walks in paradise.

Her eyes have learned the mystery,
Her feet the vale have crost,
But, friend of mine, you'll find again
The treasure you have lost.

Your arms will surely clasp once more
The little fair-haired girl
Who waits for you within the gates
Of jasper and of pearl.

POYNINGS.

Do you remember that June day among
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills?
Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds
That skipped and chased each other merrily
In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;
Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads
As though they fain would neighbor with that sky.
Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;
The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon
In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,
And over all the stillness of the hills,
The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.

The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild
Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded.
"Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks,
"Not of our kind, but strangers come from out
The busy, bustling world to taste the sweets
Of silence and of peace. We wish you well."
In eager quest of what the hills might hide,
Some valley of content, some spring of youth,
Some deep, enchanted dell filled to the brim
With subtle mysteries, allurement rare,
We followed down a path, a little crooked,
Wand'ring path that lost itself and found itself
So oft we knew it for the playmate of the stream
That went with us and sang a clamorous song--
A never-ending song of flock and fold
Of sea-mist and of sun--until at length
We came into a valley warm and wide,
A cradle 'mong the hills. In it there lay
No infant hamlet, but one gray and old
That dozed and dreamed the soft June hours away.

Gardens there were with fragrant wall-flowers filled,
And daffodils, and rhododendrons pale,
And sweet, old-fashioned pinks, phlox, rosemary;
An avenue of elms, with cottages,
And barefoot children sporting on the green.
"'Tis Poynings," said the rustic, "see, the church
Lies yonder, and the graveyard just beyond;
This path will lead you straight to it."

Do you remember--rather, will you e'er forget?--
That gray church built, how many centuries
Ago? The worn stone steps, the oaken door,
The crumbling walls, the altar carved,
The stories told by stained-glass windows set
Deep in the walls; the ivy, thick and green,
Which crept and hid the grayness quite from sight.
Within, the smell of roses from the sheaf
Of scarlet bloom before the altar laid,
Close mingled with the mould and must of age;
On wall and floor memorials to the dead,
Who, unafraid, had slumbered there so long.

And then the graveyard out among the trees--
No graveyard, but a garden, flower filled--
Moss roses white as moth wings in the night,
And lilies sorrowful but very sweet,
Low-growing violets in grasses hid,
And rue which spoke of some heart's bitterness.
Old Time had decked the stones with lichens rare,
Rubbed out with careless hand the lettering:
In memory of someone's life and love
Each stood, but whose we might not know.

And while we lingered in the perfumed gloom,
And watched the golden sunshine smite the hills,
An English blackbird straight began a song
So sweet, so high, so shrill, so wondrous clear,
That! listening, our eyes grew dim the while
Our hearts did thrill. Whoe'er has heard the song
An English blackbird carols forth in June
Knows well the power it has, the wondrous charm!
Strangers were we within the gates, and so
He gave us welcome, clearer, warmer still,
A welcome to the beauty and the bloom,
The silence of the churchyard old and gray,
A welcome to the grasses and the brook,
The shade of feathery elm trees, and the glow
Of sunlight quivering, golden on the sward,
A welcome to the valley dim, and to
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills.

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA.

Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
Sing to the breezes passing by,
Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
Morning and noon and night for long,
Sun and rain and dew and mist,
All that has made you glad and strong

The harvest fields of the far, far west
Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
Every ripple upon its breast
Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!

Far as the eye can reach it goes,
Farther yet, 'till there seems no end,
Under a sky where blue and rose
With the gold and turquoise softly blend.

Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
Broad and beautiful in God's eyes,
Here in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.

DAWN.

I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays!
We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days,
The earth would hold me, every day familiar things
Would weigh me fast,
The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings
Goes flitting past.
Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send
its breath
To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace,
And combat death.
It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes
The sorrow grow.
Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradise
And leave thee so!
A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere,
When thou didst grieve;
Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fear
I'd crave reprieve.
But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight,
When shadows creep,
Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night,"
And fall asleep.

THE CRICKET.

O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!
There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest:
"Love's the only wealth that's lasting--who cares aught for all
the rest?
Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard,
Have you not the wife and bairns?" chirps the sweet, insistent bard--
Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow--
"Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below."
O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!

EARTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.

You cannot take from out my heart the growing,
The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill.
"O Earth," you cry, "you should be old, not glowing
With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!"

Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!
Old, and my children drawing life from me!
Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!
Old, steeped in richness and fertility!

Old, while the growing things call to each other,
In language I alone can understand:
"How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother
Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!"

Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them
In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!
Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them
Healing and soothing and a hiding place.

And then, my human children, could you listen
To secrets whispered in the stillness deep
Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten--
'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.

Some tell me moving tales of love and passion,
Of gladness all too great to be pent in--
The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion--
Another cries out brokenly of sin.

While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it,
Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast,
Sobbing: "Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it,
Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!"

The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow
I hear to-day--I heard it yesterday--
Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow
That ye may bring to me, O Century.

I answer mourner, penitent, and lover,
With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap:
"Peace, peace," I say, "when life's brief day is over
Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap."

The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing,
The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears,
And yet you think I should be old, uncaring,
The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!

Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness
With all their marches, as you well can see,
Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.
March on--what are your hundred years to me

While life and growth within me glow and flourish,
While in the sunshine and the falling rain
I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish
The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?