Chapter IV: Part 4

March on, O Century, I am safe holden
In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth--
The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden
Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!

THAIL BURN.

The river is a ribbon wide,
The falls a snowy feather,
And stretching far on ilka side
Are hills abloom wi' heather.
The wind comes loitering frae the west
By weight o' sweets retarded;
The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,
A Golden Fleece unguarded.

We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,
That hand in hand do tarry;
The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,
The lass is Highland Mary.
He tells her they will never pairt--
'Tis life and luve taegither--
The world has got the song by hairt
He sang among the heather.

'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,
Yet all remember dearly
The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow
O' her he luved sae dearly.
And lads still woo their lassies dear,
I' cot and hall and dairy,
By words he whispered i' the ear
O' his ain Highland Mary.

THE LAKE SHORE ROAD.

'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,
And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow
To let the heavy-laden bees pass out.

A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom
Of shrub and fern and brake,
Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find
The coolness of the lake.

A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,
And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;
The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine
Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol
Of white the elderberry shades her head
And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.

From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flies with a call of love and joy
That wins an answer straight
From that brown thing of gladness on a bough,
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
The proud and watchful mate.

The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood,
With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox,
And lilies red and white;
The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all
A garden of delight.

MAGDALENE.

A woman in her youth, but lost to all
The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame.
Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
Of fallen womanhood, the envy of
The spotless, the desire that they might sink
Low in the mire as she.
Oh, what a soul
She carried on that day! The women drew
Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
And children seemed afraid to meet
The devilish beauty of her form and face.
Shunned and alone,
Till One came to her side,
And spake her name, and took her hand in His.
And what He said
Is past the telling. There are things the heart
Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world;
And when He went His way,
Upon her brow, where shame had lain,
Was set the one sweet word:
_Forgiveness_.

MY LADY NIGHTINGALE.

I heard you singing in the grove,
My Lady Nightingale;
The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,
And all the sky was pale.

A silence--clear as bells of peace
Your song thrilled on the air,
Each liquid note a thing of joy,
And sweet beyond compare.

Not all of joy--a haunting strain
Of sorrow and of tears,
A note of grief which seemed to voice
The sadness of the years.

'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet,
My Lady Nightingale,
Yet subtly sad, the song you sang
When all the sky was pale.

THE ORCHARD.

There's no garden like an orchard,
Nature shows no fairer thing
Than the apple trees in blossom
In these late days o' the spring.

Here the robin redbreast's nesting,
Here, from golden dawn till night,
Honey bees are gaily swimming
In a sea of pink and white.

Just a sea of fragrant blossoms,
Steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew,
Just a fragrant breath which tells you
Earth is fair again and new.

Just a breath of subtle sweetness,
Breath which holds the spice o' youth,
Holds the promise o' the summer--
Holds the best o' things, forsooth.

There's no garden like an orchard,
Nature shows no fairer thing
Than the apple trees in blossom
In these late days o' the spring.

OCTOBER.

Who is it says May is the crown of the year?
Who is it says June is the gladdest?
Who is it says Autumn is withered and sere,
The gloomiest season and saddest?

You shut to your doors as I come with my train,
And heed not the challenge I'm flinging,
The ruddy leaf washed by the fresh falling rain,
The scarlet vine creeping and clinging!

Come out where I'm holding my court like a queen,
With canopy rare stretching over;
Come out where I revel in amber and green,
And soon I may call you my lover!

Come out to the hillside, come out to the vale,
Come out ere your mood turns to blaming,
Come out where my gold is, my red gold and pale,
Come out where my banners are flaming!

Come out where the bare furrows stretch in the glow,
Come out where the stubble fields glisten,
Where the wind it blows high, and the wind it blows low,
And the lean grasses dance as they listen!

ST. ANDREW'S DAY--A TOAST.

Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?
Wha heeds November weather?
Let ilka Scot be glad to-day
The whole wide warl' thegither.

We're a' a prood and stubborn lot,
And clannish--sae fowk name us--
Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought
Tae judge us, or tae blame us,

For joys that are we'll pledge to-day
A land baith fair and glowing--
Here's tae the hames o' Canada,
Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing!

For joys that were, for auld lang syne,
For tender chords that bind us,
A toast--your hand, auld friend, in mine--
"The land we left behind us!"

Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!
We'll toast her a' thegither,
Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen!
Here's tae her hills and heather!

Here's tae the auld hame far away!
While tender mists do blind us,
We'll pledge on this, St. Andrew's day,
"The land we left behind us!"

WHEN TREES ARE GREEN.

Would you be glad of heart and good?
Would you forget life's toil and care?
Come, lose yourself in this old wood
When May's soft touch is everywhere.

The hawthorn trees are white as snow,
The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays,
The willows kiss the stream below
And listen to its flatteries:

"O willows supple, yellow, green,
Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone,
I say with truth I have not seen
A rarer beauty than your own!"

The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech
With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife;
Oak, maple, through the heart of each
There runs a glorious tide of life.

Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand,
On trunk and limb a hint of red,
The gleam of poplars tall that stand
With God's own sunshine on their head.

The mandrake's silken parasol
Is fluttering in the breezes bold,
And yonder where the waters brawl
The buttercups show green and gold.

The slender grape-vine sways and weaves,
From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloom
There comes the smell of earth and leaves,
The breath of wild-flowers all abloom.

Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast,
Spring's joy is in the robin's song:
"My mate is in yon sheltered nest;
Ho! love is sweet and summer long!"

While full and jubilant and clear,
All the long day, from dawn till dark,
The trill of bobolink we hear,
Of hermit thrush and meadowlark.

Sit here among the grass and fern
Unmindful of the cares of life,
The lessons we have had to learn,
The hurts we've gotten in the strife.

There's youth in every breath we take,
Forgetfulness of loss and tears,
Within the heart there seems to wake
The gladness of the long past years.

Peace keeps us company to-day
In this old fragrant, shadowy wood;
We lift our eyes to heaven and say:
The world is fair and God is good.

O RADIANCE OF LIFE'S MORNING.

O Radiance of life's morning! O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years! O full, O perfect joy!

The hills of earth touch heaven, the heaven of blue and gold,
And angel voices swell the song of love and peace untold!

O radiance of life's morning!
The dew within the rose,
The fragrance fresh from Eden
That freights each breeze that blows!

Dear Christ, the wine of Cana pour out in rich supply,
These hearts keep young with gladness while all the years go by!

O radiance of life's morning!
O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years,
O full, O perfect joy!

THE IDLER.

If but one spark of honest zeal
Flashes to life within his breast--
A feeble, flick'ring spark at best;
If for a moment he doth feel
A dim desire to throw aside
The bonds that idleness has wrought,
To do, to be the man he ought,
The tyrant thing he calls his pride--

The curse of all things good on earth--
Takes on the cruel midwife's role,
And each high impulse of the soul
Is strangled in the hour of birth.
"To dig I am ashamed," quoth he;
"Mine is the pride of name and race
That scorns to fill such humble space--
Life's lowly tasks are not for me."

Oh, he can flatter with his tongue,
Can toady to the rich and great,
Can fawn on those he feels to hate,
Until from out his nature's wrung
Each shred of honesty and zeal,
Each impulse independent, strong,
Till truth and honor's but a song,
And naught is beautiful or real.

THE TRUST.

We steal the brawn, we steal the brain;
The man beneath us in the fight
Soon learns how helpless and how vain
To plead for justice or for right.
We steal the youth, we steal the health,
Hope, courage, aspiration high;
We steal men's all to make for wealth--
We will repent us by and by.

Meantime, a gift will heaven appease--
Great God, forgive our charities!

We steal the children's laughter shrill,
We steal their joys e'er they can taste,
"Why skip like young lambs on a hill?
Go, get ye to your task in haste."
No matter that they droop and tire,
That heaven cries out against the sin,
The gold, red gold, that we desire
Their dimpled hands must help to win.

A cheque for missions, if you please--
Great God, forgive our charities!

We steal the light from lover's eyes,
We hush the tale he has to tell
Of pure desire, of tender ties--
No man can serve two masters well.
So loot his treasury of pride,
His holy hopes and visions steal,
His hearth-fire scatter far and wide,
And grind the sparks beneath your heel.

A cheque will cover sins like these--
Great God, forgive our charities!

WHEN PAGANINI PLAYS.

"Dawn!" laughs the bow, and we straight see the sky,
Crimson, and golden, and gray,
See the rosy cloudlets go drifting by,
And the sheen on the lark as, soaring high,
He carols to greet the day.

Fast moves the bow o'er the wonderful strings--
We feel the joy in the air--
'Tis alive with the glory of growing things,
With wild honeysuckle that creeps and clings,
Rose of the briar bush--queen of the springs--
Anemones frail and fair!

We listen, and whisper with laughter low,
"It voices rare gladness, that ancient bow!"

Then, sad as the plaint of a child at night--
A child aweary with play--
The falling of shadows, a lost delight,
The moaning of watchers counting the flight
Of hours 'twixt the dark and day.

It echoes the cry of a broken heart,
It grieves o'er a "might have been,"
It holds all the passionate tears that start
When our heaven and our earth drift far apart,
And the way lies dark between.

It stills all our laughter, and whispers low--
'Tis heart-strings it plays on, that ancient bow!

TO-DAY YOU UNDERSTAND.

You lifted eyes pain-filled to me,
Sad, questioning eyes that did demand
Why I should thrust back, childishly,
The friendship warm you offered me--
Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!

'Twas that my heart beat rapturously
At word of thine, at touch of hand,
At tender glance vouchsafed to me
The while I knew it must not be--
Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!

There's neither pain nor mystery
In that far-off and fragrant land
To which you journeyed fearlessly;
By gates of pearl and jasper sea--
Ah, sweet, to-day you understand!

LOVE'S SACRIFICE.

"And behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster box of ointment and stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head."

The eyes He turned on her who kneeling wept
Were filled with tenderness and pity rare;
But looking on the Pharisee, there crept
A sorrow and a hint of sternness there.

"Simon, I have somewhat to say to thee,"
The Master's voice rang clearly out, and stirred,
With its new note of full authority,
The list'ning throng, who pressed to catch each word.

"Master, say on," self-righteous Simon said,
And muttered in his beard, "A sinner, she!"
Marvelling the while that on the drooping head
The hand of Jesus rested tenderly.

"Seest thou this woman, Simon?" Scornful eyes
Did Simon bend upon the woman's face,
The while the breath of love's sweet sacrifice
Rose from the broken box and filled the place.

Self-righteousness, the slimy thing that grows
Upon a fellow-creature's frailty,
That waxes fat on shame of ruined lives,
Swelled in the bosom of the Pharisee.

"Into thine house I came at thy request,
Weary with travel, and thou gavest not
To me the service due the humblest guest,
No towel, no water clear and cold was brought

"To wash my feet; but she, whom you despise,
Out of the great affection she doth bear
Hath made a basin of her woman's eyes,
A towel of her woman's wealth of hair.

"Thou gavest me no kiss"--O Simon, shame,
Thus coldly and unlovingly to greet
The Prince of Peace!--"but ever since I came
This woman hath not ceased to kiss my feet.

"He loveth most who hath been most forgiven."
O Simon, hearken, learn the great truth well,
No soul on faith's glad wings mounts nearer heaven
Than that which hath been prisoned deep in hell.

Methinks I hear her say: "Thou who forgivest
My many sins, this off'ring, sweet of breath,
I pour on Thee, dear Lord, while yet thou liv'st,
For love is ever swift to outrun death."

Upon her are the eyes of Jesus turned,
With gaze which seems to strengthen and to bless.
Who knows how long the soul of Him hath yearned
For some such token of rare tenderness?

The flush of shame flaunts red on Simon's cheeks,
About the table idle babblings cease,
A deep, full silence, then the Master speaks:
"Thy faith hath saved thee, go in peace--in peace."

WHEN THE DUSK COMES DOWN.

Do you know what I will love best of all
To do when I'm old? At the close of day
When the dusk comes down and the shadows play,
And the wind sings loud in the poplars tall,
I will love to get into my corner here--
The curtains drawn, and never a one
To break the stillness--to sit here alone
And dream of these good old times, my dear.

In fancy you'll come and sit by my side--
I can see your face with my eyes close shut,
With the pride and the softness clearly cut,
The obstinate chin and the forehead wide,
The oval cheek and the smile so warm,
The dark eyes full of their fun and power,
With the tender light for the tender hour,
And the flash of fire that was half their charm.

I'll whisper: 'Twas sweet when youth was our own--
The laughter, the nonsense, the freedom from care,
The castles we built high up in the air,
The secrets told to each other alone!
Not all of laughter; the world went wrong,
And the shadows pressed till my heart was sore.
I'll never be glad, I said, any more,
Never be happy, or gay, or strong.

O the sweetest thing in the hour of pain
Is to have one near us who understands,
To touch us gently and hold our hands,
Till our strength and courage come back again.
At love's swift pace you hurried to me--
Your tender words they will ring in my ears
When I sit and dream after long, long years--
The shine in your eyes through the mists I'll see.

Our lives will be lying so far apart,
And time, no doubt, will have given us much
Of weary wisdom; put many a touch
Of his withering hand on face and heart.
But I know what I will love best of all
To do at the end of the busy day,
When the dusk comes down and the shadows play,
And the wind sings low in the poplars tall.

I will love to get into my corner here,
With the curtains drawn, and never a one
To break the stillness--to sit here alone
And dream of these happy days, my dear,
And take my treasures from memory's hold--
The tears, the laughter, the songs that were sung--
O the friends we love when the heart is young
Are the friends we love when the heart grows old!

THE GHOSTS OF NIGHT.

When we were children, long ago,
And crept to bed at close of day,
With backward glance and footstep slow,
Though all aweary with our play,
Do you remember how the room--
The little room with window deep--
Would fill with shadows and with gloom,
And fright us so we could not sleep?

For O! the things we see at night--
The dragons grim, the goblins tall,
And, worst of all, the ghosts in white
That range themselves along the wall!

We could but cover up our head,
And listen to our heart's wild beat--
Such dreadful things about our bed,
And no protection save a sheet!
Then slept, and woke quite unafraid.
The sun was shining, and we found
Our shadows and our ghosts all laid,
Our world a glorious playing-ground.

For O! the things we see at night--
The dragons grim, the goblins tall,
And, worst of all, the ghosts in white
That range themselves along the wall!

We are but children still, the years
Have never taught us to be bold,
For mark our trembling and our fears
When sometimes, as in days of old,
We in the darkness lie awake,
And see come stealing to our side
A ghostly throng--the grave Mistake,
The Failure big, the broken Pride.

For O! the things we see at night--
The dragons grim, the goblins tall,
And, worst of all, the ghosts in white
That range themselves along the wall!

How close they creep! How big they loom!
The Task which waits, the Cares which creep;
A child, affrighted in the gloom,
We fain would hide our head and weep.
When, lo! the coward fear is gone--
The golden sunshine fills the air,
And God has sent us with the dawn
The strength and will to do and dare.

For O! the things we see at night--
The dragons grim, the goblins tall,
And, worst of all, the ghosts in white
That range themselves along the wall!

THE LONG AGO.

O life has its seasons joyous and drear,
Its summer sun and its winter snow,
But the fairest of all, I tell you, dear,
Was the sweet old spring of the long ago--
The ever and ever so long ago--

When we walked together among the flowers,
When the world with beauty was all aglow.
O the rain and dew! O the shine and showers
Of the sweet old spring of the long ago!
The ever and ever so long ago.

A hunger for all of the past delight
Is stirred by the winds that softly blow.
Can you spare me a thought from heaven to-night
For the sweet old spring of the long ago?--
The ever and ever so long ago.

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,
I'll tell you the sweetest thing--
'Tis saying to one that we love: "Forgive
The careless words and the sting;
Forgive and forget, and be friends once more,
For the world is an empty place
Without the light of your warm, true eyes,
And the smile of your tender face."

O the kissing and making up again,
And the tender whispering!
I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,
I'll tell you the sweetest thing.

I'll tell you the saddest thing, dear heart,
I'll tell you the saddest thing:
'Tis coming to one that we love full well,
Some tender message to bring.
And loitering, loitering, by the way--
Held back by a foolish pride--
Till it's all too late to say "Forgive!"
When at length we reach her side.

For the ears are heavy and cannot hear,
And the chill lips cannot move
To whisper "Peace," though our hearts may break
With longing, and pain, and love,

O this coming too late with our tenderness!
O the passionate tears that spring!
I'll tell you the saddest thing, dear heart,
I'll tell you the saddest thing!

Then let us make haste to be friends again,
Make haste to fold to our breast
The one we have hurt by word and deed,
Though we loved that one the best.
"Forgive and forget! Forgive and forget!"
O warm in the tear-wet eyes
Is the glow and the gleam of a golden light
From the shores of Paradise.

O the kissing and making up again,
And the tender whispering!
I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,
I'll tell you the sweetest thing.

THE ARGUMENT.

"As friend," she said, "I will be kind,
My sympathy will rarely fail,
My eyes to many faults be blind--
As wife, I'll lecture, scold, and rail,

"Be full of moods, a shrew one day,
A thing of tenderness the next,
Will kiss and wound--a woman's way
That long the soul of man has vext.

"You've been a true, unselfish man,
Have thought upon my good alway,
Been strong to shield, and wise to plan,
But ah! there is a change to-day.

"There's mastery in your 'Be my wife!'
For self stands up and eagerly
Claims all my love, and all my life,
The body and the soul of me.

"Come, call me friend, and own me such,
Nor count it such a wondrous thing
To hold me close, thrill at my touch--
A lord and master!--there's the sting.

"'Tis all or naught with you, you plead,
And he is blest who boldly wins;
These words," she said, "are proof, indeed,
That love and selfishness are twins.

"Yet, had you let my wisdom sway,
Would it have pleased me, who can tell?
I might have said regretfully:
'Methinks I reasoned far too well!'"

THE SECRET.

The throng about her did not know,
Her nearest friend could not surmise
Whence came the brightness and the glow,
The wondrous radiance of her eyes.

One said, half enviously: "Your face
Is beautiful with gladness rare,
With that warm, generous heart of yours
Some precious secret you must share."

Ah, true beneath the filmy lace
That rose and fell upon her breast,
Her first love-taken held its place--
From him, from him whom she loved best!

VASHTI.

"O last days of the year!" she whispered low,
"You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stay
A while, a little while. Do you not know
What tender things you bear with you away?

"I'm thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here,
Of all the riches that were mine the day
There crept down on the world the soft New Year,
A rosy thing with promise filled, and gay.

"But twelve short months ago! a little space
In which to lose so much--a whole life's wealth
Of love and faith, youth and youth's tender grace--
Things that are wont to go from us by stealth.

"Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong,
The clasp of clinging hands, the ling'ring kiss,
The joy of living, and the glorious song
That drew its sweetness from a full heart's bliss.

"O wealth of tenderness! O gladness great!
That crowned me, covered me a year ago!
A bankrupt, I--gone faith, gone warm caress
Gone love, gone youth, gone all!"
She whispered low.

"Oh, last days of the year, you take away
The riches that I held so close and dear.
Go not so swiftly, stay a little, stay
With one poor bankrupt,
Last days of the year."

THE TREASURE BOX.

I asked Aunt Persis yester-eve, as twilight fell,
If she had things of value hidden safe away--
Treasures that were her very own? And did she love
To bring them forth, and feast her eyes upon their worth,
And finger them with all a miser's greed of touch?

She smiled that slow, warm smile of hers, and drew me down
Beside her in the inglenook. The rain beat hard
Against the panes, without the world was doubly gray
With twilight and with cloud. The room was full of shade
Till Persis stirred the slumbering grate fire wide awake,
And made it send its flickering shafts of light into
Each corner dim--gay shafts that chased the shadows forth
And took their place, then stole away and let
The shadow back, and then gave chase again,
The maddest and the stillest game!

To music of
The raindrops on the pane, and wind that softly shrilled
About the eaves, the treasure box was opened wide
And its contents exposed to the rude gaze of one
Too young, too worldly-wise to know their value great.
I thought to see pearls, corals, quaint, old-fashioned gems,
Or lace like gossamer creamed by the hand of time--
Real treasures worthy of the hoarding.

Lo! I saw
A leather-covered book, a worn and musty thing
With ragged leaves and many marks. "What is it?" I asked;
"To me it looks the school-book that some stupid child
Has learned its lesson from."
"And so it is," she smiled. "My father's testament,
And at his knee I conned the Golden Rule, and all
The wondrous truths that teach us how to live. 'Tis dear
To me, you may suppose."

A knot of ribbon that
Had once been blue, a braid of dark brown hair, a spray
Of lily o' the valley, withered, sere, yet holding still a breath
Of sweetness indescribable; some letters tied
With silk, a broken fan, some verses scribbled on
A yellow page, a baby's shoe, more letters, and,
What think you, friend? A string of amber beads, without
A trace of value--beads of glass strung on a bit
Of twine. Aunt Persis took them in her hand and let
The firelight play on them. "My grandmother's first gift,"
She said, and slipped them round her neck. "I love them best
Of all my ornaments--each amber bead holds fast
A joy caught in the childhood days of pleasantness,
And when I sit here with the sparkling things held close
The joys they gathered long ago slip from them to
My heart, and ere I know, I am a child once more.

"Treasures! Nay, dear one, in your clear young eyes I see
The disappointment grow--no treasures these, you say;
These faded things, and poor, these musty, ragged things--
But some day in the gloaming of your life you'll ope
Your treasure box, and find a hoard of just such things
As these--a few rare trifles wrapped in memories."

THE MESSAGE.

My Marjorie doth hold in her white hands
A spray of lilies plucked below the brook
Where the old ruin of a chapel stands--
A ruin tenanted by many a nook,
And all the grayness of it hid from sight
By gracious draping of the ivy green.
Sweet lilies, 'tis your glorious fate to-night
To lie upon her breast, to send between
Her silken bodice and the heart beneath
The fragrance given you by sun and shower.
Speak subtly with your warm, sweet-scented breath
Till, 'mid the dance and music of the hour,
She turn you love-filled eyes and glowing face,
With: "Ah, ye grew in that old trysting place!"

ESTRANGED.

"It is good-bye," she said; "the world is wide,
There's space for you and me to walk apart.
Though we have walked together side by side,
My thoughts all yours, my resting-place your heart,
We now will go our different ways. Forget
The happy past. I would not have you keep
One thought of me. Ah, yes, my eyes are wet;
My love is great, my grief must needs be deep.

"Yet I have strength to look at you, and say:
Forget it all, forget our souls were stirred,
Forget the sweetness of each dear, dead day,
The warm, impassioned kiss, the tender word,
The clinging handclasp, and the love-filled eyes--
Forget all these; but, when we walk apart
Remember this, though wilful and unwise,
No word of mine did ever hurt your heart."

THE PARTING.

One summer's morning I heard a lark
Singing to heaven, a sweet-throated bird;
One winter's night I was glad in the dark
Because of the wondrous song I had heard.

The joy of life, I have heard you say,
Is my love, my laughter, my smiles and tears;
When I have gone on the long, strange way,
Let these stay with you through all the years--

These be the lark's song. What is love worth
That cannot crowd, in the time that's given
To two like us on this gray old earth,
Such bliss as will last till we reach heaven?

Dear one, think oft of the full, glad years,
And, thinking of them, forget to weep.
Whisper: "Remembrance holds no tears!"
And kiss my mouth when I fall on sleep.

MARGARET.

Her eyes--upon a summer's day
God's skies are not more blue than they.

Her hair--you've seen a sunbeam bold
Made up of just such threads of gold.

Her cheek--the leaf which nearest grows
The dewy heart of June's red rose.

Her mouth--full lipped, and subtly sweet
As briar drowned in summer heat.

Her heart--December's chill and snow--
Heaven pity me, who love her so!

ST. VALENTINE.

The girl's a slender thing and fair,
With dimpled cheek and eyes ashine;
The youth is tall, with bashful air.
Heigho! a fond and foolish pair--
The day is yours, St. Valentine.

He says: "My heart will constant prove,
Since every beat of it is thine;
The sweetest joy of life is love."
The birds are mating in the grove--
The day is yours, St. Valentine.

What matter that the wind blows chill
Through leafless tree and naked vine,
That snowdrifts linger on the hill,
When warm love makes the pulses thrill?
The day is yours, St. Valentine.

TWO JUNE NIGHTS.

A red rose in my lady's hair,
A white rose in her fingers,
A wild bird singing low, somewhere,
A song that pulses, lingers.
The sound of dancing and of mirth,
The fiddle's merry chiming,
A smell of earth, of fresh, warm earth,
And honeysuckle climbing;
My lady near, yet far away--
Ah, lonely June of yesterday!

A big white night of velvet sky,
And Milky Way a-gleaming,
The fragrant blue smoke drifting by
From camp-fire brightly beaming;
The stillness of the Northland far--
God's solitudes of splendor--
My road a trail, my chart a star.
Wind, 'mong the balsams slender,
Sing low: O glad June of to-day,
My lady's near, though far away!

REMEMBRANCE.

"Once they were lovers," says the world, "with young hearts all aglow;
They have forgotten," says the world, "forgotten long ago."
Between ourselves--just whisper it--the old world does not know.

They walk their lone, divided ways, but ever with them goes
Remembrance, the subtle breath of love's sweet thorny rose.

THE EMIGRANT LADDIE.

Though long, long leagues of land and sea
Stretch out between Braemar and me,
I'll win home late or soon,
Will take the old familiar way
Past Isla Glen, up bold Glenshee,
By sun-kissed hill and valley gray--
These feet of mine will find their way
At midnight or at noon.

The hearth-fire, and the cot of stone
Set 'mong the fir trees tall and lone,
I'll see before my eyes;
Hear rough winds kiss the heath-clad hill,
The murmur gay of loch and rill,
The mavis singing sweet and shrill,
Hear, warm and soft as notes that thrill
The souls in paradise.

A voice all tremulous and glad
Cries out: "A welcome home, my lad!"

LOVE'S SERVICE.

Your presence is a psalm of praise,
And as its measure grandly rings
God's finger finds my heart and plays
A _te deum_ upon its strings.
I never see you but I feel
That I in gratitude must kneel.

Your head down-bent, the brow of snow
Crowned with the shining braids of hair,
To me, because I love you so,
Is in itself a tender prayer,
All faith, all meekness, and all trust--
"Amen!" I cry, because I must.

Your clear eyes hold the text apart,
And shame my love of place and pelf
With, "Love the Lord with all thine heart,
And love thy neighbor as thyself!"
Dear eyes and true,--I sorely need
More knowledge of your gracious creed.

About your lips the summer lies--
Who runs may read each subtle lure
To draw me nearer to the skies,
And make me strong, and keep me pure.
I loathe my worldliness and guile
Each time your red lips on me smile.

The benediction of your face--
Your lifted face--doth make a road
For white-robed peace and golden grace
To reach my heart and take its load.
Dear woman saint, I bow the knee,
And give God thanks for love and thee!

APRIL.

God's garden is this dim old wood,
And hidden in its bosom
The bursting bud, the feathery leaf
And soft, sweet smelling blossom.

Ho! May is fair, and glorious June,
In rose leaves doth enfold her;
Their bloom is richer than my own,
But mine is sweeter, bolder.

God's garden is this dim old wood,
And I, the pretty vagrant,
I am the gardener He sends
To make it fair and fragrant.

IN MEMORIAM.

(_A Tribute to Mrs. George A. Cox._)

The Golden Rule--the blessed creed
That shelters frail humanity,
The tender thought for those in need,
The charity of word and deed,
Without which all is vanity--

This, friend, you made your very own,
And yours the satisfying part
To pluck the rose of love full blown,
To reap the gladness you had sown
With open hand and kindly heart.

Simplicity, the jewel rare,
Whose gleam is ever true and warm--
That thing of worth beyond compare
Which none but truly great may wear--
Adorned your life with power and charm.

Yours the sincerity that grips
Fast hold of natures strong and wise;
It thrilled you to your finger-tips,
It set its seal on brow and lips,
And shone within your dark, true eyes.

The throng knew not how rich the store
Of sympathy and trust you had;
Knew not you were, till life was o'er,
God's almoner among His poor,
God's comforter to sick and sad.

Too soon you went--we miss the cheer,
The kindliness vouchsafed to all;
The world seems strangely lone and drear
When one whom many hearts hold dear
Fares heavenward ere the shadows fall.

Too soon you went, and yet, maybe,
Your work well done, your task complete,
The soul of you turned longingly
Toward gates of pearl and jasper sea
And fields of Eden rarely sweet.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Cornflower, and Other Poems, by Jean Blewett

<pre id="pg-footer">