Chapter III

Good night, my love! Without, the wintry winds
Make the night sadly vocal; and within,
The hours that danced along so full of joy,
Like skeletons have come from out their graves,
And sit beside me at my lonely fire,--
Guests grim but welcome, which my fancy decks,
In all the beauty that was theirs when thou
Didst look and breathe and whisper softly on them.
So do they come and sit, night after night,
Talking to me of thee till I forget
That they are mere illusions and the past
Is gone forever. They have vanished now,
And I am all alone, and thou art--where?
My love, good angels bear thee my good night!

WINTER SUNSHINE.

The “Miserere” of the wintry earth
Went up to Heaven on the wings of air--
I heard it, sitting by my lonely hearth--
An awful music; sighs and moans of prayer,
The anguish human words could never bear
Into God’s ear, the agony whose birth
The soul hides from itself were mingled there
With the fierce undertones of frantic mirth.
Then came a hush, and suddenly the floor
Was carpeted with sunshine, living gold,
That filled the heart with summer; Heaven’s door
Was touched and opened, and at once there rolled,
In strains of sweetest music from above,
Back to the earth an answer, “God is Love!”

CHRISTUS SALVATOR.

I.

C horo sancto nunciatus,
H omo, Deus Increatus,
R egum, Rex, Puellâ natus,
I n ignaris habitat;
S umit vilem carnis vestem,
T radens Gloriam Cœlestem
U t dispellat culpæ pestem,
S atanamque subigat.

II.

S urgit Stella prophetarum,
A dest Victor tenebrarum,
L umen omnium terrarum,
V ia, Vita, Veritas.
A nimas illuminavit,
T enebrarum vim fugavit,
O ras Cœlicas monstravit
R edemptoris Claritas.

CHRISTMAS, 1864.

DEW.

“Who hath begotten the drops of dew?”--JOB xxxviii, 28.

I.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?
Tell, if you can, the tale of their birth;
Have the stars from Heaven come down to woo
The flowers, the beautiful daughters of earth?

II.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?
Have angels open’d the pearly doors,
And, leaving their streets of golden hue,
Blest with their footsteps our grassy floors?

III.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?
Doth not each orb in its bosom bear
Ruby and topaz and sapphire blue,
And all the colours that angels wear?

IV.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?
Are they the tears of the saints above,
Returned to visit the scenes they knew,
And to weep and pray for some earthly love?

V.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?
Who, the good that in all things lies?
Who, the primal beauty that grew
Into myriad forms in Paradise?

VI.

Who hath begotten the drops of dew?
Tell, if you can, the tale of their birth;
Are they not, children of men, with you,
Sons of the Lord of _Heaven_ and _Earth_?

THALATTA! THALATTA!

I.

In my ear is the moan of the pines--in my heart is the song of the sea,
And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses on me,
And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer the call
of the tide,
And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on the
breast of a bride.

II.

From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of sapphire and gold,
Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone seer of old,
And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far over the sea--
But I think of a little white cottage and one that is dearest to me.