Chapter II: Foreword (2)

Love is a joyous thrush, that one can teach
To sing sweet lute-like songs which all may hear.
Or we can silence him and tune the ear
To caw of crows, or to the vulture's screech.

Love is a feast; and if the guests divide
With all who pass, though thousands swell the van,
There shall be food and drink for every man;
The loaves and fishes will be multiplied.

Love is the guide. I look to heights above
So beautiful, so very far away;
Yet I shall tread their sunlit peaks some day,
Since close in mine I hold the hand of love.

Love is the law. But yield to its control
And thou shalt find all things work for the best,
And in the calm, still heaven of thy breast,
That God, Himself, sits talking with thy soul.

SPIRIT OF A GREAT CONTROL

Spirit of a Great Control,
Gird me with thy strength and might,
Essence of the Over-Soul--
Fill me, thrill me with thy light;
Though the waves of sorrow beat
Madly at my very feet,
Though the night and storm are near,
Teach me that I need not fear.

Though the clouds obscure the sky,
When the tempest sweeps the lands,
Still about, below, on high,
God's great solar system stands.
Never yet a star went out.
What have I to fear or doubt?--
I, a part of this great whole,
Governed by the Over-Soul.

Like the great eternal hills,
Like the rock that fronts the wave,
Let me meet all earthly ills
With a fearless heart and brave;
Like the earth that drinks the rain,
Let me welcome floods of pain,
Till I grow in strength to be
Worthy of my source in Thee.

NOON

As some contented bird doth coo
She trilled a song of fond delight,
The while she spread the cloth of white,
And set the cups and plates for two.

She leaned beyond the window sill,
And looked along the busy street,
And listened for his coming feet.
The skies were calm, the winds were still.

'O love, my love, why art thou late?
The kettle boils, the cloth is spread,
The clock points close to noon,' she said.
O clock of time! O clock of fate!

She heard the moon's glad sound of cheer;
(The hiss, the whirl, the crash, the creak,
Of maddened wheels, the awful shriek
Of awestruck men--she did not hear.)

She lightly tripped about the room,
And near the window, where his eyes
Might greet it with a pleased surprise,
She placed a pot of fragrant bloom.

Strange nervous steps were at the gate.
Why grew her heart so cold, so numb?
The clock struck twelve, the noon had come.
Ah! noon of time! O noon of fate!

A shattered vase beside the wall;
A young face grey with awful fear,
A rigid shape, a covered bier,
A shadowed life, and that is all.

THE SEARCH

The rain falls long, and the rain falls light,
With a desolate drip--drop, sad to hear.
But never a star shines through the night
As I sit afar, from the world anear.

Down in the parlour some one sings;
The children laugh in the nursery hall;
But my heart like a bird has spread its wings,
And leaves the music, and mirth, and all.

Out in the rain and the eerie night,
Into the darkness it speeds away.
Ah me! ah me! 'tis a gruesome flight,
Seeking for you till the dawn of day.

If it only knew which way to go;
Where you wander, or where you lie.
To valleys of sunshine, or hills of snow,
Thither at once my heart would fly.

Fly and follow wherever you led,
Over the desert and over the wave;
Or if it found you lying dead,
It would sit in the rain by your lonely grave.

Sit in the rain, and cover the grass
With passionate kisses above your face.
Sit there waiting till death should pass,
And bear it to you in his strong embrace.

But hither and thither all is vain,
It flies in the darkness, and seeks for you.
Back in the morning, drenched with rain,
The poor thing cometh with never a clue.

But all night long the rain falls down,
Like a poor crazed thing that has lost its way,
Through the forest and through the town
It searches for you till the break of day.

A MAN'S GOOD-BYE

Do you think, dear, as you say Such a light good-bye to-day, That this parting time may be Mayhaps less to you, than me?

What a wonder of surprise Looks out from your sunny eyes. 'Just a nice acquaintance.' So We have called it, dear, I know.

Now you end it with a word, While my inmost soul is stirred. No--you cannot understand. But, dear, as I touch your hand,

Listening to your light good-bye, All a man's roused passions cry Like a tiger, stirred, at bay. Oh! you draw your hand away.

'I've no right to speak so?' Pray Was it _your_ right day by day By your sweet coquettish arts To invade my heart of hearts?

It is death to let you go. You will hate me, dear, I know; But I swear, ere you go hence, I will have some recompense.

For those fires you lit in vain, Cheeks and lips shall bear the stain Of my kisses till you die. Go now! this is my good-bye.

AT THE HOP

'Tis time to dress. Dost hear the music surging
Like sobbing waves that roll up from the sea?
Yes, yes, I hear--I yield--no need of urging;
I know your wishes,--send Lisette to me.

I hate the ballroom; hate its gilded pleasure;
I hate the crowd within it, well you know;
But what of that? I am your lawful treasure--
And when you would display me I must go.

You bought me with a mother's pain and trouble.
I've been a great expense to you alway.
And now, if you can sell me, and get double
The sum I cost--why, what have I to say?

You've done your duty: kept me in the fashion,
And shown me off at every stylish place.
'Twas not your fault I had a heart of passion;
'Twas not your fault I ever _saw_ his face.

The dream was brief, and beautiful, and tender,
(O God! to live those golden hours once more.
The silver moonlight, and his dark eyes' splendour,
The sky above us, and the sea before.)

Come, come, Lisette, bring out those royal laces;
To-night must make the victory complete.
Among the crowd of masked and smiling faces,
I'll move with laughter, and with smiles most sweet.

Make me most fair! with youth and grace and beauty,
I needs must conquer bloated age and gold.
She shall not say I have not done my duty;
I'm ready now--a daughter to be sold!

MET

How odd and strange seems our meeting
Like a grim rendezvous of the dead.
All day I have sat here repeating
The commonplace things that we said.
They sounded so oddly when uttered--
They sound just as odd to me now;
_Was_ it we, or our two ghosts who muttered
Last evening, with simper and bow?

I had grown used to living without you.
In revel and concert and ball,
I had flown from much thinking about you,
And your picture I turned to the wall.
For to call back the dream that was broken,
To fancy your hand on my hair,
To remember the words we had spoken,
Was madness, and gall, and despair.

I knew I could never forget you;
But I wanted to put you away.
And now, just to think how I met you--
It has seemed like a nightmare all day.
We two with our record of passion,
We two who have been as one heart,
To meet in that calm, quiet fashion,
And chat for a moment and part.

We two who remember such blisses
Not heaven itself can eclipse,
We two who had kissed with the kisses
That draw out the soul through the lips,
We two who have known the ideal,
The rare perfect love in its might--
Nay, nay, they were ghosts, and not real,
Who met, and who parted, last night.
They were ghosts, unprepared for the meeting;
'Twas a chance rendezvous of the dead;
And all day I sit here repeating
The odd sounding words that were said.

RETURNED BIRDS

My heart to-day is like a southern wood,
Through summer months it has been drunk with heat;
And slumbered on unmindful of the beat
Of life beyond it: sleep alone seemed good.

Now milder Autumn's tints are in the sky;
The fervid heats of summer noons depart;
And backward to the old haunts in my heart
The golden robins and the blue birds fly.

I hear the flutter of their airy wings,
They flock about the Spring's deserted nest,
And suddenly I feel within my breast
The stirring of sweet half-forgotten things.

Bright sunny mornings--golden growing hours--
The building of glad birds among the trees;
Wide open windows and the kindly breeze
Bringing the perfume of half-open flowers.

A blithe face at the window fair with truth;
A mellow laugh that falls like silver spray;
Down through the sunlight of the perfect day,
Ecstatic hopes, that bud with Spring and Youth.

The morning time grew rank with summer blight;
The birds flew northward, fresher fields to find;
And in our hearts we closed the folding blind,
While drooping blossoms withered in the light.

The fair face at the window could not stay;
The laugh grew weary, with a minor strain
That borders on the foreign realm of pain,
And hopes that blossomed, ripened to decay.

Come, happy birds, and sing of vanished joy,
Of that sweet Spring for ever passed away;
No winter lies between us and that day.
(But what is sadder than the sweets that cloy.)

My heart is green with leafage; come and wake
The old-time echoes with the songs of glee,
For only echoes now are left to me,
Though bloom and beauty cling to bush and brake.

A CRUSHED LEAF

An hour ago when the wind blew high
At my lady's window a red leaf beat.
Then dropped at her door, where, passing by,
She carelessly trod it under her feet.

I have taken it out of the dust and dirt,
With a tender pity but half defined.
Ah! poor bruised leaf, with your stain and hurt,
'A fellow-feeling doth make us kind.'

On winds of passion my heart was blown,
Like an autumn leaf one hapless day.
At my lady's window with tap and moan
It burned and fluttered its life away.

Bright with the blood of its wasting tide
It glowed in the sun of her laughing eyes.
What cared she though a stray heart died--
What to her were its sobs and sighs.

The winds of passion were spent at last,
And my heart like the leaf in her pathway lay;
And under her slender foot as she passed,
My lady she trod it and went her way.

So I picked the leaf from its dusty place,
With a tender pity--too well defined.
And I laid it here in this velvet case,
Ah! a fellow-feeling doth make us kind.

A CURIOUS STORY

I heard such a curious story
Of Santa Claus: once, so they say,
He set out to see what people were kind,
Before he took presents their way.
'This year I will give but to givers,
To those who make presents themselves,'
With a nod of his head old Santa Claus said
To his band of bright officer-elves.

'Go into the homes of the happy
Where pleasure stands page at the door.
Watch well how they live, and report what they give
To the hordes of God's suffering poor.
Keep track of each cent and each moment;
Yes, tell me each word, too, they use:
To silver line clouds for earth's suffering crowds,
And tell me, too, when they refuse.'

So into our homes flew the fairies,
Though never a soul of us knew,
And with pencil and book they sat by and took
Each action, if false, or if true.
White marks for the deeds done for others--
Black marks for the deeds done for self.
And nobody hid what he said or he did,
For no one, of course, sees an elf.

Well, Christmas came all in its season,
And Santa Claus, so I am told,
With a very light pack of small gifts on his back,
And his reindeers all left in the fold,
Set out on a leisurely journey,
And finished ere midnight, they say.
And there never had been such surprise and chagrin
Before on the breaking of day,

As there was on that bright Christmas morning
When stockings, and cupboards, and shelves
Were ransacked and sought in, for gifts that were not in--
But wasn't it fun for the elves!
And what did _I_ get? You confuse me--
_I got not one thing_, and that's true;
But had I suspected my actions detected
I would have had gifts, wouldn't you?

JENNY LIND

There was a something in your song, men say
No later singer voices: some strange power
Like to the essence in a rare June day,
Or like the subtle perfume of a flower.
Awed and inspired, your listeners turned away,
Baptized in your sweet music's holy shower.
For through that music shone the glorious dower
Of your great soul: here all the secret lay.

Not for the honours of this earth you sang--
Not for its gold or glory, not for art,
Not for the fortunes at your fair feet hurled.
The love of God through all your measures rang,
And each pure note bespoke a noble heart.
When worth weds genius, lo! they rule the world.

LIFE'S KEY

The hand that fashioned me, tuned my ear To chord with the major key, In the darkest moments of life I hear Strains of courage, and hope, and cheer From choirs that I cannot see. And the music of life seems so inspired That it will not let me grow sad or tired.

Yet through and under the major strain, I hear with the passing of years, The mournful minor measure of pain, Of souls that struggle and toil in vain For a goal that never nears. And the sorrowful cadence of good gone wrong, Breaks more and more into earth's glad song.

And oft in the dark of the night I wake And think of sorrowing lives, And I long to comfort the hearts that ache, To sweeten the cup that is bitter to take, And to strengthen each soul that strives. I long to cry to them 'Do not fear, Help is coming and aid is near.'

However desolate, weird, or strange Life's melody sounds to you, Before to-morrow the air may change, And the Great Director of music arrange A programme perfectly new. And the dirge in minor may suddenly be Turned into a jubilant song of glee.

BRIDGE OF PRAYER

The bridge of prayer from heavenly heights suspended
Unites the earth with spirit-realms in Space.
The interests of those separate worlds are blended
For those whose feet turn often toward that place.

In troubled nights of sorrow and repining,
When joy and hope seem sunk in dark despair,
We still may see above the shadows shining,
The gleaming archway of the bridge of prayer.

From that fair height, our souls may lean and listen
To sounds of music from the farther shore,
And through the vapours, sometimes dear eyes glisten
Of loved ones who have hastened on before.

And angels come from their Celestial City--
And meet us half way on the bridge of prayer.
God sends them forth, full of divinest pity
To strengthen us for burdens we must bear.

Oh! you whose feet walk in some shadowed by-way,
Far from the scenes of pleasure and delight,
Still free to you hangs this suspended highway,
Where heavenly glories dawn upon the sight.

And common paths glow with a grace supernal,
And happiness walks hand in hand with care,
And faith becomes a knowledge fixed, eternal,
For those who often seek the bridge of prayer.

NEW YEAR

Know this! there is nothing can harm you
If you are at peace with your soul.
Know this, and the knowledge shall arm you
With courage and strength to the goal.
Your spirit shall break every fetter,
And love shall cast out every fear.
And grander, and gladder, and better
Shall be every added new year.

DECEITFUL CALM

The winds are still; the sea lies all untroubled
Beneath a cloudless sky; the morn is bright,
Yet, Lord, I feel my need of Thee is doubled;
Come nearer to me in this blaze of light;
The night must fall,--the storm will burst at length.
Oh! give me strength.

So well, so well, I know the treacherous seeming
Of days like this; they are too heavenly fair.
Those waves that laugh like happy children dreaming,
Are mighty forces brewing some despair
For thoughtless hearts, and ere the hour of need,
Let mine take heed.

Joy cannot last; it must give place to sorrow
As certainly as solar systems roll.
I would not wait till that time comes to borrow
The strength prayer offers to a suffering soul.
Here in the sunlight--yet undimmed by shade,
I cry for aid.

I dare not lightly drain the cup of pleasure,
Though Thine the hand that proffers me the draught.
Such bitter lees lie lower in the measure,
I shall need courage, ere the potion's quaffed;
Then strengthen me before that time befall,
To drink the gall.

I need Thee in my joys and my successes,
To make me humble, grateful, and not vain.
I need Thee when the weight of sorrow presses
The tortured heart that cries aloud in pain,
So close great pleasures and great anguish lie.
Lord, Lord, come nigh.

UN RENCONTRE

Now ought we to laugh or to weep-- Was it comical, or was it grave? When we who had waded breast deep In passion's most turbulent wave Met out on an isle in Time's ocean, With never one thrill of emotion.

We had parted in sorrow and tears; Our letters were frequent and wet; We wrote about pitiless years, And we swore we could never forget. An angel you called me alway, And I thought you a god gone astray.

We met in an everyday style; Unmoved by a tremor or start; Shook hands, smiled a commonplace smile; (With a happy new love in each heart), And I thought you the homeliest man As you awkwardly picked up my fan!

And I know (or I haven't a doubt) Though you did not say so to my face, That you thought I was growing too stout: I, once your ideal of grace. And ere the encounter was o'er Each voted the other a bore.

What a proof that fond passion can die, In this prosaic meeting we had! Now, ought we to laugh or to cry-- Was it sorrowful, or was it sad? 'Tis a puzzle not worthy our time, So let's give it up--with this rhyme.

BURNED OUT

Blow out the light: there is no oil to feed it: That dim blue light unworthy of the name. Better to sit with folded hands, I say, And wait for night to pass, and bring the day, Than to depend upon that flickering flame.

Take back your vow: there is no love to bind it: Take back this little shining, golden thing. Better to walk on bravely all alone, Than strive to hold up, or retain our own, By soulless pledge, or fetter of a ring.

When first the lamp was lit, too high you turned it; The oil was wasted in a blinding blaze. Your passion was too ardent in the start-- Set by the lamp: farewell. God gird the heart Through darkened hours, and lone and loveless ways.

ONLY A GLOVE

Only a glove that has touched her fingers,
But it seems to me something half divine.
A delicate fragrance about it lingers,
And it stirs my blood like wine--
Yes, thrills and warms me like wine.

So well I remember the night she wore it--
How I held the hand in its dainty glove,
And whispered sweetly as I leaned o'er it--
Whispered a tale of love--
A story of my mad love.

There was mirth, and music, and light and laughter,
The viols played and the dancers whirled.
We were part of it all--but a moment after
Were alone in love's fair world--
Alone in God's own world.

But now of that night of glow and splendour,
Of happy hope and beautiful love,
Of youthful dreams that were sweetly tender,
There is nothing left but a glove,
Nothing but this one glove.

REMINDERS

When in the early dawn I hear the thrushes,
And like a flood of waters o'er my heart
The memory of another summer rushes,
How can I rise up, and perform my part?

When in the languid eve I hear the wailing
Of the uncomforted sad mourning dove,
Whose grief, like mine, seems deep as unavailing,
What will I do with all this wealth of love?

When the sweet rain falls over hills and meadows,
And the tall poplar's silver leaves are wet,
And, like my soul, the world seems draped in shadow,
How shall I hush this passionate regret?

When the wild bee is wooing the red clover,
And the fair rose smiles on the butterfly,
Missing thy smile and kiss, O love, my lover,
Who on God's earth so desolate as I?

My tortured senses new despair will borrow
From those reminders of a vanished day,
That was as full of joy as this of sorrow--
O beautiful, sad summer keep away!

A DIRGE

Death and a dirge at midnight;
Yet never a soul in the house
Heard anything more than the throb and beat
Of a beautiful waltz of Strauss.

Dead, dead, dead, and staring,
With a ghastly smile on its face;
But the world saw only laughing eyes
And roses, and billows of lace.

Floating and whirling together,
Into the beautiful night,
How little you dreamed of the ghastly thing
I was hiding away from your sight.

Meeting your dark eyes' splendour,
Feeling your warm, sweet breath,
How could you know that my passionate heart
Had died a horrible death?

Died in its fever and fervour,
Died in its beautiful bloom;
And that waltz of Strauss was a funeral dirge,
Leading the way to the tomb.

But you held my hand at parting,
And I smiled back a gay good night;
And you never knew of the ghastly corpse
I was hiding away from your sight.

Yet whenever I hear the Danube--
Under its pulsing strain,
I catch the wail of the funeral dirge,
And my heart dies over again.

NOT ANCHORED

My heart is like a ship that finds no rest, Tossed here and there upon the stormy breast Of loves of many hearts too oft conferred.

Thy love is like the harbour, safe and still, Into whose calm that ship may glide at will, Under the slope of God's Eternal Will.

So near the perfect peace that knows no word; Yet with an empty, white emotion stirred, It folds its wings like some contented bird.

At rest, and yet not _anchored_; and some day Out of the restful peace of this calm bay The winds of Fate will drift it far away.

THE NEW LOVE

I thought my heart was death chilled,
I thought its fires were cold;
But the new love, the new love,
It warmeth like the old.

I thought its rooms were shadowed
With the gloom of endless night;
But the new love, the new love,
It fills them full of light.

I thought the chambers empty,
And proclaimed it unto men;
But the new love, the new love,
It peoples them again.

I thought its halls were silent,
And hushed the whole day long;
But the new love, the new love,
It fills them full of song.

Then here is to the new love,
Let who will sing the old;
The new love, the new love,
'Tis more than fame or gold.

For it gives us joy for sorrow,
And it gives us warmth for cold;
Oh! the new love, the new love,
'Tis better than the old.

AN EAST WIND

The glitter of wheels far down the street (Ah me, and alack a day.) And I heard the thud of his horse's feet Beating a roundelay. And I felt a little song coming, coming Over my lips as humming, humming, I turned my eyes that way.

Somebody passed, who was wont to pause: (Ah me, and alack a day.) He bowed and smiled; yet for some cause The mirth went out of my lay. A wind from the east rose, sighing, sighing, I felt my little song dying, dying, _She laughed as they rode away_.

CHEATING TIME

Kiss me, sweetheart. One by one Swift and sure the moments run.

Soon, too soon, for you and me Gone for aye the day will be.

Do not let time cheat us then, Kiss me often and again.

Every time a moment slips Let us count it on our lips

While we're kissing, strife and pain Cannot come between us twain.

If we pause too long a space, Who can tell what may take place?

You may pout, and I may scold, Souls be sundered, hearts grow cold;

Death may come, and love take wings; Oh! a thousand cruel things

May creep in to spoil the day, If we throw the time away.

Let us time, the cheater, cheat, Kiss me, darling, kiss me, sweet.

ONLY A SLIGHT FLIRTATION

'Twas just a slight flirtation,
And where's the harm, I pray,
In that amusing pastime
So much in vogue to-day?

Her hand was plighted elsewhere
To one she held most dear,
But why should she sit lonely
When other men were near?

They walked to church together,
They sat upon the shore.
She found him entertaining,
He found her something more.

They rambled in the moonlight;
It made her look so fair.
She let him praise her beauty,
And kiss her flowing hair.

'Twas just a nice flirtation.
'So sad the fellow died.
Was drowned one day while boating,
The week she was a bride.'

A life went out in darkness,
A mother's fond heart broke,
A maiden pined in secret--
With grief she never spoke.

While robed in bridal whiteness,
Queen of a festal throng,
She moved, whose slight flirtation
Had wrought this triple wrong.

WHAT THE RAIN SAW

Winds of the summer time what are you saying,
What are ye seeking, and what do you miss?
Locks like the thistledown floating and straying,
Cheeks like the budding rose, tinted to kiss.

See ye yon mist rising up from the river?
That is the spirit of yesterday's rain.
Go to it, fly to it, call to it, cry to it,
What did ye see when ye fell on the plain?

Rosewood, and velvet, and pansies, and roses,
Blossoms from loving hands tenderly cast.
Lids like the leaves of a lily that closes
After its brief little day-life is past.

Beautiful hands on a beautiful bosom,
Folded so quietly, folded in rest.
Mouth like the bud of a white-petalled blossom,
Creased where the lips of an angel had pressed.

Lower, and lower, and lower, and lower,
Dust unto dust--but a mound on the plain.
Left alone, lonely, this, and this only,
Saw we, and see we to-day, said the rain.

Winds of the summer time vain is your seeking,
Vain is your calling with sobs in your breath.
Lips that are tender, eyes full of splendour,
Wooed away, sued away, vanished with death.

AFTER

After the end that is drawing near
Comes, and I no more see your face
Worn with suffering, lying here,
What shall I do with the empty place?

You are so weary, that if I could
I would not hinder, I would not keep
The great Creator of all things good,
From giving his own beloved sleep.

But over and over I turn this thought.
After they bear you away to the tomb,
And banish the glasses, and move the cot,
What shall I do with the empty room?

And when you are lying at rest, my own,
Hidden away in the grass and flowers,
And I listen in vain for your sigh and moan,
What shall I do with the silent hours?

O God! O God! in the great To Be
What canst Thou give me to compensate
For the terrible silence, the vacancy,
Grim, and awful, and desolate?

Passing away, my beautiful one,
Out of the old life into the new.
But when it is over, and all is done,
God of the Merciful, what shall I do?

Sweetest of slumber, and soundest rest,
No more sorrow, and no more gloom.
I am quite contented, and all is best,--
_But the empty bed--and the silent room_!

OUR PETTY CARES

Our petty cares wear on us so,-- More cruel than our great despairs, More rasping than a mighty woe, Our petty cares.

Less need of strength hath he who bears Courageously some stinging blow, Of Fate which takes him unawares.

Not solitary griefs we know Induce old age and whitening hairs; But that malicious, endless row-- Our petty cares.

THE SHIP AND THE BOAT

In the great ship Life we speed along,
With sails and pennons spread.
And tethered, beside the great ship, glide
The mystic boats for the dead.

Over the deck of the ship of Life
Our loved and lost we lower.
And calm and steady, his small boat ready,
Death silently sits at the oar.

He rows our dead away from our sight--
Away from our hearing or ken.
We call and cry for a last good-bye,
But they never come back again.

The ship of Life bounds on and on;
The river of Time runs fast;
And yet more swift our dear dead drift
For ever back into the Past.

We do not forget those loved and lost,
But they fade away like a dream:
As we hurry along on the current strong
Of Time's great turbulent stream.

On and on, and ever away,
Our sails are filled by the wind;
We see new places, we meet new faces,
And the dead are far behind.

Their boats have drifted into the sea
That laves God's holy feet.
But the river's course, too, seeks that source,
So the ship and the boat shall meet.

COME NEAR

Come near to me, I need Thy glorious presence.
Through the dense darkness of this troubled hour
Shine on my soul, and fill it with the essence
Of Thy pervading and uplifting power.
Come near, come near to me!

Come nearer yet, I have no strength to reach Thee;
My soul is like a bird with broken wings.
Lean down from Thy fair height of peace, and teach me
The balm Thy touch to mortal bruises brings.
Lean down, O God, lean down!

Come near, and yet if those eternal places
Hold greater tasks to occupy Thy hands,
Send Thy blest angels whose celestial faces
Smile sometimes on us from the spirit lands.
Send one, send one to me!

I must have help. I am so weak and broken
I cannot help myself. I know not how
That moral force of which so much is spoken
Will not sustain or fortify me now.
I must, I must have help!

Some outside aid, some strength from spirit Sources,
We all must have in hours like this, or die.
To one, or all of those mysterious Forces
Which men call God, I lift my voice and cry,
Come near, come near to me!

A SUGGESTION

As I go and shop, sir! If a car I stop, sir! Where you chance to sit, And you want to read, sir! Never mind or heed, sir! I'll not care a bit.

For it's now aesthetic To be quite athletic. That's our fad, you know. I can hold the strap, sir! And keep off your lap, sir! As we jolting go.

If you read on blindly, I shall take it kindly, All the car's not mine. But, if you sit and stare, sir! At my eyes and hair, sir! I must draw the line.

If the stare is meant, sir! For a compliment, sir! As we jog through town, Allow me to suggest, sir! A woman oft looks best, sir! When she's sitting down.

A FISHERMAN'S BABY

Oh! hush little baby, thy Papa's at sea, The big billows rock him as Mama rocks thee. He hastes to his dear ones o'er breakers of foam. Then hush little darling till Papa comes home. Sleep little baby, hush little baby, Papa is coming, no longer to roam.

The shells and the pebbles all day tossed about Are lulled into sleep by the tide ebbing out. The weary shore slumbers, stretched out in the sand, While the waves hurry off at mid ocean's command. Then hush little baby, sleep little darling, Sleep baby, rocked by thy mother's own hand.

The winds that have rollicked all day in the west Are soothed into sleep on the calm evening's breast. The boats that were out with the wild sea at play Are now rocked to sleep in the arms of the bay. Then rest little baby, sleep little baby, Papa will come at the break of the day.

CONTENT AND HAPPINESS

How is it that men pray their earthly lot
May be 'content and happiness'? Dire foes
Without one common trait which kinship shows
I hold these two. Contentment comes when sought,
While Happiness pursued was never caught.
But, sudden, storms the heart with mighty throes
Whenceforth, mild eyed Content affrighted goes,
To seek some calmer heart, less danger fraught.

Bold Happiness knows but one rival--Fear;
Who follows ever on his footsteps, sent
By jealous Fate who calls great joy a crime.
While in far ways 'mong leaves just turning sere,
With gaze serene and placid, walks Content.
No heart ere held these two guests at one time.

THE CUSINE

The woman who looks upon man as a sinner Unsaved as to soul, and uncertain in heart, Should learn how to cook, and prepare him a dinner, And serve it with talent, refinement, and art. Full many a question is solved by digestion. Bad morals are caused, oftentimes by bad cooks, And many a riot results from poor diet-- Conversion may lie in the leaves of cook books.

About the dull stalk of the thorntree of duty Plant flowers of fragrance and vines of good taste. Surround the coarse needs of the body with beauty, Make common things noble, make vulgar things chaste. Put art in housekeeping, nor think culture sleeping Because the base animal, man, must be fed. Delsarte should be able to speak in the table-- 'Expression' may lie in a light loaf of bread.

Though hard be the labour, the end recompenses-- Though weary the journey, reward is the goal. For the soul of a man must be reached through his senses, As the senses of woman are reached through her soul. Speak first to his spirit, he never will hear it; Speak first to his body, his soul will reply; The mortal man fare for, his appetites care for, And lo! he will follow your footsteps on high.

Love born in the boudoir oft dies in the kitchen, The failure of marriage oft starts in the soup. The stomach appeal to, and men's heart you steal to-- Would you reach to the last? To the first you must stoop.