ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.

(‡ decoration)ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.“THE SISTER SPIRITS OF POESY.”IT would be difficult to treat the two poetic Cary sisters separately. Their work began, progressed through life and practically ended together. Few persons have written under the circumstances which at first appeared so disadvantageous. They had neither education nor literary friends, nor was their early lot cast in a region of literary culture—for they were reared in Cincinnati, Ohio, during the formative period of that Western country. But surely in the wild hills and valleys of their native West, they found“Tongues in trees, books in running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, April 20, 1820, and her sister Phoebe at the same place four years later. The two sisters studied at home together and, when eighteen years old, Alice began to write poems and sketches of rural life under thenom de plumeof Patty Lee, which attracted considerable attention and displayed an ability which elicited encouragement from the editors of the periodicals to which she contributed. In the mean time, Phoebe Cary, following her sister’s example, began to contribute, and, in 1850, the two sisters published their first volume of poems in Philadelphia. A volume of prose sketches entitled “Clover Nook, or Recollections of our Neighborhood in the West,” by Alice Cary followed in 1851. In 1852, the Cary sisters removed to New York city where they chiefly resided during the remainder of their lives, returning occasionally to their early farm home. For some years they held weekly receptions in New York, which were attended by leading artistic and literary people. They earned by their pens—pure and womanly pens—sufficient to provide a competence for all their wants. They gathered a library, rich in standard works, to gratify their refined tastes and did much to relieve the needy with their charity. In 1853, Alice Cary issued a second series of her “Clover Nook Papers” and a third gleaning from the same field appeared in 1855, entitled “Clover Nook Children,” for the benefit of her more youthful readers. During the prolific years, from 1852 to 1855, she also published “Lyra and other Poems,” followed by “Hagar, a Story of To-day,” “Married, Not Mated,” and “Hollywood,” a collection of poems. In 1854, Phoebe Cary, also, published “Poems and Parodies.” In 1859 appeared her “Pictures of Country Life,” a series of tales, and “The Bishop’s Son,” a novel. In 1867, appeared her“Snowberries,” a book for young folks. In 1866, Alice also published a volume entitled “Ballads, Lyrics and Hymns,” which is a standard selection of her poetry and contains some of the sweetest minor poems in the language. Alice’s “The Lover’s Diary” appeared in 1868. It begins with the poem “Dreamland” and ranges with a series of exquisite lyrics of love through all the phases of courtship to married life. This was the last of her works published during her lifetime. During the same year (1868), Phoebe published the “Poems of Faith, Hope and Love,” a worthy companion volume to her sister’s works, and in 1869 she aided her pastor,Chas.F. Deems, in editing “Hymns for All Christians.”In comparing the two sisters, it is noticeable that the poems of Alice are more thoughtful and more melodiously expressed. They are also marked with a stronger originality and a more vivid imagination. In disposition, Alice was pensive and tender, while Phoebe was witty and gay. Alice was strong in energy and patience and bore the chief responsibility of their household, allowing her sister, who was less passive and feminine in temperament, to consult her moods in writing. The disparity in the actual intellectual productions of the two sisters in the same number of years is the result, not so much of the mental equality as of the superior energy, industry, and patience of the elder.The considerate love and delicacy with which Alice and Phoebe Cary treated each other plainly indicated that they were one in spirit through life, and in death they were not long separated. Alice died at her home in New York City, February 12, 1871, in her fifty-first year. Phoebe, in sorrow over this bereavement, wrote the touching verses entitled “Light,” and in confidence said to a friend: “Alice, when she was here, always absorbed me, and she absorbs me still. I feel her constantly drawing me.” And so it seemed in reality, for, on the thirty-first day of July, six months after Alice Cary was laid to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, New York, Phoebe died at Newport, Rhode Island, whence her remains were removed and laid by her sister’s side.The two kindred sisters, so long associated on earth, were re-united. The influence they have left behind them, embalmed in their hymns of praiseful worship, their songs of love and of noblest sentiment, and their stories of happy childhood and innocent manhood and womanhood, will long remain to bless the earth and constitute a continual incense to their memory.Besides the published works named above, both Alice and Phoebe left at their death uncollected poems enough to give each name two added volumes. Alice also left the manuscript of a completed novel.PICTURES OF MEMORY.(ALICE CARY.)AMONG the beautiful picturesThat hang on Memory’s wall,Is one of a dim old forest,That seemeth best of all:Not for its gnarled oaks olden,Dark with the mistletoe;Not for the violets goldenThat sprinkle the vale below;Not for the milk-white lilies,That lead from the fragrant hedge,Coqueting all day with the sunbeams,And stealing their golden edge;Not for the vines on the uplandWhere the bright red berries rest,Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,It seemed to me the best.I once had a little brother,With eyes that were dark and deep—In the lap of that old dim forestHe lieth in peace asleep:Light as the down of the thistle,Free as the winds that blow,We roved there the beautiful summers,The summers of long ago;But his feet on the hills grew weary,And, one of the autumn eves,I made for my little brotherA bed of the yellow leaves.Sweetly his pale arms foldedMy neck in a meek embrace,As the light of immortal beautySilently covered his face:And when the arrows of sunsetLodged in the tree-tops bright,He fell, in his saint-like beauty,Asleep by the gates of light.Therefore, of all the picturesThat hang on Memory’s wall,The one of the dim old forestSeemeth the best of all.NOBILITY.(ALICE CARY.)HILDA is a lofty lady,Very proud is she—I am but a simple herdsmanDwelling by the sea.Hilda hath a spacious palace,Broad, and white, and high;Twenty good dogs guard the portal—Never house had I.Hilda hath a thousand meadows—Boundless forest lands:She hath men and maids for service—I have but my hands.The sweet summer’s ripest rosesHilda’s cheeks outvie—Queens have paled to see her beauty—But my beard have I.Hilda from her palace windowsLooketh down on me,Keeping with my dove-brown oxenBy the silver sea.When her dulcet harp she playeth,Wild birds singing nigh,Cluster, listening, by her white hands—But my reed have I.I am but a simple herdsman,With nor house nor lands;She hath men and maids for service—I have but my hands.And yet what are all her crimsonsTo my sunset sky—With my free hands and my manhoodHilda’s peer am I.THE GRAY SWAN.(ALICE CARY.)(From the Poetical Works of Alice and Phœbe Cary, 1876.)OH tell me, sailor, tell me true,Is my little lad, my Elihu,A-sailing with your ship?”The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—“Your little lad, your Elihu?”He said with trembling lip,—“What little lad? what ship?”“What little lad! as if there could beAnother such an one as he!What little lad, do you say?Why, Elihu, that took to the seaThe moment I put him off my knee!It was just the other dayTheGray Swansailed away.”“The other day?” the sailor’s eyesStood open with a great surprise,—“The other day? theSwan?”His heart began in his throat to rise.“Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard liesThe jacket he had on.”“And so your lad is gone?”“Gone with theSwan.” “And did she standWith her anchor clutching hold of the sand,For a month, and never stir?”“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land,Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand,The wild sea kissing her,—A sight to remember, sir.”“But, my good mother, do you knowAll this was twenty years ago?I stood on theGray Swan’sdeck,And to that lad I saw you throw,Taking it off, as it might be, so!The kerchief from your neck.”“Aye, and he’ll bring it back!”“And did the little lawless lad,That has made you sick and made you sad,Sail with theGray Swan’screw?”“Lawless! the man is going mad!The best boy mother ever had,—Be sure he sailed with the crew!What would you have him do?”“And he has never written a line,Nor sent you word, nor made you signTo say he was alive!”“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;Besides, he may be in the brine,And could he write from the grave?Tut, man, what would you have?”Gone twenty years—a long, long cruise,—’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;But if the lad still live,And come back home, think you canForgive him?” “Miserable man,You’re mad as the sea,—you rave,—What have I to forgive?”The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,And from within his bosom drewThe kerchief. She was wild.“My God! my Father! is it true?My little lad, my Elihu!My blessed boy, my child!My dead, my living child!”TO THE EVENINGZEPHYR.¹ALICE CARY.¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.ISIT where the wild-bee is humming,And listen in vain for thy song;I’ve waited before for thy coming,But never, oh, never so long!How oft with the blue sky above us,And waves breaking light on the shore,Thou, knowing they would not reprove us,Hast kissed me a thousand times o’er!Alone in the gathering shadows,Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee,I look for the waves of the meadows,And dimples to dot the blue sea.The blossoms that waited to greet theeWith heat of the noontide oppressed,Now flutter so light to meet thee,Thou’rt coming, I know, from the west.Alas! if thou findest me pouting,’Tis only my love that alarms;Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting,And take me once more to thine arms!DEATHSCENE.¹(PHOEBE CARY.)¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.DYING, still slowly dying,As the hours of night rode by,She had lain since the light of sunsetWas red on the evening sky;Till after the middle watches,As we softly near her trod,When her soul from its prison fettersWas loosed by the hand of God.One moment her pale lips trembledWith the triumph she might not tell,As the sight of the life immortalOn her spirit’s vision fell;Then the look of rapture faded,And the beautiful smile was faint,As that in some convent picture,On the face of a dying saint.And we felt in the lonesome midnight,As we sat by the silent dead,What a light on the path going downwardThe feet of the righteous shed;When we thought how with faith unshrinkingShe came to the Jordan’s tide,And taking the hand of the Saviour,Went up on the heavenly side.MEMORIES.¹(PHOEBE CARY.)“She loved me, but she left me.”¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.MEMORIES on memories! to my soul againThere come such dreams of vanished love and blissThat my wrung heart, though long inured to pain,Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness:Thou, dearer far than all the world beside!Thou, who didst listen to my love’s first vow—Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride:Is the dream over? comes that awakening now?And is this hour of wretchedness and tearsThe only guerdon for my wasted years?And I did love thee—when by stealth we metIn the sweet evenings of that summer time,Whose pleasant memory lingers with me yet,As the remembrance of a better climeMight haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou—Thou who didst turn away and seek to bindThy heart from breaking—thou hast felt ere nowA heart like thine o’ermastereth the mind:Affection’s power is stronger than thy will—Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovest me still.My heart could never yet be taught to moveWith the calm even pulses that it should:Turning away from those that it should love,And loving whom it should not, it hath wooedBeauty forbidden—I may not forget;And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel;But time, which hath not changed affection yet,Hath taught at least one lesson—to conceal;So none but thou, who see my smiles, shall knowThe silent bleeding of the heart below.“EQUAL TO EITHERFORTUNE.”¹(PHOEBE CARY.)¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.EQUAL to either fortune!” This should beThe motto of the perfect man and true—Striving to stem the billow fearlessly,And keeping steadily the right in view,Whether it be his lot in life to sailBefore an adverse or a prosperous gale.Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise,When truth would force its way in deed or word;Whether for him the popular voice of praise,Or the cold sneer of unbelief is heard:Like the First Martyr, when his voice aroseDistinct above the hisses of his foes.“Equal to either fortune,” Heaven designs,Whether his destiny be repose or toil—Whether the sun upon his palace shines,Or calls him forth to plant the furrowed soil:So shall he find life’s blessings freely strewnAround the peasant’s cottage as the throne.Man should dare all things which he knows are right,And fear to do no act save what is wrong;But, guided safely by his inward light,And with a permanent belief, and strong,In Him who is our Father and our friend,He should walk steadfastly unto the end.Ready to live or die, even in that dayWhich man from childhood has been taught to fear,When, putting off its cumbrous weight of clay,The spirit enters on a nobler sphere:And he will be, whose life was rightly passed,“Equal to either fortune” at the last.LIGHT.¹(PHOEBE CARY.)This is one of the last poems. It was written after the death of her sister Alice, in 1871.¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.WHILE I hid mine eyes, I feared;The heavens in wrath seemed bowed;I look, and the sun with a smile breaks forth,And a rainbow spans the cloud.I thought the winter was here,That the earth was cold and bare,But I feel the coming of birds and flowers,And the spring-time in the air.I said that all the lipsI ever had kissed were dumb;That my dearest ones were dead and gone,And never a friend would come.But I hear a voice as sweetAs the fall of summer showers;And the grave that yawned at my very feetIs filled to the top with flowers!As if ’t were the midnight hour,I sat with gloom opprest;When a light was breaking out of the eastAnd shining unto the west.I heard the angels callAcross from the beautiful shore;And I saw a look in my darling’s eyes,That never was there before.Transfigured, lost to me,She had slipped from my embrace;Now, lo! I hold her fast once more,With the light of God on her face!(‡ decoration)

(‡ decoration)

“THE SISTER SPIRITS OF POESY.”

IT would be difficult to treat the two poetic Cary sisters separately. Their work began, progressed through life and practically ended together. Few persons have written under the circumstances which at first appeared so disadvantageous. They had neither education nor literary friends, nor was their early lot cast in a region of literary culture—for they were reared in Cincinnati, Ohio, during the formative period of that Western country. But surely in the wild hills and valleys of their native West, they found

“Tongues in trees, books in running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

“Tongues in trees, books in running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, April 20, 1820, and her sister Phoebe at the same place four years later. The two sisters studied at home together and, when eighteen years old, Alice began to write poems and sketches of rural life under thenom de plumeof Patty Lee, which attracted considerable attention and displayed an ability which elicited encouragement from the editors of the periodicals to which she contributed. In the mean time, Phoebe Cary, following her sister’s example, began to contribute, and, in 1850, the two sisters published their first volume of poems in Philadelphia. A volume of prose sketches entitled “Clover Nook, or Recollections of our Neighborhood in the West,” by Alice Cary followed in 1851. In 1852, the Cary sisters removed to New York city where they chiefly resided during the remainder of their lives, returning occasionally to their early farm home. For some years they held weekly receptions in New York, which were attended by leading artistic and literary people. They earned by their pens—pure and womanly pens—sufficient to provide a competence for all their wants. They gathered a library, rich in standard works, to gratify their refined tastes and did much to relieve the needy with their charity. In 1853, Alice Cary issued a second series of her “Clover Nook Papers” and a third gleaning from the same field appeared in 1855, entitled “Clover Nook Children,” for the benefit of her more youthful readers. During the prolific years, from 1852 to 1855, she also published “Lyra and other Poems,” followed by “Hagar, a Story of To-day,” “Married, Not Mated,” and “Hollywood,” a collection of poems. In 1854, Phoebe Cary, also, published “Poems and Parodies.” In 1859 appeared her “Pictures of Country Life,” a series of tales, and “The Bishop’s Son,” a novel. In 1867, appeared her“Snowberries,” a book for young folks. In 1866, Alice also published a volume entitled “Ballads, Lyrics and Hymns,” which is a standard selection of her poetry and contains some of the sweetest minor poems in the language. Alice’s “The Lover’s Diary” appeared in 1868. It begins with the poem “Dreamland” and ranges with a series of exquisite lyrics of love through all the phases of courtship to married life. This was the last of her works published during her lifetime. During the same year (1868), Phoebe published the “Poems of Faith, Hope and Love,” a worthy companion volume to her sister’s works, and in 1869 she aided her pastor,Chas.F. Deems, in editing “Hymns for All Christians.”

In comparing the two sisters, it is noticeable that the poems of Alice are more thoughtful and more melodiously expressed. They are also marked with a stronger originality and a more vivid imagination. In disposition, Alice was pensive and tender, while Phoebe was witty and gay. Alice was strong in energy and patience and bore the chief responsibility of their household, allowing her sister, who was less passive and feminine in temperament, to consult her moods in writing. The disparity in the actual intellectual productions of the two sisters in the same number of years is the result, not so much of the mental equality as of the superior energy, industry, and patience of the elder.

The considerate love and delicacy with which Alice and Phoebe Cary treated each other plainly indicated that they were one in spirit through life, and in death they were not long separated. Alice died at her home in New York City, February 12, 1871, in her fifty-first year. Phoebe, in sorrow over this bereavement, wrote the touching verses entitled “Light,” and in confidence said to a friend: “Alice, when she was here, always absorbed me, and she absorbs me still. I feel her constantly drawing me.” And so it seemed in reality, for, on the thirty-first day of July, six months after Alice Cary was laid to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, New York, Phoebe died at Newport, Rhode Island, whence her remains were removed and laid by her sister’s side.

The two kindred sisters, so long associated on earth, were re-united. The influence they have left behind them, embalmed in their hymns of praiseful worship, their songs of love and of noblest sentiment, and their stories of happy childhood and innocent manhood and womanhood, will long remain to bless the earth and constitute a continual incense to their memory.

Besides the published works named above, both Alice and Phoebe left at their death uncollected poems enough to give each name two added volumes. Alice also left the manuscript of a completed novel.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

(ALICE CARY.)

AMONG the beautiful picturesThat hang on Memory’s wall,Is one of a dim old forest,That seemeth best of all:Not for its gnarled oaks olden,Dark with the mistletoe;Not for the violets goldenThat sprinkle the vale below;Not for the milk-white lilies,That lead from the fragrant hedge,Coqueting all day with the sunbeams,And stealing their golden edge;Not for the vines on the uplandWhere the bright red berries rest,Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,It seemed to me the best.I once had a little brother,With eyes that were dark and deep—In the lap of that old dim forestHe lieth in peace asleep:Light as the down of the thistle,Free as the winds that blow,We roved there the beautiful summers,The summers of long ago;But his feet on the hills grew weary,And, one of the autumn eves,I made for my little brotherA bed of the yellow leaves.Sweetly his pale arms foldedMy neck in a meek embrace,As the light of immortal beautySilently covered his face:And when the arrows of sunsetLodged in the tree-tops bright,He fell, in his saint-like beauty,Asleep by the gates of light.Therefore, of all the picturesThat hang on Memory’s wall,The one of the dim old forestSeemeth the best of all.

MONG the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory’s wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all:

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies,

That lead from the fragrant hedge,

Coqueting all day with the sunbeams,

And stealing their golden edge;

Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest,

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,

It seemed to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep—

In the lap of that old dim forest

He lieth in peace asleep:

Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,

The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,

As the light of immortal beauty

Silently covered his face:

And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,

He fell, in his saint-like beauty,

Asleep by the gates of light.

Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory’s wall,

The one of the dim old forest

Seemeth the best of all.

NOBILITY.

(ALICE CARY.)

HILDA is a lofty lady,Very proud is she—I am but a simple herdsmanDwelling by the sea.Hilda hath a spacious palace,Broad, and white, and high;Twenty good dogs guard the portal—Never house had I.Hilda hath a thousand meadows—Boundless forest lands:She hath men and maids for service—I have but my hands.The sweet summer’s ripest rosesHilda’s cheeks outvie—Queens have paled to see her beauty—But my beard have I.Hilda from her palace windowsLooketh down on me,Keeping with my dove-brown oxenBy the silver sea.When her dulcet harp she playeth,Wild birds singing nigh,Cluster, listening, by her white hands—But my reed have I.I am but a simple herdsman,With nor house nor lands;She hath men and maids for service—I have but my hands.And yet what are all her crimsonsTo my sunset sky—With my free hands and my manhoodHilda’s peer am I.

ILDA is a lofty lady,

Very proud is she—

I am but a simple herdsman

Dwelling by the sea.

Hilda hath a spacious palace,

Broad, and white, and high;

Twenty good dogs guard the portal—

Never house had I.

Hilda hath a thousand meadows—

Boundless forest lands:

She hath men and maids for service—

I have but my hands.

The sweet summer’s ripest roses

Hilda’s cheeks outvie—

Queens have paled to see her beauty—

But my beard have I.

Hilda from her palace windows

Looketh down on me,

Keeping with my dove-brown oxen

By the silver sea.

When her dulcet harp she playeth,

Wild birds singing nigh,

Cluster, listening, by her white hands—

But my reed have I.

I am but a simple herdsman,

With nor house nor lands;

She hath men and maids for service—

I have but my hands.

And yet what are all her crimsons

To my sunset sky—

With my free hands and my manhood

Hilda’s peer am I.

THE GRAY SWAN.

(ALICE CARY.)

(From the Poetical Works of Alice and Phœbe Cary, 1876.)

OH tell me, sailor, tell me true,Is my little lad, my Elihu,A-sailing with your ship?”The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—“Your little lad, your Elihu?”He said with trembling lip,—“What little lad? what ship?”“What little lad! as if there could beAnother such an one as he!What little lad, do you say?Why, Elihu, that took to the seaThe moment I put him off my knee!It was just the other dayTheGray Swansailed away.”“The other day?” the sailor’s eyesStood open with a great surprise,—“The other day? theSwan?”His heart began in his throat to rise.“Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard liesThe jacket he had on.”“And so your lad is gone?”“Gone with theSwan.” “And did she standWith her anchor clutching hold of the sand,For a month, and never stir?”“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land,Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand,The wild sea kissing her,—A sight to remember, sir.”“But, my good mother, do you knowAll this was twenty years ago?I stood on theGray Swan’sdeck,And to that lad I saw you throw,Taking it off, as it might be, so!The kerchief from your neck.”“Aye, and he’ll bring it back!”“And did the little lawless lad,That has made you sick and made you sad,Sail with theGray Swan’screw?”“Lawless! the man is going mad!The best boy mother ever had,—Be sure he sailed with the crew!What would you have him do?”“And he has never written a line,Nor sent you word, nor made you signTo say he was alive!”“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;Besides, he may be in the brine,And could he write from the grave?Tut, man, what would you have?”Gone twenty years—a long, long cruise,—’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;But if the lad still live,And come back home, think you canForgive him?” “Miserable man,You’re mad as the sea,—you rave,—What have I to forgive?”The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,And from within his bosom drewThe kerchief. She was wild.“My God! my Father! is it true?My little lad, my Elihu!My blessed boy, my child!My dead, my living child!”

H tell me, sailor, tell me true,

Is my little lad, my Elihu,

A-sailing with your ship?”

The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,—

“Your little lad, your Elihu?”

He said with trembling lip,—

“What little lad? what ship?”

“What little lad! as if there could be

Another such an one as he!

What little lad, do you say?

Why, Elihu, that took to the sea

The moment I put him off my knee!

It was just the other day

TheGray Swansailed away.”

“The other day?” the sailor’s eyes

Stood open with a great surprise,—

“The other day? theSwan?”

His heart began in his throat to rise.

“Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard lies

The jacket he had on.”

“And so your lad is gone?”

“Gone with theSwan.” “And did she stand

With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,

For a month, and never stir?”

“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land,

Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand,

The wild sea kissing her,—

A sight to remember, sir.”

“But, my good mother, do you know

All this was twenty years ago?

I stood on theGray Swan’sdeck,

And to that lad I saw you throw,

Taking it off, as it might be, so!

The kerchief from your neck.”

“Aye, and he’ll bring it back!”

“And did the little lawless lad,

That has made you sick and made you sad,

Sail with theGray Swan’screw?”

“Lawless! the man is going mad!

The best boy mother ever had,—

Be sure he sailed with the crew!

What would you have him do?”

“And he has never written a line,

Nor sent you word, nor made you sign

To say he was alive!”

“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;

Besides, he may be in the brine,

And could he write from the grave?

Tut, man, what would you have?”

Gone twenty years—a long, long cruise,—

’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;

But if the lad still live,

And come back home, think you can

Forgive him?” “Miserable man,

You’re mad as the sea,—you rave,—

What have I to forgive?”

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,

And from within his bosom drew

The kerchief. She was wild.

“My God! my Father! is it true?

My little lad, my Elihu!

My blessed boy, my child!

My dead, my living child!”

TO THE EVENINGZEPHYR.¹

ALICE CARY.

¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

ISIT where the wild-bee is humming,And listen in vain for thy song;I’ve waited before for thy coming,But never, oh, never so long!How oft with the blue sky above us,And waves breaking light on the shore,Thou, knowing they would not reprove us,Hast kissed me a thousand times o’er!Alone in the gathering shadows,Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee,I look for the waves of the meadows,And dimples to dot the blue sea.The blossoms that waited to greet theeWith heat of the noontide oppressed,Now flutter so light to meet thee,Thou’rt coming, I know, from the west.Alas! if thou findest me pouting,’Tis only my love that alarms;Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting,And take me once more to thine arms!

SIT where the wild-bee is humming,

And listen in vain for thy song;

I’ve waited before for thy coming,

But never, oh, never so long!

How oft with the blue sky above us,

And waves breaking light on the shore,

Thou, knowing they would not reprove us,

Hast kissed me a thousand times o’er!

Alone in the gathering shadows,

Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee,

I look for the waves of the meadows,

And dimples to dot the blue sea.

The blossoms that waited to greet thee

With heat of the noontide oppressed,

Now flutter so light to meet thee,

Thou’rt coming, I know, from the west.

Alas! if thou findest me pouting,

’Tis only my love that alarms;

Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting,

And take me once more to thine arms!

DEATHSCENE.¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

DYING, still slowly dying,As the hours of night rode by,She had lain since the light of sunsetWas red on the evening sky;Till after the middle watches,As we softly near her trod,When her soul from its prison fettersWas loosed by the hand of God.One moment her pale lips trembledWith the triumph she might not tell,As the sight of the life immortalOn her spirit’s vision fell;Then the look of rapture faded,And the beautiful smile was faint,As that in some convent picture,On the face of a dying saint.And we felt in the lonesome midnight,As we sat by the silent dead,What a light on the path going downwardThe feet of the righteous shed;When we thought how with faith unshrinkingShe came to the Jordan’s tide,And taking the hand of the Saviour,Went up on the heavenly side.

YING, still slowly dying,

As the hours of night rode by,

She had lain since the light of sunset

Was red on the evening sky;

Till after the middle watches,

As we softly near her trod,

When her soul from its prison fetters

Was loosed by the hand of God.

One moment her pale lips trembled

With the triumph she might not tell,

As the sight of the life immortal

On her spirit’s vision fell;

Then the look of rapture faded,

And the beautiful smile was faint,

As that in some convent picture,

On the face of a dying saint.

And we felt in the lonesome midnight,

As we sat by the silent dead,

What a light on the path going downward

The feet of the righteous shed;

When we thought how with faith unshrinking

She came to the Jordan’s tide,

And taking the hand of the Saviour,

Went up on the heavenly side.

MEMORIES.¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

“She loved me, but she left me.”

¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

MEMORIES on memories! to my soul againThere come such dreams of vanished love and blissThat my wrung heart, though long inured to pain,Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness:Thou, dearer far than all the world beside!Thou, who didst listen to my love’s first vow—Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride:Is the dream over? comes that awakening now?And is this hour of wretchedness and tearsThe only guerdon for my wasted years?And I did love thee—when by stealth we metIn the sweet evenings of that summer time,Whose pleasant memory lingers with me yet,As the remembrance of a better climeMight haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou—Thou who didst turn away and seek to bindThy heart from breaking—thou hast felt ere nowA heart like thine o’ermastereth the mind:Affection’s power is stronger than thy will—Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovest me still.My heart could never yet be taught to moveWith the calm even pulses that it should:Turning away from those that it should love,And loving whom it should not, it hath wooedBeauty forbidden—I may not forget;And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel;But time, which hath not changed affection yet,Hath taught at least one lesson—to conceal;So none but thou, who see my smiles, shall knowThe silent bleeding of the heart below.

EMORIES on memories! to my soul again

There come such dreams of vanished love and bliss

That my wrung heart, though long inured to pain,

Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness:

Thou, dearer far than all the world beside!

Thou, who didst listen to my love’s first vow—

Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride:

Is the dream over? comes that awakening now?

And is this hour of wretchedness and tears

The only guerdon for my wasted years?

And I did love thee—when by stealth we met

In the sweet evenings of that summer time,

Whose pleasant memory lingers with me yet,

As the remembrance of a better clime

Might haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou—

Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind

Thy heart from breaking—thou hast felt ere now

A heart like thine o’ermastereth the mind:

Affection’s power is stronger than thy will—

Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovest me still.

My heart could never yet be taught to move

With the calm even pulses that it should:

Turning away from those that it should love,

And loving whom it should not, it hath wooed

Beauty forbidden—I may not forget;

And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel;

But time, which hath not changed affection yet,

Hath taught at least one lesson—to conceal;

So none but thou, who see my smiles, shall know

The silent bleeding of the heart below.

“EQUAL TO EITHERFORTUNE.”¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

EQUAL to either fortune!” This should beThe motto of the perfect man and true—Striving to stem the billow fearlessly,And keeping steadily the right in view,Whether it be his lot in life to sailBefore an adverse or a prosperous gale.Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise,When truth would force its way in deed or word;Whether for him the popular voice of praise,Or the cold sneer of unbelief is heard:Like the First Martyr, when his voice aroseDistinct above the hisses of his foes.“Equal to either fortune,” Heaven designs,Whether his destiny be repose or toil—Whether the sun upon his palace shines,Or calls him forth to plant the furrowed soil:So shall he find life’s blessings freely strewnAround the peasant’s cottage as the throne.Man should dare all things which he knows are right,And fear to do no act save what is wrong;But, guided safely by his inward light,And with a permanent belief, and strong,In Him who is our Father and our friend,He should walk steadfastly unto the end.Ready to live or die, even in that dayWhich man from childhood has been taught to fear,When, putting off its cumbrous weight of clay,The spirit enters on a nobler sphere:And he will be, whose life was rightly passed,“Equal to either fortune” at the last.

QUAL to either fortune!” This should be

The motto of the perfect man and true—

Striving to stem the billow fearlessly,

And keeping steadily the right in view,

Whether it be his lot in life to sail

Before an adverse or a prosperous gale.

Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise,

When truth would force its way in deed or word;

Whether for him the popular voice of praise,

Or the cold sneer of unbelief is heard:

Like the First Martyr, when his voice arose

Distinct above the hisses of his foes.

“Equal to either fortune,” Heaven designs,

Whether his destiny be repose or toil—

Whether the sun upon his palace shines,

Or calls him forth to plant the furrowed soil:

So shall he find life’s blessings freely strewn

Around the peasant’s cottage as the throne.

Man should dare all things which he knows are right,

And fear to do no act save what is wrong;

But, guided safely by his inward light,

And with a permanent belief, and strong,

In Him who is our Father and our friend,

He should walk steadfastly unto the end.

Ready to live or die, even in that day

Which man from childhood has been taught to fear,

When, putting off its cumbrous weight of clay,

The spirit enters on a nobler sphere:

And he will be, whose life was rightly passed,

“Equal to either fortune” at the last.

LIGHT.¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

This is one of the last poems. It was written after the death of her sister Alice, in 1871.

¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

WHILE I hid mine eyes, I feared;The heavens in wrath seemed bowed;I look, and the sun with a smile breaks forth,And a rainbow spans the cloud.I thought the winter was here,That the earth was cold and bare,But I feel the coming of birds and flowers,And the spring-time in the air.I said that all the lipsI ever had kissed were dumb;That my dearest ones were dead and gone,And never a friend would come.But I hear a voice as sweetAs the fall of summer showers;And the grave that yawned at my very feetIs filled to the top with flowers!As if ’t were the midnight hour,I sat with gloom opprest;When a light was breaking out of the eastAnd shining unto the west.I heard the angels callAcross from the beautiful shore;And I saw a look in my darling’s eyes,That never was there before.Transfigured, lost to me,She had slipped from my embrace;Now, lo! I hold her fast once more,With the light of God on her face!

HILE I hid mine eyes, I feared;

The heavens in wrath seemed bowed;

I look, and the sun with a smile breaks forth,

And a rainbow spans the cloud.

I thought the winter was here,

That the earth was cold and bare,

But I feel the coming of birds and flowers,

And the spring-time in the air.

I said that all the lips

I ever had kissed were dumb;

That my dearest ones were dead and gone,

And never a friend would come.

But I hear a voice as sweet

As the fall of summer showers;

And the grave that yawned at my very feet

Is filled to the top with flowers!

As if ’t were the midnight hour,

I sat with gloom opprest;

When a light was breaking out of the east

And shining unto the west.

I heard the angels call

Across from the beautiful shore;

And I saw a look in my darling’s eyes,

That never was there before.

Transfigured, lost to me,

She had slipped from my embrace;

Now, lo! I hold her fast once more,

With the light of God on her face!

(‡ decoration)

(‡ decoration)LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.NO modern poet among American women stands higher in the estimation of her literary peers, or in the social scale than does the author of “Bedtime Stories,” “Some Women’s Hearts,” and “In the Garden of Dreams.”Mrs.Moulton enjoys the triple distinction of being a writer of the most popular stories for children, of popular novels for grown people, and of some of the best poetry which any woman has contributed to our literature. In herself she presents the conscientious poet who writes for the purpose of instructing and benefiting, and, at the same time, one whose wares are marketable and popular. Not a few critics have placed her sonnets at the head of their kind in America. Her poetry has for its main characteristic a constant but not a rebellious sorrow expressed with such consistent ease and melody that the reader is led on with a most pleasurable sensation from stanza to stanza and arises from the reading of her verses with a mellower and softer sympathy for his fellow-beings.Louise Chandler was born at Pomfret, Connecticut, April 5, 1835, and her education was received in that vicinity. Her first book entitled “This, That and Other Poems” appeared when she was nineteen years of age. It was a girlish miscellany and sold remarkably well. After its publication, she passed one year in Miss Willard’s Seminary at Troy, New York, and it was during her first vacation from this school that she met and married the well-known Boston journalist, William Moulton. The next year was published “Juno Clifford,” a novel, without her name attached. Her next publication, issued in 1859, was a collection of stories under the title of “My Third Book.” Neither of these made a great success, and she published nothing more until 1873, when her now famous “Bedtime Stories for Children” was issued and attracted much attention. She has written five volumes of bright tales for children. In 1874 appeared “Some Women’s Hearts”and “Miss Eyre from Boston.” After thisMrs.Moulton visited Europe, and out of the memories of her foreign travel, she issued in 1881 a book entitled “Random Rambles,” and six years later came “Ours and Our Neighbors,” a book of essays on social subjects, and the same year she issued two volumes of poems. In 1889 she published simultaneously, in England and America, her most popular work, entitled “In the Garden of Dreams,” which has passed through many editions with increased popularity.Mrs.Moulton has also edited three volumes of the poems of Philip Burke Marseton.Mrs.Moulton’s residence has been in Boston since 1855, with the exception ofsixteen consecutive summers and autumns which she passed in Europe. In London she is especially at home, where she lives surrounded by friends and friendly critics, who value both her winning personality and her literary art. She has been throughout her life a systematic worker, devoting a part of each day to literary labor. Aside from her books, she has done much writing for newspapers and periodicals. From 1870 to 1876 she was the Boston literary correspondent for the New York “Tribune,” and for nearly five years she wrote a weekly letter reviewing new books and literary people for the Boston “Sunday Herald,” the series of these letters closing in December, 1891.Mrs.Moulton, while not admitting herself to be a hero worshipper, is full of appreciation of the great bygone names of honor, and enjoys with a keen relish the memory of the personal friendship she had with such immortals as Whittier, Longfellow and Lowell, on this side of the Atlantic, and with Swinburne, Tennyson and others, in Europe.“IF THERE WERE DREAMS TOSELL.”¹“If there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?”—Beddoes.¹Copyright, RobertsBros.IF there were dreams to sell,Do I not know full wellWhat I would buy?Hope’s dear delusive spell,Its happy tale to tell—Joy’s fleeting sigh.I would be young again—Youth’s madding bliss and baneI would recapture—Though it were keen with pain,All else seems void and vainTo that fine rapture.I would be glad once more—Slip through an open doorInto Life’s glory—Keep what I spent of yore,Find what I lost before—Hear an old story.As it of old befell,Breaking Death’s frozen spell,Love should draw nigh:—If there were dreams to sell,Do I not know too wellWhatI would buy?WIFE TOHUSBAND.¹¹Copyright, RobertsBros.WHEN I am dust, and thou art quick and glad.Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days we had,What happy days, beside the shining seas,Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease,Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover,Or whispering our own love-story over.When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space,And set another in my vacant place,Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth,Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth,Be happy, dearest one, and surely knowI would not have thee thy life’s joys forego.Yet think of me sometimes, where, cold and still,I lie, who once was swift to do thy will,Whose lips so often answered to thy kiss,Who, dying, blessed thee for that bygone bliss:I pray thee do not bar my presence quiteFrom thy new life, so full of new delight.I would not vex thee, waiting by thy side;My presence should not chill thy fair young bride;Only bethink thee how alone I lie:To die and be forgotten were to dieA double death; and I deserve of theeSome grace of memory, fair howe’ershebe.THE LASTGOOD-BYE.¹¹Copyright, RobertsBros.HOW shall we know it is the last good-bye?The skies will not be darkened in that hour,No sudden light will fall on leaf or flower,No single bird will hush its careless cry,And you will hold my hands, and smile or sighJust as before. Perchance the sudden tearsIn your dear eyes will answer to my fears;But there will come no voice of prophecy:No voice to whisper, “Now, and not again,Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer,For all the wild, unmitigated painOf those who, parting clasp hands with despair.”“Who knows?” we say, but doubt and fear remain,Would anychooseto part thus unaware?NEXT YEAR.THE lark is singing gaily in the meadow, the sun is rising o’er the dark blue hills;But she is gone, the music of whose talking was sweeter than the voice of summer rills.Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think of her blue eyes;Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments: ’tis but the wind’s low sighs.I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall in thought to tangling up her hair;And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear;But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, seems to me like her love—More lofty than the skies that bend and brighten o’er us, more constant than the dove.She walks no more beside me in the morning; she meets me not on any summer eve;But once at night I heard a low voice calling—“Oh, faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!”Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone;But she in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, will walk no more alone.MY MOTHER’S PICTURE.(FROM “IN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS.”)HOW shall I here her placid picture paintWith touch that shall be delicate, yet sure?Soft hair above a brow so high and pureYears have not soiled it with an earthly taint,Needing no aureole to prove her saint;Firm mind that no temptation could allure;Soul strong to do, heart stronger to endure;And calm, sweet lips that uttered no complaint.So have I seen her, in my darkest daysAnd when her own most sacred ties were riven,Walk tranquilly in self-denying ways,Asking for strength, and sure it would be given;Filling her life with lowly prayer, high praise—So shall I see her, if we meet in heaven.

(‡ decoration)

NO modern poet among American women stands higher in the estimation of her literary peers, or in the social scale than does the author of “Bedtime Stories,” “Some Women’s Hearts,” and “In the Garden of Dreams.”Mrs.Moulton enjoys the triple distinction of being a writer of the most popular stories for children, of popular novels for grown people, and of some of the best poetry which any woman has contributed to our literature. In herself she presents the conscientious poet who writes for the purpose of instructing and benefiting, and, at the same time, one whose wares are marketable and popular. Not a few critics have placed her sonnets at the head of their kind in America. Her poetry has for its main characteristic a constant but not a rebellious sorrow expressed with such consistent ease and melody that the reader is led on with a most pleasurable sensation from stanza to stanza and arises from the reading of her verses with a mellower and softer sympathy for his fellow-beings.

Louise Chandler was born at Pomfret, Connecticut, April 5, 1835, and her education was received in that vicinity. Her first book entitled “This, That and Other Poems” appeared when she was nineteen years of age. It was a girlish miscellany and sold remarkably well. After its publication, she passed one year in Miss Willard’s Seminary at Troy, New York, and it was during her first vacation from this school that she met and married the well-known Boston journalist, William Moulton. The next year was published “Juno Clifford,” a novel, without her name attached. Her next publication, issued in 1859, was a collection of stories under the title of “My Third Book.” Neither of these made a great success, and she published nothing more until 1873, when her now famous “Bedtime Stories for Children” was issued and attracted much attention. She has written five volumes of bright tales for children. In 1874 appeared “Some Women’s Hearts”and “Miss Eyre from Boston.” After thisMrs.Moulton visited Europe, and out of the memories of her foreign travel, she issued in 1881 a book entitled “Random Rambles,” and six years later came “Ours and Our Neighbors,” a book of essays on social subjects, and the same year she issued two volumes of poems. In 1889 she published simultaneously, in England and America, her most popular work, entitled “In the Garden of Dreams,” which has passed through many editions with increased popularity.Mrs.Moulton has also edited three volumes of the poems of Philip Burke Marseton.

Mrs.Moulton’s residence has been in Boston since 1855, with the exception ofsixteen consecutive summers and autumns which she passed in Europe. In London she is especially at home, where she lives surrounded by friends and friendly critics, who value both her winning personality and her literary art. She has been throughout her life a systematic worker, devoting a part of each day to literary labor. Aside from her books, she has done much writing for newspapers and periodicals. From 1870 to 1876 she was the Boston literary correspondent for the New York “Tribune,” and for nearly five years she wrote a weekly letter reviewing new books and literary people for the Boston “Sunday Herald,” the series of these letters closing in December, 1891.

Mrs.Moulton, while not admitting herself to be a hero worshipper, is full of appreciation of the great bygone names of honor, and enjoys with a keen relish the memory of the personal friendship she had with such immortals as Whittier, Longfellow and Lowell, on this side of the Atlantic, and with Swinburne, Tennyson and others, in Europe.

“IF THERE WERE DREAMS TOSELL.”¹

“If there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?”—Beddoes.

“If there were dreams to sell,

What would you buy?”—Beddoes.

¹Copyright, RobertsBros.

IF there were dreams to sell,Do I not know full wellWhat I would buy?Hope’s dear delusive spell,Its happy tale to tell—Joy’s fleeting sigh.I would be young again—Youth’s madding bliss and baneI would recapture—Though it were keen with pain,All else seems void and vainTo that fine rapture.I would be glad once more—Slip through an open doorInto Life’s glory—Keep what I spent of yore,Find what I lost before—Hear an old story.As it of old befell,Breaking Death’s frozen spell,Love should draw nigh:—If there were dreams to sell,Do I not know too wellWhatI would buy?

F there were dreams to sell,

Do I not know full well

What I would buy?

Hope’s dear delusive spell,

Its happy tale to tell—

Joy’s fleeting sigh.

I would be young again—

Youth’s madding bliss and bane

I would recapture—

Though it were keen with pain,

All else seems void and vain

To that fine rapture.

I would be glad once more—

Slip through an open door

Into Life’s glory—

Keep what I spent of yore,

Find what I lost before—

Hear an old story.

As it of old befell,

Breaking Death’s frozen spell,

Love should draw nigh:—

If there were dreams to sell,

Do I not know too well

WhatI would buy?

WIFE TOHUSBAND.¹

¹Copyright, RobertsBros.

WHEN I am dust, and thou art quick and glad.Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days we had,What happy days, beside the shining seas,Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease,Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover,Or whispering our own love-story over.When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space,And set another in my vacant place,Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth,Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth,Be happy, dearest one, and surely knowI would not have thee thy life’s joys forego.Yet think of me sometimes, where, cold and still,I lie, who once was swift to do thy will,Whose lips so often answered to thy kiss,Who, dying, blessed thee for that bygone bliss:I pray thee do not bar my presence quiteFrom thy new life, so full of new delight.I would not vex thee, waiting by thy side;My presence should not chill thy fair young bride;Only bethink thee how alone I lie:To die and be forgotten were to dieA double death; and I deserve of theeSome grace of memory, fair howe’ershebe.

HEN I am dust, and thou art quick and glad.

Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days we had,

What happy days, beside the shining seas,

Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease,

Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover,

Or whispering our own love-story over.

When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space,

And set another in my vacant place,

Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth,

Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth,

Be happy, dearest one, and surely know

I would not have thee thy life’s joys forego.

Yet think of me sometimes, where, cold and still,

I lie, who once was swift to do thy will,

Whose lips so often answered to thy kiss,

Who, dying, blessed thee for that bygone bliss:

I pray thee do not bar my presence quite

From thy new life, so full of new delight.

I would not vex thee, waiting by thy side;

My presence should not chill thy fair young bride;

Only bethink thee how alone I lie:

To die and be forgotten were to die

A double death; and I deserve of thee

Some grace of memory, fair howe’ershebe.

THE LASTGOOD-BYE.¹

¹Copyright, RobertsBros.

HOW shall we know it is the last good-bye?The skies will not be darkened in that hour,No sudden light will fall on leaf or flower,No single bird will hush its careless cry,And you will hold my hands, and smile or sighJust as before. Perchance the sudden tearsIn your dear eyes will answer to my fears;But there will come no voice of prophecy:No voice to whisper, “Now, and not again,Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer,For all the wild, unmitigated painOf those who, parting clasp hands with despair.”“Who knows?” we say, but doubt and fear remain,Would anychooseto part thus unaware?

OW shall we know it is the last good-bye?

The skies will not be darkened in that hour,

No sudden light will fall on leaf or flower,

No single bird will hush its careless cry,

And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh

Just as before. Perchance the sudden tears

In your dear eyes will answer to my fears;

But there will come no voice of prophecy:

No voice to whisper, “Now, and not again,

Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer,

For all the wild, unmitigated pain

Of those who, parting clasp hands with despair.”

“Who knows?” we say, but doubt and fear remain,

Would anychooseto part thus unaware?

NEXT YEAR.

THE lark is singing gaily in the meadow, the sun is rising o’er the dark blue hills;But she is gone, the music of whose talking was sweeter than the voice of summer rills.Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think of her blue eyes;Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments: ’tis but the wind’s low sighs.I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall in thought to tangling up her hair;And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear;But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, seems to me like her love—More lofty than the skies that bend and brighten o’er us, more constant than the dove.She walks no more beside me in the morning; she meets me not on any summer eve;But once at night I heard a low voice calling—“Oh, faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!”Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone;But she in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, will walk no more alone.

HE lark is singing gaily in the meadow, the sun is rising o’er the dark blue hills;

But she is gone, the music of whose talking was sweeter than the voice of summer rills.

Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think of her blue eyes;

Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments: ’tis but the wind’s low sighs.

I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall in thought to tangling up her hair;

And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear;

But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, seems to me like her love—

More lofty than the skies that bend and brighten o’er us, more constant than the dove.

She walks no more beside me in the morning; she meets me not on any summer eve;

But once at night I heard a low voice calling—“Oh, faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!”

Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone;

But she in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, will walk no more alone.

MY MOTHER’S PICTURE.

(FROM “IN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS.”)

HOW shall I here her placid picture paintWith touch that shall be delicate, yet sure?Soft hair above a brow so high and pureYears have not soiled it with an earthly taint,Needing no aureole to prove her saint;Firm mind that no temptation could allure;Soul strong to do, heart stronger to endure;And calm, sweet lips that uttered no complaint.So have I seen her, in my darkest daysAnd when her own most sacred ties were riven,Walk tranquilly in self-denying ways,Asking for strength, and sure it would be given;Filling her life with lowly prayer, high praise—So shall I see her, if we meet in heaven.

OW shall I here her placid picture paint

With touch that shall be delicate, yet sure?

Soft hair above a brow so high and pure

Years have not soiled it with an earthly taint,

Needing no aureole to prove her saint;

Firm mind that no temptation could allure;

Soul strong to do, heart stronger to endure;

And calm, sweet lips that uttered no complaint.

So have I seen her, in my darkest days

And when her own most sacred ties were riven,

Walk tranquilly in self-denying ways,

Asking for strength, and sure it would be given;

Filling her life with lowly prayer, high praise—

So shall I see her, if we meet in heaven.

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