Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!Again we hail the Christmas time;In melting, mellow atmosphere,The crown and glory of the year.When bitterness, distrust, and aweDissolve, like ice in winter's thaw,Beneath the genial touches ofAmenity, good will, and love.When flowers of affection grow,Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,In lives severe and beautiless,Unused to warmth or tenderness.Let goodness, grace, and gratitudeRevive in music's interlude,And pæan notes, till time shall cease,Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.Ring, Christmas bells! for at the soundSweet memories of Him aboundWho laid aside a diademTo be the babe of Bethlehem.
Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!Again we hail the Christmas time;In melting, mellow atmosphere,The crown and glory of the year.
When bitterness, distrust, and aweDissolve, like ice in winter's thaw,Beneath the genial touches ofAmenity, good will, and love.
When flowers of affection grow,Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,In lives severe and beautiless,Unused to warmth or tenderness.
Let goodness, grace, and gratitudeRevive in music's interlude,And pæan notes, till time shall cease,Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.
Ring, Christmas bells! for at the soundSweet memories of Him aboundWho laid aside a diademTo be the babe of Bethlehem.
I am longing to dwell by the sea,And dip in the surf every day,And—height of subaqueous glee—With the sharks and the porpoises play.To novelty ever inclined—Instead of a calm evening sail,'Twould suit my adventurous mindTo ride on the back of a whale.I want to disport on the rocksLike a mythical mermaiden belle,And comb out my watery locks,Then dive to my cavernous cell.I want to discover what lendsSuch terror to all timid folks—That serpent whose mystery tendsTo make one believe it a hoax.They say he's been captured at last;The news is too good to be true—He's slippery, cunning, and fast,And likes notoriety too.
I am longing to dwell by the sea,And dip in the surf every day,And—height of subaqueous glee—With the sharks and the porpoises play.
To novelty ever inclined—Instead of a calm evening sail,'Twould suit my adventurous mindTo ride on the back of a whale.
I want to disport on the rocksLike a mythical mermaiden belle,And comb out my watery locks,Then dive to my cavernous cell.
I want to discover what lendsSuch terror to all timid folks—That serpent whose mystery tendsTo make one believe it a hoax.
They say he's been captured at last;The news is too good to be true—He's slippery, cunning, and fast,And likes notoriety too.
Once had I such longings to beA sailor—those wishes are o'er,But ever in dreams of the seaMy horoscope rests on the shore.Oh, give me a home by the sea—A cottage, a cabin, a tent!Existence should ecstasy beTill summer were joyfully spent.
Once had I such longings to beA sailor—those wishes are o'er,But ever in dreams of the seaMy horoscope rests on the shore.
Oh, give me a home by the sea—A cottage, a cabin, a tent!Existence should ecstasy beTill summer were joyfully spent.
Oh, sing me a merry song!My heart is sad tonight;The day has been so drear and long,The world has gone awry and wrong,Discouragements around me throng,And gloom surpassing night.Oh, sing again the song for meMy mother used to singWhen I, a child beside her knee,Looked up for her sweet sympathy,Nor ever thought how I might beHer little hindering thing.
Oh, sing me a merry song!My heart is sad tonight;The day has been so drear and long,The world has gone awry and wrong,Discouragements around me throng,And gloom surpassing night.
Oh, sing again the song for meMy mother used to singWhen I, a child beside her knee,Looked up for her sweet sympathy,Nor ever thought how I might beHer little hindering thing.
Oh, sing, as eventide draws near,The old-time lullabysGrandmother sang—forever dear,Though in her grave this many a yearShe lies who "read her title clearTo mansions in the skies."Oh, sing till all perplexing careHas vanished with the day!And angels ever bright and fairCome down the melody to share,And on their pinions lightly bearMy happy soul away.
Oh, sing, as eventide draws near,The old-time lullabysGrandmother sang—forever dear,Though in her grave this many a yearShe lies who "read her title clearTo mansions in the skies."
Oh, sing till all perplexing careHas vanished with the day!And angels ever bright and fairCome down the melody to share,And on their pinions lightly bearMy happy soul away.
No, this is January, dear,The almanac's untrue;For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear,In sleet and snow and atmosphere,Will be the monarch of the year,And terror, too."Is it a blessing in disguise?"Of course, things always are;But Arctic blasts with ardent skiesSomehow do not quite harmonize,That try to cheat by weather-liesThe calendar.Old Janus must be double-faced;He promised long agoThe maple syrup not to taste,Nor steal the roses from the waistOf one, a damsel fair and chasteAs April snow.O winter of our discontent!Your reign was for a day;Behold! a scene of wonderment,A thousand tongues are eloquent,For spring, in bud and bloom and scent,Is on the way.
No, this is January, dear,The almanac's untrue;For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear,In sleet and snow and atmosphere,Will be the monarch of the year,And terror, too.
"Is it a blessing in disguise?"Of course, things always are;But Arctic blasts with ardent skiesSomehow do not quite harmonize,That try to cheat by weather-liesThe calendar.
Old Janus must be double-faced;He promised long agoThe maple syrup not to taste,Nor steal the roses from the waistOf one, a damsel fair and chasteAs April snow.
O winter of our discontent!Your reign was for a day;Behold! a scene of wonderment,A thousand tongues are eloquent,For spring, in bud and bloom and scent,Is on the way.
Let working-clothes be laid aside,And Industry in festal garb arrayed;Let busy brain and hand from toil and tradeRelax at Christmas-tide.As moments pass by dial, soLet gifts go round the happy circle whereIn giving and receiving each may share,And mutual kindness show.The meaning deep, like mystery,That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe,May thousands never fathom—yet who knowAnd hail the Christmas-tree.So strong a hold on human thoughtHas this glad day that seasons all the yearWith the rich flavoring of hearty cheer,It ne'er shall be forgot.It is the milestone on life's roadWhere we may lay our burdens down, and takeA look at souvenirs, for love's dear sakeSo prettily bestowed.Upon its shining tablet we may write—If, like the good Samaritan, in deed—A record that the angel band shall readWith impulse of delight.And this is why on Christmas mornThe world should smile and wear its brightest glow:Because some nineteen hundred years agoA little child was born.
Let working-clothes be laid aside,And Industry in festal garb arrayed;Let busy brain and hand from toil and tradeRelax at Christmas-tide.
As moments pass by dial, soLet gifts go round the happy circle whereIn giving and receiving each may share,And mutual kindness show.
The meaning deep, like mystery,That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe,May thousands never fathom—yet who knowAnd hail the Christmas-tree.
So strong a hold on human thoughtHas this glad day that seasons all the yearWith the rich flavoring of hearty cheer,It ne'er shall be forgot.
It is the milestone on life's roadWhere we may lay our burdens down, and takeA look at souvenirs, for love's dear sakeSo prettily bestowed.
Upon its shining tablet we may write—If, like the good Samaritan, in deed—A record that the angel band shall readWith impulse of delight.
And this is why on Christmas mornThe world should smile and wear its brightest glow:Because some nineteen hundred years agoA little child was born.
These winter days are passing fair!As if a breath of springHad permeated all the air,And touched each living thingWith thankfulness for such a boon—Discounting with a scoffThe almanac's report that "JuneIs yet a long way off!"We quarrel with the calendar—For May has been misplaced—And doubt the tale oracularOf "Janus, double-faced;"For this "ethereal mildness" looksToward shadowy delightsOf roseate bowers, of cosy nooks,Of coming thermal nights.Let robes diaphanous succeedDense garments made of fur,And overcoats maintain the lead—Among the things that were!The wisely-rented sealskin sacque,By many a dame possessed,Be quickly relegated backTo its moth-haunted chest!
These winter days are passing fair!As if a breath of springHad permeated all the air,And touched each living thingWith thankfulness for such a boon—Discounting with a scoffThe almanac's report that "JuneIs yet a long way off!"
We quarrel with the calendar—For May has been misplaced—And doubt the tale oracularOf "Janus, double-faced;"For this "ethereal mildness" looksToward shadowy delightsOf roseate bowers, of cosy nooks,Of coming thermal nights.
Let robes diaphanous succeedDense garments made of fur,And overcoats maintain the lead—Among the things that were!The wisely-rented sealskin sacque,By many a dame possessed,Be quickly relegated backTo its moth-haunted chest!
While every portly alderman,In linen suit arrayed,Manipulates the palm-leaf fanAnd seeks the cooling shade;And he perspires who not in vainSuggests his funny squibs,By poking his unwelcome caneIn other people's ribs.Who dares to fling opprobriumOn January now?As to a potentate we comeWith reverential bow,Because it doth not yet appearThat Time hath ever seenThe ruler of th' inverted yearIn more benignant mien.O Boreas! do not lie low—That is, if "lie" thou must—Upon our planet; do not blowWith fierce and sudden gust,But come so gently, tenderly—As come thou surely wilt—That we may have sweet dreams of thee,Beneath "our crazy quilt!"
While every portly alderman,In linen suit arrayed,Manipulates the palm-leaf fanAnd seeks the cooling shade;And he perspires who not in vainSuggests his funny squibs,By poking his unwelcome caneIn other people's ribs.
Who dares to fling opprobriumOn January now?As to a potentate we comeWith reverential bow,Because it doth not yet appearThat Time hath ever seenThe ruler of th' inverted yearIn more benignant mien.
O Boreas! do not lie low—That is, if "lie" thou must—Upon our planet; do not blowWith fierce and sudden gust,But come so gently, tenderly—As come thou surely wilt—That we may have sweet dreams of thee,Beneath "our crazy quilt!"
By helpful fingers taught to twineAround its trellis, grewA delicate and dainty vine;The bursting bud, its blossom sign,Inlaid with honeyed-dew.Developing by every artTo floriculture known,From tares exempt, and kept apart,Careful, as if in some fond heartIts legume germs were sown.So thriving, not for me aloneIts beauty and perfume—Ah, no, to rich perfection grownBy flower mission loved and knownIn many a darkened room.And once in strange and solemn place,Mid weeping uncontrolled,Upon the crushed and snowy laceI saw them scattered 'round a faceAll pallid, still, and cold.
By helpful fingers taught to twineAround its trellis, grewA delicate and dainty vine;The bursting bud, its blossom sign,Inlaid with honeyed-dew.
Developing by every artTo floriculture known,From tares exempt, and kept apart,Careful, as if in some fond heartIts legume germs were sown.
So thriving, not for me aloneIts beauty and perfume—Ah, no, to rich perfection grownBy flower mission loved and knownIn many a darkened room.
And once in strange and solemn place,Mid weeping uncontrolled,Upon the crushed and snowy laceI saw them scattered 'round a faceAll pallid, still, and cold.
Oh, some may choose, as gaudy shows,Those saucy sprigs of prideThe peony, the red, red rose;But give to me the flower that growsPetite and pansy-eyed.Thus, meditation on Sweet PeasImpels the ardent thought,Would maidens all were more like these,With modesty—that true heartsease—Tying the lover's knot.
Oh, some may choose, as gaudy shows,Those saucy sprigs of prideThe peony, the red, red rose;But give to me the flower that growsPetite and pansy-eyed.
Thus, meditation on Sweet PeasImpels the ardent thought,Would maidens all were more like these,With modesty—that true heartsease—Tying the lover's knot.
Midway upon the lawn it stands,So picturesque and pretty;Upreared by patient artist hands,Admired of all the city;The very arbor of my dream,A covert cool and airy,So leaf-embowered as to seemThe dwelling of a fairy.It is the place to lie supineWithin a hammock swinging,To watch the sunset, red as wine,To hear the crickets singing;And while the insect world aroundIs buzzing—by the million—No wingèd thing above the groundIntrudes in this pavilion.It is the place, at day's decline,To tell the old, old storyBehind the dark Madeira vine,Behind the morning glory;To confiscate the rustic seatAnd barter stolen kisses,For honey must be twice as sweetIn such a spot as this is.It is the haunt where one may getRelief from petty trouble,May read the latest day's gazetteAbout the "Klondike" bubble:How shanties rise like golden courts.Where sheep wear glittering fleeces,How gold is picked up—by the quartz—And all get rich as Croesus.
Midway upon the lawn it stands,So picturesque and pretty;Upreared by patient artist hands,Admired of all the city;The very arbor of my dream,A covert cool and airy,So leaf-embowered as to seemThe dwelling of a fairy.
It is the place to lie supineWithin a hammock swinging,To watch the sunset, red as wine,To hear the crickets singing;And while the insect world aroundIs buzzing—by the million—No wingèd thing above the groundIntrudes in this pavilion.
It is the place, at day's decline,To tell the old, old storyBehind the dark Madeira vine,Behind the morning glory;To confiscate the rustic seatAnd barter stolen kisses,For honey must be twice as sweetIn such a spot as this is.
It is the haunt where one may getRelief from petty trouble,May read the latest day's gazetteAbout the "Klondike" bubble:How shanties rise like golden courts.Where sheep wear glittering fleeces,How gold is picked up—by the quartz—And all get rich as Croesus.
Here hid away from dust and heat,Secure from rude intrusion,While willing lips the thought repeat,So grows the fond illusion:That happiness the product isOf lazy, languid dozing,Of soft midsummer reveries,Half-waking, half-reposing.And here in restful interlude,Life's fallacies forgetting,Its frailties—such a multitude—The fuming and the fretting,Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew,The happy soul at evenMay walk abroad, and interviewBright messengers from Heaven.
Here hid away from dust and heat,Secure from rude intrusion,While willing lips the thought repeat,So grows the fond illusion:That happiness the product isOf lazy, languid dozing,Of soft midsummer reveries,Half-waking, half-reposing.
And here in restful interlude,Life's fallacies forgetting,Its frailties—such a multitude—The fuming and the fretting,Amid the fragrance, dusk, and dew,The happy soul at evenMay walk abroad, and interviewBright messengers from Heaven.
The melody of autumnIs the only tune I know,And I sing it over and overBecause it thrills me so;It stirs anew the happy wish,So near to perfect bliss,To live a little longer inA world like this.The sound was never sweeter,The voice so nearly mute,As beauty, dying, losesHer hold upon the lute;And like the harmonies that touchAnd blend with those above,Forever must an echo wakeThe heart of love.Her robe of brown and coralAnd amber glistens throughRare jewels of the morning,The opals of the dew,Like royal fabrics worn beneathThe tinselry of pearls,Or diamond dust by fashion strewnOn sunny curls.
The melody of autumnIs the only tune I know,And I sing it over and overBecause it thrills me so;It stirs anew the happy wish,So near to perfect bliss,To live a little longer inA world like this.
The sound was never sweeter,The voice so nearly mute,As beauty, dying, losesHer hold upon the lute;And like the harmonies that touchAnd blend with those above,Forever must an echo wakeThe heart of love.
Her robe of brown and coralAnd amber glistens throughRare jewels of the morning,The opals of the dew,Like royal fabrics worn beneathThe tinselry of pearls,Or diamond dust by fashion strewnOn sunny curls.
If I could wrap such garmentsIn true artistic styleAbout myself departing,And wear as sweet a smileAnd be as guileless as the flowersMy friends would never sigh;'Twould reconcile them to my deathTo see me die.And why should there be sorrowWhen dying is no moreThan 'twixt two bright apartmentsThe opening of a doorThrough which the freed, enraptured soulFrom this, a paradise,May pass to that supremely fairBeyond the skies?Oh, 'twere not hard to finishWhen earth with tender gracePrepares for her dear childrenSo sweet a resting place;And though in dissolution's throeThe melody be riven,The song abruptly ended hereGoes on in Heaven.
If I could wrap such garmentsIn true artistic styleAbout myself departing,And wear as sweet a smileAnd be as guileless as the flowersMy friends would never sigh;'Twould reconcile them to my deathTo see me die.
And why should there be sorrowWhen dying is no moreThan 'twixt two bright apartmentsThe opening of a doorThrough which the freed, enraptured soulFrom this, a paradise,May pass to that supremely fairBeyond the skies?
Oh, 'twere not hard to finishWhen earth with tender gracePrepares for her dear childrenSo sweet a resting place;And though in dissolution's throeThe melody be riven,The song abruptly ended hereGoes on in Heaven.
Of all the lovely blossomsThat decorate the trees,And shower down their petalsWith every breath of breeze,There is nothing so sweet or fair to meAs the delicate blooms of the apple tree.A thousand shrubs and flow'retsDelicious pleasure bring,But beautiful PomonaMust be the queen of spring;And out of her flagon the peach and pearTheir chalices fill with essence rare.Oh, is it any wonder,Devoid of blight or flaw,The peerless blooms of EdenOur primal mother sawIn redolent beauty before her placedSo tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?But woman's love of apples,Involving fearful price,And Adam's love for womanThat cost him Paradise,By the labor of hands and sweat of brow,Have softened the curse to a blessing now.If so those pink-eyed glories,In fields and orchards gayDevelop luscious fruitageBy Horticulture's way,Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes,Shall luxury follow the apple blooms.
Of all the lovely blossomsThat decorate the trees,And shower down their petalsWith every breath of breeze,There is nothing so sweet or fair to meAs the delicate blooms of the apple tree.
A thousand shrubs and flow'retsDelicious pleasure bring,But beautiful PomonaMust be the queen of spring;And out of her flagon the peach and pearTheir chalices fill with essence rare.
Oh, is it any wonder,Devoid of blight or flaw,The peerless blooms of EdenOur primal mother sawIn redolent beauty before her placedSo tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?
But woman's love of apples,Involving fearful price,And Adam's love for womanThat cost him Paradise,By the labor of hands and sweat of brow,Have softened the curse to a blessing now.
If so those pink-eyed glories,In fields and orchards gayDevelop luscious fruitageBy Horticulture's way,Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes,Shall luxury follow the apple blooms.
The congregation was devout,The minister inspired,Their attitude to those withoutBy every one admired,And all things so harmonious seemed,Of no calamity we dreamed.But, just in this quiescent stateA little cloud arosePortentous of our certain fate—As everybody knows;Our pastor took it in his headHis "resignation" must be read.
The congregation was devout,The minister inspired,Their attitude to those withoutBy every one admired,And all things so harmonious seemed,Of no calamity we dreamed.
But, just in this quiescent stateA little cloud arosePortentous of our certain fate—As everybody knows;Our pastor took it in his headHis "resignation" must be read.
In every eye a tear-drop stood,For we accepted itReluctantly, but nothing couldMake him recant one bit;And soon he left for distant parts,While we were left—with broken hearts.And next the "patriarch" who ledFor nearly three-score yearsOur "Sabbath school"—its worthy head—Rekindled all our fearsBy saying, with a smile benign,"Since it's the fashion, I'll resign!"And so he did; but promptly cameForth one, of good report—"Our Superintendent" is his name—Who tries to "hold the fort"With wisdom, tact, and rare good sense,In this, his first experience.The world looks on and says, "How strange!They hang together so,These Baptists do, and never change,But right straight onward goWhile other flocks are scattering all,And some have strayed beyond recall!"
In every eye a tear-drop stood,For we accepted itReluctantly, but nothing couldMake him recant one bit;And soon he left for distant parts,While we were left—with broken hearts.
And next the "patriarch" who ledFor nearly three-score yearsOur "Sabbath school"—its worthy head—Rekindled all our fearsBy saying, with a smile benign,"Since it's the fashion, I'll resign!"
And so he did; but promptly cameForth one, of good report—"Our Superintendent" is his name—Who tries to "hold the fort"With wisdom, tact, and rare good sense,In this, his first experience.
The world looks on and says, "How strange!They hang together so,These Baptists do, and never change,But right straight onward goWhile other flocks are scattering all,And some have strayed beyond recall!"
Is it not our bounden dutyHarsh and bitter thoughts to quell,Wild, ambitions schemes repel,And to revel in the beautyOf this Indian summer spell,Bathing forest, field, and dellAs with radiance immortelle?None can paint like nature dying;Whose dissolving struggle lentWealth of hues so richly blentThat, through weary years of trying,Artist skill pre-eminentMay not copy or inventSuch divine embellishment.Knights of old from castles ridingScattered largesse as they wentWhich, like manna heaven-sent,Cheered the poverty-abiding;But, when 'neath "that low green tent"Passed the hand benevolent,Sad were they and indigent.Monarchs, too, have thus delightedGiving unto courtiers free,Costly robes and tinselry;And, as royal guests, invitedThem to sumptuous halls of glee,Banqueting and minstrelsy,Bacchus holding sovereignty.Then, perchance, in mood capriciousStripped and scorned and turned awayThose who tasted for a dayPleasure sweet and food delicious;Nor might any say them nay—Lest his head the forfeit payWho a king dared disobey.But our own benignant Giver,Almoner impartial, true,Constantly doth gifts renew;Nor would fitfully deliverAught unto the chosen few,But to all the wide world through,Who admire his wonders, too.Never shall the heart be poorer,Never languish in despair,That such affluence may share;For than this is nothing surer—He hath said, and will prepareIn those realms of upper airGlories infinitely fair.
Is it not our bounden dutyHarsh and bitter thoughts to quell,Wild, ambitions schemes repel,And to revel in the beautyOf this Indian summer spell,Bathing forest, field, and dellAs with radiance immortelle?
None can paint like nature dying;Whose dissolving struggle lentWealth of hues so richly blentThat, through weary years of trying,Artist skill pre-eminentMay not copy or inventSuch divine embellishment.
Knights of old from castles ridingScattered largesse as they wentWhich, like manna heaven-sent,Cheered the poverty-abiding;But, when 'neath "that low green tent"Passed the hand benevolent,Sad were they and indigent.
Monarchs, too, have thus delightedGiving unto courtiers free,Costly robes and tinselry;And, as royal guests, invitedThem to sumptuous halls of glee,Banqueting and minstrelsy,Bacchus holding sovereignty.
Then, perchance, in mood capriciousStripped and scorned and turned awayThose who tasted for a dayPleasure sweet and food delicious;Nor might any say them nay—Lest his head the forfeit payWho a king dared disobey.
But our own benignant Giver,Almoner impartial, true,Constantly doth gifts renew;Nor would fitfully deliverAught unto the chosen few,But to all the wide world through,Who admire his wonders, too.
Never shall the heart be poorer,Never languish in despair,That such affluence may share;For than this is nothing surer—He hath said, and will prepareIn those realms of upper airGlories infinitely fair.
Like music heard in mellow chime,The charm of her transforming timeUpon my senses stealsAs softly as from sunny walls,In day's decline, their shadow fallsAcross the sleeping fields.A fair, illumined bookIs nature's page whereon I lookWhile "autumn turns the leaves;"And many a thought of her designsBetween those rare, resplendent linesMy fancy interweaves.I dream of aborigines,Who must have copied from the treesThe fashions of the day:Those gorgeous topknots for the head,Of yellow tufts and feathers red,With beads and sinews gay.I wonder if the saints beholdSuch pageantry of colors boldBeyond the radiant sky;And if the tints of ParadiseAre heightened by the strange deviceOf making all things die.
Like music heard in mellow chime,The charm of her transforming timeUpon my senses stealsAs softly as from sunny walls,In day's decline, their shadow fallsAcross the sleeping fields.
A fair, illumined bookIs nature's page whereon I lookWhile "autumn turns the leaves;"And many a thought of her designsBetween those rare, resplendent linesMy fancy interweaves.
I dream of aborigines,Who must have copied from the treesThe fashions of the day:Those gorgeous topknots for the head,Of yellow tufts and feathers red,With beads and sinews gay.
I wonder if the saints beholdSuch pageantry of colors boldBeyond the radiant sky;And if the tints of ParadiseAre heightened by the strange deviceOf making all things die.
Yea, even so; for Nature glowsBecause of her expiring throes,As if around her tombUnmeet it were,—the look severeThat designates a common bierEnwreathed in deepest gloom.And so I meditate if aughtCan be so fair where death is not;If Heaven's lovelinessIs born of struggle and decay;And, but for funeral array,Would it be beautiless?Oh solemn, sad, sweet mysteryThat Earth's unrivaled brilliancyIs but her splendid pall!That Heaven were not what it isBut for that crown of tragedies,The sacrifice for all.So not a charm would Zion loseWere it bereft of sparkling huesIn gilded lanes and leas;It would be bright though not a flowerUnclosed in its celestial bower,And void of jeweled trees.
Yea, even so; for Nature glowsBecause of her expiring throes,As if around her tombUnmeet it were,—the look severeThat designates a common bierEnwreathed in deepest gloom.
And so I meditate if aughtCan be so fair where death is not;If Heaven's lovelinessIs born of struggle and decay;And, but for funeral array,Would it be beautiless?
Oh solemn, sad, sweet mysteryThat Earth's unrivaled brilliancyIs but her splendid pall!That Heaven were not what it isBut for that crown of tragedies,The sacrifice for all.
So not a charm would Zion loseWere it bereft of sparkling huesIn gilded lanes and leas;It would be bright though not a flowerUnclosed in its celestial bower,And void of jeweled trees.
Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see,Its name is his who died for me;Whose matchless beauty showsPerfection on its bleeding stem,The blossom-bud of Bethlehem,The Resurrection Rose.
Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see,Its name is his who died for me;Whose matchless beauty showsPerfection on its bleeding stem,The blossom-bud of Bethlehem,The Resurrection Rose.
Oh bud and leaf and blossom,How beautiful they are!Than last year's vernal season'Tis lovelier by far;This earth was never so enchantingNor half so bright before—But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime,For forty years or more.What luxury of colorOn shrub and plant and vine,From pansies' richest purpleTo pink of eglantine;From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups,"With deep cerulean eyes,Responding to their modest surnameIn violet surprise.
Oh bud and leaf and blossom,How beautiful they are!Than last year's vernal season'Tis lovelier by far;This earth was never so enchantingNor half so bright before—But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime,For forty years or more.
What luxury of colorOn shrub and plant and vine,From pansies' richest purpleTo pink of eglantine;From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups,"With deep cerulean eyes,Responding to their modest surnameIn violet surprise.
Sometimes I think the sunlightThat gilds the emerald hills,And makes Aladdin dwellingsOf dingy domiciles,Is surplus beauty overflowingThat Heaven cannot hold—The topaz glitter, or the jacinth,The glare of streets of gold.In "Cedar Hill," the cityOf "low green tents" of sod,I read the solemn recordOf those gone home to God;While from their hallowed dust arisingThe fragrant lilies growAs if their life was all the sweeterFor those who sleep below.And so 'tis not in sadnessI dwell upon the thought,When I am dead and buriedThat I shall be forgot.Because the germ of reproductionDoth this poor body hold,Perchance to add to nature's beautyA rose above the mold.
Sometimes I think the sunlightThat gilds the emerald hills,And makes Aladdin dwellingsOf dingy domiciles,Is surplus beauty overflowingThat Heaven cannot hold—The topaz glitter, or the jacinth,The glare of streets of gold.
In "Cedar Hill," the cityOf "low green tents" of sod,I read the solemn recordOf those gone home to God;While from their hallowed dust arisingThe fragrant lilies growAs if their life was all the sweeterFor those who sleep below.
And so 'tis not in sadnessI dwell upon the thought,When I am dead and buriedThat I shall be forgot.Because the germ of reproductionDoth this poor body hold,Perchance to add to nature's beautyA rose above the mold.
A common wayside flower it grew,Unhandsome and unnoticed too,Except in deprecationThat such an herb unreared by toil,Prolific cumberer of the soil,Defied extermination.Its gorgeous blooms were never stirredBy honey-bee nor humming-birdIn their corollas dipping;But they from clover white and redDelicious nectar drew insteadIn dainty rounds of sipping.No place its own euphonious nameWithin the catalogue might claimOf any flora-lover;For, in the scores of passers-by,As yet no true artistic eyeIts beauty could discover.The reaper with his sickle keenAimed at its crest of gold and greenWith spiteful stroke relentless,And would have rooted from the groundThe "Solidago"—blossom-crowned,But gaudy, rank, and scentless.
A common wayside flower it grew,Unhandsome and unnoticed too,Except in deprecationThat such an herb unreared by toil,Prolific cumberer of the soil,Defied extermination.
Its gorgeous blooms were never stirredBy honey-bee nor humming-birdIn their corollas dipping;But they from clover white and redDelicious nectar drew insteadIn dainty rounds of sipping.
No place its own euphonious nameWithin the catalogue might claimOf any flora-lover;For, in the scores of passers-by,As yet no true artistic eyeIts beauty could discover.
The reaper with his sickle keenAimed at its crest of gold and greenWith spiteful stroke relentless,And would have rooted from the groundThe "Solidago"—blossom-crowned,But gaudy, rank, and scentless.
But everything must have its day—And since some fickledevotéeOr myrmidon of FashionDeclares that this obnoxious weed,From wild, uncultivated seed,Shall be the "ruling passion,"Effusive schoolgirls dote on it;Whose "frontispieces" infiniteThat need no decorationAre hid beneath its golden dust,Till many a fine, symmetric bustIs lost to admiration.Smart dudes and ladies' men—the fewWho wish they could be ladies too—Display a sprig of yellowConspicuous in their buttonhole,To captivate a maiden soulOr vex some other fellow.And spinsters of uncertain ageAre clamoring now for "all the rage"To give a dash of colorTo their complexions, which appearTo be the hue they hold so dear—Except a trifle duller.
But everything must have its day—And since some fickledevotéeOr myrmidon of FashionDeclares that this obnoxious weed,From wild, uncultivated seed,Shall be the "ruling passion,"
Effusive schoolgirls dote on it;Whose "frontispieces" infiniteThat need no decorationAre hid beneath its golden dust,Till many a fine, symmetric bustIs lost to admiration.
Smart dudes and ladies' men—the fewWho wish they could be ladies too—Display a sprig of yellowConspicuous in their buttonhole,To captivate a maiden soulOr vex some other fellow.
And spinsters of uncertain ageAre clamoring now for "all the rage"To give a dash of colorTo their complexions, which appearTo be the hue they hold so dear—Except a trifle duller.
Thatnégligée"blue-stocking" friend,Who never cared her time to spendOn mysteries of the toilet,Now wears a sumptuous bouquetAnd shakes your hand a mile awayFor fear that you will spoil it.Delightful widows, dressed in black,Complain with modest sighs they lackThat coveted expression,That sort of Indian Summer airWhich "relicts" always ought to wearBy general concession;And so lugubrious folds of crapeAre crimped and twisted into shapeWith graceful heads of yellow,That give a winsome toning downTo sombre hat and sable gown—In autumn tintings mellow.Alas, we only hate the weed!And think that it must be, indeed,The ladies' last endeavorTo match the gentlemen, who flauntThat odious dried tobacco plantAt which they puff forever.
Thatnégligée"blue-stocking" friend,Who never cared her time to spendOn mysteries of the toilet,Now wears a sumptuous bouquetAnd shakes your hand a mile awayFor fear that you will spoil it.
Delightful widows, dressed in black,Complain with modest sighs they lackThat coveted expression,That sort of Indian Summer airWhich "relicts" always ought to wearBy general concession;
And so lugubrious folds of crapeAre crimped and twisted into shapeWith graceful heads of yellow,That give a winsome toning downTo sombre hat and sable gown—In autumn tintings mellow.
Alas, we only hate the weed!And think that it must be, indeed,The ladies' last endeavorTo match the gentlemen, who flauntThat odious dried tobacco plantAt which they puff forever.
My head is aching, and I wishThat I could feel tonightOne well-remembered, tender touchThat used to comfort me so much,And put distress to flight.There's not a soothing anodyneOr sedative I know,Such potency can ever holdAs that which lovingly controlledMy spirit long ago.How oft my burning cheek as ifBy Zephyrus was fanned,And nothing interdicted painOr seemed to make me well againSo quick as mother's hand.'Tis years and years since it was laid,In her own gentle way,On tangled curls of brown and jetAbove the downy coverlet'Neath which the children lay.As bright as blessed sunlight rayThe past comes back to me;Her fingers turn the sacred pageFor a little group of tender ageWho gather at her knee.And when those hands together claspedDevout and still were we;To whom it seemed God then and thereMust surely answer such a prayer,For none could pray as she.O buried love with her that passedInto the Silent Land!O haunting vision of the night!I see, encoffined, still, and white,A mother's face and hand.
My head is aching, and I wishThat I could feel tonightOne well-remembered, tender touchThat used to comfort me so much,And put distress to flight.
There's not a soothing anodyneOr sedative I know,Such potency can ever holdAs that which lovingly controlledMy spirit long ago.
How oft my burning cheek as ifBy Zephyrus was fanned,And nothing interdicted painOr seemed to make me well againSo quick as mother's hand.
'Tis years and years since it was laid,In her own gentle way,On tangled curls of brown and jetAbove the downy coverlet'Neath which the children lay.
As bright as blessed sunlight rayThe past comes back to me;Her fingers turn the sacred pageFor a little group of tender ageWho gather at her knee.
And when those hands together claspedDevout and still were we;To whom it seemed God then and thereMust surely answer such a prayer,For none could pray as she.
O buried love with her that passedInto the Silent Land!O haunting vision of the night!I see, encoffined, still, and white,A mother's face and hand.
Such oranges! so fresh and sweet,So large and lovely—and so cheap!They lay in one delicious heap,And added to the sumptuous feastFor each and all in taste expertThe acme of all fine dessert;So, singling out the very leastAs in itself an ample treat,While sparkling repartee and jestExhilarated host and guest,Of rarity so delicateIn dreamy reverie I ate,By magic pinions as it wereTransported from this realm of snowsTo be a happy sojournerAway down where the orange grows;Amid the bloom, the verdure, andThe beauty of that tropic land,While redolence seemed wafted inFrom orchard-groves of Mandarin.In dinner costumea la mode,Expressing from the spongy skinThe nectar that ran down her chinIn little rills of lusciousness,Sat Maud, the beautiful coquette;Her dainty mouth, like "two lips" wetWith morning dew, her crimson dress,A sad discoloration showedWhere orange-juice—it was a sin!—A polka-dot had painted in;Which moved the roguish girl to sayHalf-ruefully (half-décolleté)—"I'm glad it's Leap Year now, for I—"Her voice was like a moistened lute"Shall wear the flowers, by and by—I do not like this leaky fruit!"And looking straight and saucilyAt cousin Ned, hervis-a-vis;While Will, who never dared propose,Was blushing like a red, red rose.The company was large, and sheTouched elbows with the exquisite,Gay Archibald, who took her witAnd pertness all as meant for him;Who, thereby lifted some degreesAbove less-favored devotees,With rainbow sails began to trimHis craft of sweet felicity;So mirth in reckless afterludeConvulsed the merry multitude,Who laughed at Archie's self-esteem,And pitied Will's long-cherished dream;While all declared, for her and Ned—His face was like a silver tray—The wedding-banquet should be spreadBefore a twelvemonth passed away.But, ah, the sequel—blind were weTo woman and her strategy!For he so long afraid to speakBore off the bride within a week.
Such oranges! so fresh and sweet,So large and lovely—and so cheap!They lay in one delicious heap,And added to the sumptuous feastFor each and all in taste expertThe acme of all fine dessert;So, singling out the very leastAs in itself an ample treat,While sparkling repartee and jestExhilarated host and guest,Of rarity so delicateIn dreamy reverie I ate,By magic pinions as it wereTransported from this realm of snowsTo be a happy sojournerAway down where the orange grows;Amid the bloom, the verdure, andThe beauty of that tropic land,While redolence seemed wafted inFrom orchard-groves of Mandarin.
In dinner costumea la mode,Expressing from the spongy skinThe nectar that ran down her chinIn little rills of lusciousness,Sat Maud, the beautiful coquette;Her dainty mouth, like "two lips" wetWith morning dew, her crimson dress,A sad discoloration showedWhere orange-juice—it was a sin!—A polka-dot had painted in;Which moved the roguish girl to sayHalf-ruefully (half-décolleté)—"I'm glad it's Leap Year now, for I—"Her voice was like a moistened lute"Shall wear the flowers, by and by—I do not like this leaky fruit!"And looking straight and saucilyAt cousin Ned, hervis-a-vis;While Will, who never dared propose,Was blushing like a red, red rose.
The company was large, and sheTouched elbows with the exquisite,Gay Archibald, who took her witAnd pertness all as meant for him;Who, thereby lifted some degreesAbove less-favored devotees,With rainbow sails began to trimHis craft of sweet felicity;So mirth in reckless afterludeConvulsed the merry multitude,Who laughed at Archie's self-esteem,And pitied Will's long-cherished dream;While all declared, for her and Ned—His face was like a silver tray—The wedding-banquet should be spreadBefore a twelvemonth passed away.But, ah, the sequel—blind were weTo woman and her strategy!For he so long afraid to speakBore off the bride within a week.