O thou Guest so long delayed,Surely, when the house was made,In its chambers wide and free,There was set a place for thee.Surely, in some room was spreadFor thy sake a snowy bed,Decked with linen white and fine,Meet, O Guest, for use of thine.Yet thou hast not kept the tryst.Other guests our lips have kissed:Other guests have tarried long,Wooed by sunshine and by song;For the year was bright with May,All the birds kept holiday,All the skies were clear and blue,When this house of ours was new.Youth came in with us to dwell,Crowned with rose and asphodel,Lingered long, and even yetCannot quite his haunts forget.Love hath sat beside our board,Brought us treasures from his hoard,Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine,Vintage of the hills divine.Down our garden path has strayedYoung Romance, in light arrayed;Joy hath flung her garlands wide;Faith sung low at eventide;Care hath flitted in and out;Sorrow strewn her weeds about;Hope held up her torch on highWhen clouds darkened all the sky.Pain, with pallid lips and thin,Oft hath slept our house within;Life hath called us, loud and long,With a voice as trumpet strong.Sometimes we have thought, O Guest,Thou wert coming with the rest,Watched to see thy shadow fallOn the inner chamber wall.For we know that, soon or late,Thou wilt enter at the gate,Cross the threshold, pass the door,Glide at will from floor to floor.When thou comest, by this signWe shall know thee, Guest divine:Though alone thy coming be,Someone must go forth with thee!
O thou Guest so long delayed,Surely, when the house was made,In its chambers wide and free,There was set a place for thee.Surely, in some room was spreadFor thy sake a snowy bed,Decked with linen white and fine,Meet, O Guest, for use of thine.Yet thou hast not kept the tryst.Other guests our lips have kissed:Other guests have tarried long,Wooed by sunshine and by song;For the year was bright with May,All the birds kept holiday,All the skies were clear and blue,When this house of ours was new.Youth came in with us to dwell,Crowned with rose and asphodel,Lingered long, and even yetCannot quite his haunts forget.Love hath sat beside our board,Brought us treasures from his hoard,Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine,Vintage of the hills divine.Down our garden path has strayedYoung Romance, in light arrayed;Joy hath flung her garlands wide;Faith sung low at eventide;Care hath flitted in and out;Sorrow strewn her weeds about;Hope held up her torch on highWhen clouds darkened all the sky.Pain, with pallid lips and thin,Oft hath slept our house within;Life hath called us, loud and long,With a voice as trumpet strong.Sometimes we have thought, O Guest,Thou wert coming with the rest,Watched to see thy shadow fallOn the inner chamber wall.For we know that, soon or late,Thou wilt enter at the gate,Cross the threshold, pass the door,Glide at will from floor to floor.When thou comest, by this signWe shall know thee, Guest divine:Though alone thy coming be,Someone must go forth with thee!
O thou Guest so long delayed,Surely, when the house was made,In its chambers wide and free,There was set a place for thee.Surely, in some room was spreadFor thy sake a snowy bed,Decked with linen white and fine,Meet, O Guest, for use of thine.
Yet thou hast not kept the tryst.Other guests our lips have kissed:Other guests have tarried long,Wooed by sunshine and by song;For the year was bright with May,All the birds kept holiday,All the skies were clear and blue,When this house of ours was new.
Youth came in with us to dwell,Crowned with rose and asphodel,Lingered long, and even yetCannot quite his haunts forget.Love hath sat beside our board,Brought us treasures from his hoard,Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine,Vintage of the hills divine.
Down our garden path has strayedYoung Romance, in light arrayed;Joy hath flung her garlands wide;Faith sung low at eventide;Care hath flitted in and out;Sorrow strewn her weeds about;Hope held up her torch on highWhen clouds darkened all the sky.
Pain, with pallid lips and thin,Oft hath slept our house within;Life hath called us, loud and long,With a voice as trumpet strong.Sometimes we have thought, O Guest,Thou wert coming with the rest,Watched to see thy shadow fallOn the inner chamber wall.
For we know that, soon or late,Thou wilt enter at the gate,Cross the threshold, pass the door,Glide at will from floor to floor.When thou comest, by this signWe shall know thee, Guest divine:Though alone thy coming be,Someone must go forth with thee!
An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear,No doubt it is. I was thinking hereOnly to-day, as I sat in the sun,How fair was the scene I looked upon;Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise,How it might look to other eyes.’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bedCut here and there in the turf; instead,The broad straight paths run east and west,Down which two horsemen could ride abreast,And north and south with an equal state,From the gray stone wall to the low white gate.And, where they cross on the middle line,Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbineClamber and climb at their own sweet willOver the latticed arbor still;Though since they were planted years have flown,And many a time have the roses blown.To the right the hill runs down to the river,Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver,And under the shade of the hemlock-treesThe low ferns nod to the passing breeze;There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creepWith a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep.So quiet it is, so cool and still,In the green retreat of the shady hill!And you scarce can tell, as you look within,Where the garden ends and the woods begin.But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light,What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight!Red roses burn in the morning glow;White roses proffer their cups of snow;In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-goldThe zinnias flaunt, and the marigold;And stately and tall the lilies stand,Like vestal virgins, on either hand.Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies,Flutter and dance under summer skies;Blue violets here in the shade are set,With a border of fragrant mignonette;And here are pansies and columbine,And the burning stars of the cypress-vine.Stately hollyhocks, row on row,Golden sunflowers, all aglow,Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue,Asters of every shade and hue;And over the wall, like a trail of fire,The red nasturtium climbs high and higher.My lady’s-slippers are fair to see,And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be,With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides,And many another flower besides.Do you see that rose without a thorn?It was planted the year my Hal was born.And he is a man now. Yes, my dear,An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here,I think how often lover and maidDown these long flowery paths have strayed,And how little feet have over them runThat will stir no more in shade or sun.As one who reads from an open book,On these fair luminous scrolls I look;And all the story of life is there—Its loves and losses, hope and despair.An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyesFair as the hills of Paradise.
An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear,No doubt it is. I was thinking hereOnly to-day, as I sat in the sun,How fair was the scene I looked upon;Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise,How it might look to other eyes.’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bedCut here and there in the turf; instead,The broad straight paths run east and west,Down which two horsemen could ride abreast,And north and south with an equal state,From the gray stone wall to the low white gate.And, where they cross on the middle line,Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbineClamber and climb at their own sweet willOver the latticed arbor still;Though since they were planted years have flown,And many a time have the roses blown.To the right the hill runs down to the river,Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver,And under the shade of the hemlock-treesThe low ferns nod to the passing breeze;There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creepWith a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep.So quiet it is, so cool and still,In the green retreat of the shady hill!And you scarce can tell, as you look within,Where the garden ends and the woods begin.But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light,What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight!Red roses burn in the morning glow;White roses proffer their cups of snow;In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-goldThe zinnias flaunt, and the marigold;And stately and tall the lilies stand,Like vestal virgins, on either hand.Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies,Flutter and dance under summer skies;Blue violets here in the shade are set,With a border of fragrant mignonette;And here are pansies and columbine,And the burning stars of the cypress-vine.Stately hollyhocks, row on row,Golden sunflowers, all aglow,Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue,Asters of every shade and hue;And over the wall, like a trail of fire,The red nasturtium climbs high and higher.My lady’s-slippers are fair to see,And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be,With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides,And many another flower besides.Do you see that rose without a thorn?It was planted the year my Hal was born.And he is a man now. Yes, my dear,An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here,I think how often lover and maidDown these long flowery paths have strayed,And how little feet have over them runThat will stir no more in shade or sun.As one who reads from an open book,On these fair luminous scrolls I look;And all the story of life is there—Its loves and losses, hope and despair.An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyesFair as the hills of Paradise.
An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear,No doubt it is. I was thinking hereOnly to-day, as I sat in the sun,How fair was the scene I looked upon;Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise,How it might look to other eyes.
’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bedCut here and there in the turf; instead,The broad straight paths run east and west,Down which two horsemen could ride abreast,And north and south with an equal state,From the gray stone wall to the low white gate.
And, where they cross on the middle line,Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbineClamber and climb at their own sweet willOver the latticed arbor still;Though since they were planted years have flown,And many a time have the roses blown.
To the right the hill runs down to the river,Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver,And under the shade of the hemlock-treesThe low ferns nod to the passing breeze;There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creepWith a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep.
So quiet it is, so cool and still,In the green retreat of the shady hill!And you scarce can tell, as you look within,Where the garden ends and the woods begin.But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light,What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight!
Red roses burn in the morning glow;White roses proffer their cups of snow;In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-goldThe zinnias flaunt, and the marigold;And stately and tall the lilies stand,Like vestal virgins, on either hand.
Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies,Flutter and dance under summer skies;Blue violets here in the shade are set,With a border of fragrant mignonette;And here are pansies and columbine,And the burning stars of the cypress-vine.
Stately hollyhocks, row on row,Golden sunflowers, all aglow,Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue,Asters of every shade and hue;And over the wall, like a trail of fire,The red nasturtium climbs high and higher.
My lady’s-slippers are fair to see,And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be,With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides,And many another flower besides.Do you see that rose without a thorn?It was planted the year my Hal was born.
And he is a man now. Yes, my dear,An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here,I think how often lover and maidDown these long flowery paths have strayed,And how little feet have over them runThat will stir no more in shade or sun.
As one who reads from an open book,On these fair luminous scrolls I look;And all the story of life is there—Its loves and losses, hope and despair.An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyesFair as the hills of Paradise.
(The Brier Rose speaks.)
I cling to the garden wallOutside, where the grasses grow;Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun,And the yellow mulleins blow.The dock and the thistle crowdClose to my shrinking feet,And the gypsy yarrow sharesMy cup and the food I eat.The rude winds toss my hair,The wild rains beat me down,The way-side dust lies whiteAnd thick on my leafy crown.I cannot keep my robesFrom wanton fingers free,And the veriest beggar daresTo stop and gaze at me.Sometimes I climb and climbTo the top of the garden wall,And I see her where she stands,Stately and fair and tall—My sister, the red, red Rose,My sister, the royal one,The fairest flower that blowsUnder the summer sun!What wonder that she is fair?What wonder that she is sweet?The treasures of earth and airLie at her dainty feet;The choicest fare is hers,Her cup is brimmed with wine;Rich are her emerald robes,And her bed is soft and fine.She need not lift her headEven to sip the dew;No rude touch makes her shrinkThe whole long summer through.Her servants do her will;They come at her beck and call.Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowersInside of the garden wall!
I cling to the garden wallOutside, where the grasses grow;Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun,And the yellow mulleins blow.The dock and the thistle crowdClose to my shrinking feet,And the gypsy yarrow sharesMy cup and the food I eat.The rude winds toss my hair,The wild rains beat me down,The way-side dust lies whiteAnd thick on my leafy crown.I cannot keep my robesFrom wanton fingers free,And the veriest beggar daresTo stop and gaze at me.Sometimes I climb and climbTo the top of the garden wall,And I see her where she stands,Stately and fair and tall—My sister, the red, red Rose,My sister, the royal one,The fairest flower that blowsUnder the summer sun!What wonder that she is fair?What wonder that she is sweet?The treasures of earth and airLie at her dainty feet;The choicest fare is hers,Her cup is brimmed with wine;Rich are her emerald robes,And her bed is soft and fine.She need not lift her headEven to sip the dew;No rude touch makes her shrinkThe whole long summer through.Her servants do her will;They come at her beck and call.Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowersInside of the garden wall!
I cling to the garden wallOutside, where the grasses grow;Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun,And the yellow mulleins blow.The dock and the thistle crowdClose to my shrinking feet,And the gypsy yarrow sharesMy cup and the food I eat.
The rude winds toss my hair,The wild rains beat me down,The way-side dust lies whiteAnd thick on my leafy crown.I cannot keep my robesFrom wanton fingers free,And the veriest beggar daresTo stop and gaze at me.
Sometimes I climb and climbTo the top of the garden wall,And I see her where she stands,Stately and fair and tall—My sister, the red, red Rose,My sister, the royal one,The fairest flower that blowsUnder the summer sun!
What wonder that she is fair?What wonder that she is sweet?The treasures of earth and airLie at her dainty feet;The choicest fare is hers,Her cup is brimmed with wine;Rich are her emerald robes,And her bed is soft and fine.
She need not lift her headEven to sip the dew;No rude touch makes her shrinkThe whole long summer through.Her servants do her will;They come at her beck and call.Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowersInside of the garden wall!
(The Garden Rose speaks.)
The garden path runs east,And the garden path runs west;There’s a tree by the garden gate,And a little bird in a nest.It sings and sings and sings!Does the bird, I wonder, knowHow, over the garden wall,The bright days come and go?The garden path runs north,And the garden path runs south;The brown bee hums in the sun,And kisses the lily’s mouth;But it flies away, away,To the birch-tree, dark and tall.What do you find, O brown bee,Over the garden wall?With ruff and farthingale,Under the gardener’s eye,In trimmest guise I stand—Oh, who so fine as I?But even the light wind knowsThat it may not play with me,Nor touch my beautiful lipsWith a wild caress and free.Oh, straight is the garden path,And smooth is the garden bed,Where never an idle weedDares lift its careless head.But I know outside the wallThey gather, a merry throng;They dance and flutter and sing,And I listen all day long.The Brier Rose swings outside;Sometimes she climbs so highI can see her sweet pink faceAgainst the blue of the sky.What wonder that she is fair,Whom no strait bonds enthrall?Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose,Outside of the garden wall!
The garden path runs east,And the garden path runs west;There’s a tree by the garden gate,And a little bird in a nest.It sings and sings and sings!Does the bird, I wonder, knowHow, over the garden wall,The bright days come and go?The garden path runs north,And the garden path runs south;The brown bee hums in the sun,And kisses the lily’s mouth;But it flies away, away,To the birch-tree, dark and tall.What do you find, O brown bee,Over the garden wall?With ruff and farthingale,Under the gardener’s eye,In trimmest guise I stand—Oh, who so fine as I?But even the light wind knowsThat it may not play with me,Nor touch my beautiful lipsWith a wild caress and free.Oh, straight is the garden path,And smooth is the garden bed,Where never an idle weedDares lift its careless head.But I know outside the wallThey gather, a merry throng;They dance and flutter and sing,And I listen all day long.The Brier Rose swings outside;Sometimes she climbs so highI can see her sweet pink faceAgainst the blue of the sky.What wonder that she is fair,Whom no strait bonds enthrall?Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose,Outside of the garden wall!
The garden path runs east,And the garden path runs west;There’s a tree by the garden gate,And a little bird in a nest.It sings and sings and sings!Does the bird, I wonder, knowHow, over the garden wall,The bright days come and go?
The garden path runs north,And the garden path runs south;The brown bee hums in the sun,And kisses the lily’s mouth;But it flies away, away,To the birch-tree, dark and tall.What do you find, O brown bee,Over the garden wall?
With ruff and farthingale,Under the gardener’s eye,In trimmest guise I stand—Oh, who so fine as I?But even the light wind knowsThat it may not play with me,Nor touch my beautiful lipsWith a wild caress and free.
Oh, straight is the garden path,And smooth is the garden bed,Where never an idle weedDares lift its careless head.But I know outside the wallThey gather, a merry throng;They dance and flutter and sing,And I listen all day long.
The Brier Rose swings outside;Sometimes she climbs so highI can see her sweet pink faceAgainst the blue of the sky.What wonder that she is fair,Whom no strait bonds enthrall?Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose,Outside of the garden wall!
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!Under the vine-clad porch she stands,A gentle maiden with willing hands,Dropping the grains of yellow corn.Low and soft, like a mellow horn,While the sunshine over her falls,Over and over she calls and calls“Coo! coo! coo!” to the doves—The happy doves at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!Down they flutter with timid grace,Lured by the voice and the tender face,Till the evening air is all astirWith the happy strife and the eager whir.One by one, and two by two,And then a rush through the ether blue;While Arné scatters the yellow cornFor the gentle doves at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!They hop on the porch where the baby sits,They come and go as a shadow flits,Now here, now there, while in and outThey crowd and jostle each other about;Till one, grown bolder than all the rest—A snow-white dove with an arching breast—Softly lights on her outstretched handUnder the vines at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!With a rush and a whir of shining wings,They hear and obey—the dainty things!Dun and purple and snowy white,Clouded gray, like the soft twilight,Straight as an arrow shot from a bow,Wheeling and circling high and low,Down they fly from the slanting roofOf the old red barn at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!Baby Alice with wide blue eyesWatches them ever with new surprise,While she and Wag on the mat togetherJoy in the soft midsummer weather.Hither and thither she sees them fly,Gray and white on the azure sky,Light and shadow against the greenOf the maple grove at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!A sound, a motion, a flash of wings—They are gone—like a dream of heavenly things.The doves have flown and the porch is still,And the shadows gather on vale and hill.Then sinks the sun, and the mountain breezeStirs in the tremulous maple-trees;While Love and Peace, as the night comes down,Brood over quiet Mendon!
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!Under the vine-clad porch she stands,A gentle maiden with willing hands,Dropping the grains of yellow corn.Low and soft, like a mellow horn,While the sunshine over her falls,Over and over she calls and calls“Coo! coo! coo!” to the doves—The happy doves at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!Down they flutter with timid grace,Lured by the voice and the tender face,Till the evening air is all astirWith the happy strife and the eager whir.One by one, and two by two,And then a rush through the ether blue;While Arné scatters the yellow cornFor the gentle doves at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!They hop on the porch where the baby sits,They come and go as a shadow flits,Now here, now there, while in and outThey crowd and jostle each other about;Till one, grown bolder than all the rest—A snow-white dove with an arching breast—Softly lights on her outstretched handUnder the vines at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!With a rush and a whir of shining wings,They hear and obey—the dainty things!Dun and purple and snowy white,Clouded gray, like the soft twilight,Straight as an arrow shot from a bow,Wheeling and circling high and low,Down they fly from the slanting roofOf the old red barn at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!Baby Alice with wide blue eyesWatches them ever with new surprise,While she and Wag on the mat togetherJoy in the soft midsummer weather.Hither and thither she sees them fly,Gray and white on the azure sky,Light and shadow against the greenOf the maple grove at Mendon.“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!A sound, a motion, a flash of wings—They are gone—like a dream of heavenly things.The doves have flown and the porch is still,And the shadows gather on vale and hill.Then sinks the sun, and the mountain breezeStirs in the tremulous maple-trees;While Love and Peace, as the night comes down,Brood over quiet Mendon!
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!
Under the vine-clad porch she stands,A gentle maiden with willing hands,Dropping the grains of yellow corn.Low and soft, like a mellow horn,While the sunshine over her falls,Over and over she calls and calls“Coo! coo! coo!” to the doves—The happy doves at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!
Down they flutter with timid grace,Lured by the voice and the tender face,Till the evening air is all astirWith the happy strife and the eager whir.One by one, and two by two,And then a rush through the ether blue;While Arné scatters the yellow cornFor the gentle doves at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!
They hop on the porch where the baby sits,They come and go as a shadow flits,Now here, now there, while in and outThey crowd and jostle each other about;Till one, grown bolder than all the rest—A snow-white dove with an arching breast—Softly lights on her outstretched handUnder the vines at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!
With a rush and a whir of shining wings,They hear and obey—the dainty things!Dun and purple and snowy white,Clouded gray, like the soft twilight,Straight as an arrow shot from a bow,Wheeling and circling high and low,Down they fly from the slanting roofOf the old red barn at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!
Baby Alice with wide blue eyesWatches them ever with new surprise,While she and Wag on the mat togetherJoy in the soft midsummer weather.Hither and thither she sees them fly,Gray and white on the azure sky,Light and shadow against the greenOf the maple grove at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,Calling the doves at Mendon!
A sound, a motion, a flash of wings—They are gone—like a dream of heavenly things.The doves have flown and the porch is still,And the shadows gather on vale and hill.Then sinks the sun, and the mountain breezeStirs in the tremulous maple-trees;While Love and Peace, as the night comes down,Brood over quiet Mendon!
I sent a little maidenTo pluck for me a rose,The sweetest and the fairestThat in the garden grows—A blush-rose, proud and tender,Upon its stem so slender,Swaying in dreamy splendorWhere yellow sunshine glows.Back came the little maidenWith drooping, downcast head,And slow, reluctant footsteps,And this to me she said:“I find no sweet blush-rosesIn all the garden closes:There are no summer roses;It must be they are dead!”Then bent I to the maidenAnd touched her shining hair—Dear heart! in all the gardenWas nothing half so fair!“Nay!” said I, “let the rosesDie in the garden closesWhenever fate disposes,If Ithisrose may wear!”
I sent a little maidenTo pluck for me a rose,The sweetest and the fairestThat in the garden grows—A blush-rose, proud and tender,Upon its stem so slender,Swaying in dreamy splendorWhere yellow sunshine glows.Back came the little maidenWith drooping, downcast head,And slow, reluctant footsteps,And this to me she said:“I find no sweet blush-rosesIn all the garden closes:There are no summer roses;It must be they are dead!”Then bent I to the maidenAnd touched her shining hair—Dear heart! in all the gardenWas nothing half so fair!“Nay!” said I, “let the rosesDie in the garden closesWhenever fate disposes,If Ithisrose may wear!”
I sent a little maidenTo pluck for me a rose,The sweetest and the fairestThat in the garden grows—A blush-rose, proud and tender,Upon its stem so slender,Swaying in dreamy splendorWhere yellow sunshine glows.
Back came the little maidenWith drooping, downcast head,And slow, reluctant footsteps,And this to me she said:“I find no sweet blush-rosesIn all the garden closes:There are no summer roses;It must be they are dead!”
Then bent I to the maidenAnd touched her shining hair—Dear heart! in all the gardenWas nothing half so fair!“Nay!” said I, “let the rosesDie in the garden closesWhenever fate disposes,If Ithisrose may wear!”
Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Soft and clear,Far or near,Still the mellow notes I hear!Up and down the sunny hills,Here you go, there you go,Where the happy mountain rillsTinkle soft, tinkle low;Where the willows, all a-quiver,Dip their long wands in the river,And the hemlock shadows fallBy the gray rocks, cool and tall—In and out,And round about,Here you go,There you go!Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Here and there,Everywhere,Floats the music on the air!Through the pastures wide and free,Here you go, there you go,Making friends with bird and bee,Flying high, flying low;In and out, where lilies blowingNod above wild grasses growing,Where the sweet-fern and the brakeAll around rich odors make,Where the mosses cling and creepTo the rocks, and up the steep—In and outYou wind about,Here and there,Everywhere!Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Day is done,And the sunNow its royal couch hath won!Homeward through the winding lane,Here you go, there you go,While the bell in sweet refrainTinkles clear, tinkles low—Tinkles softly through the gloaming,“Drop the bars—I’m tired of roamingHere and there, everywhereThrough the pastures wide and fair.Home is best,Home and rest!”Through the bars goes Periwinkle,While the bell goes tinkle, tinkle,Low and clear,Saying, softly, “Night is here!”
Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Soft and clear,Far or near,Still the mellow notes I hear!Up and down the sunny hills,Here you go, there you go,Where the happy mountain rillsTinkle soft, tinkle low;Where the willows, all a-quiver,Dip their long wands in the river,And the hemlock shadows fallBy the gray rocks, cool and tall—In and out,And round about,Here you go,There you go!Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Here and there,Everywhere,Floats the music on the air!Through the pastures wide and free,Here you go, there you go,Making friends with bird and bee,Flying high, flying low;In and out, where lilies blowingNod above wild grasses growing,Where the sweet-fern and the brakeAll around rich odors make,Where the mosses cling and creepTo the rocks, and up the steep—In and outYou wind about,Here and there,Everywhere!Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Day is done,And the sunNow its royal couch hath won!Homeward through the winding lane,Here you go, there you go,While the bell in sweet refrainTinkles clear, tinkles low—Tinkles softly through the gloaming,“Drop the bars—I’m tired of roamingHere and there, everywhereThrough the pastures wide and fair.Home is best,Home and rest!”Through the bars goes Periwinkle,While the bell goes tinkle, tinkle,Low and clear,Saying, softly, “Night is here!”
Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Soft and clear,Far or near,Still the mellow notes I hear!Up and down the sunny hills,Here you go, there you go,Where the happy mountain rillsTinkle soft, tinkle low;Where the willows, all a-quiver,Dip their long wands in the river,And the hemlock shadows fallBy the gray rocks, cool and tall—In and out,And round about,Here you go,There you go!
Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Here and there,Everywhere,Floats the music on the air!Through the pastures wide and free,Here you go, there you go,Making friends with bird and bee,Flying high, flying low;In and out, where lilies blowingNod above wild grasses growing,Where the sweet-fern and the brakeAll around rich odors make,Where the mosses cling and creepTo the rocks, and up the steep—In and outYou wind about,Here and there,Everywhere!
Tinkle, tinkle,Periwinkle!Day is done,And the sunNow its royal couch hath won!Homeward through the winding lane,Here you go, there you go,While the bell in sweet refrainTinkles clear, tinkles low—Tinkles softly through the gloaming,“Drop the bars—I’m tired of roamingHere and there, everywhereThrough the pastures wide and fair.Home is best,Home and rest!”Through the bars goes Periwinkle,While the bell goes tinkle, tinkle,Low and clear,Saying, softly, “Night is here!”
O perfect day,I bid thee stay!Too fast thy glad hours slip away;The morn, the noon,Have fled too soon—Delay, O golden afternoon!O peerless Sun,Thou radiant oneWhose dazzling course is half-way run,Stay, stay thy flightDown yon blue height,Nor haste thee to the arms of night!The west wind blowsO’er beds of rose,But does not stir my deep repose.In dreamful guiseI close mine eyes,Borne on its wings to Paradise.Beneath this treeHalf consciously.I share the life of all things free,Hearing the beatOf rhythmic feet,As the grasses run my hand to meet.The wild bee’s hum,The lone bird’s drum,O’er the wide pastures faintly come;And soft and clearFalls on my earThe cow-bell’s tinkle, far and near!Before my eyesThree blue peaks rise,Piercing the bright autumnal skies;Silent and grand,On either hand,Far mountain heights majestic stand.By wreaths of mistThe vales are kissed—Fair, floating clouds of amethyst,That follow on,Through shade and sun,Where’er the river’s course may run.Here, looking downOn roof-trees brown,I catch fair glimpses of the town.There, far away,The shadows playOn crags and bowlders, huge and gray.All whispering low,The breezes go—The wandering birds flit to and fro;Winged motes float byMe as I lie,And yellow leaves drop silently.The morn, the noon,Have fled too soon—Delay, O golden afternoon,While with rapt eyesMy spirit fliesFrom yon blue peaks to Paradise!
O perfect day,I bid thee stay!Too fast thy glad hours slip away;The morn, the noon,Have fled too soon—Delay, O golden afternoon!O peerless Sun,Thou radiant oneWhose dazzling course is half-way run,Stay, stay thy flightDown yon blue height,Nor haste thee to the arms of night!The west wind blowsO’er beds of rose,But does not stir my deep repose.In dreamful guiseI close mine eyes,Borne on its wings to Paradise.Beneath this treeHalf consciously.I share the life of all things free,Hearing the beatOf rhythmic feet,As the grasses run my hand to meet.The wild bee’s hum,The lone bird’s drum,O’er the wide pastures faintly come;And soft and clearFalls on my earThe cow-bell’s tinkle, far and near!Before my eyesThree blue peaks rise,Piercing the bright autumnal skies;Silent and grand,On either hand,Far mountain heights majestic stand.By wreaths of mistThe vales are kissed—Fair, floating clouds of amethyst,That follow on,Through shade and sun,Where’er the river’s course may run.Here, looking downOn roof-trees brown,I catch fair glimpses of the town.There, far away,The shadows playOn crags and bowlders, huge and gray.All whispering low,The breezes go—The wandering birds flit to and fro;Winged motes float byMe as I lie,And yellow leaves drop silently.The morn, the noon,Have fled too soon—Delay, O golden afternoon,While with rapt eyesMy spirit fliesFrom yon blue peaks to Paradise!
O perfect day,I bid thee stay!Too fast thy glad hours slip away;The morn, the noon,Have fled too soon—Delay, O golden afternoon!
O peerless Sun,Thou radiant oneWhose dazzling course is half-way run,Stay, stay thy flightDown yon blue height,Nor haste thee to the arms of night!
The west wind blowsO’er beds of rose,But does not stir my deep repose.In dreamful guiseI close mine eyes,Borne on its wings to Paradise.
Beneath this treeHalf consciously.I share the life of all things free,Hearing the beatOf rhythmic feet,As the grasses run my hand to meet.
The wild bee’s hum,The lone bird’s drum,O’er the wide pastures faintly come;And soft and clearFalls on my earThe cow-bell’s tinkle, far and near!
Before my eyesThree blue peaks rise,Piercing the bright autumnal skies;Silent and grand,On either hand,Far mountain heights majestic stand.
By wreaths of mistThe vales are kissed—Fair, floating clouds of amethyst,That follow on,Through shade and sun,Where’er the river’s course may run.
Here, looking downOn roof-trees brown,I catch fair glimpses of the town.There, far away,The shadows playOn crags and bowlders, huge and gray.
All whispering low,The breezes go—The wandering birds flit to and fro;Winged motes float byMe as I lie,And yellow leaves drop silently.
The morn, the noon,Have fled too soon—Delay, O golden afternoon,While with rapt eyesMy spirit fliesFrom yon blue peaks to Paradise!
The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow,From the near isles the soft airs blow;From leagues remote, with roar and din,Over the reefs the waves rush in;The wild white breakers foam and fret,Day follows day, stars rise and set;Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fairAs some proud spirit of the air,Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow—She, the White Lady of the Prow!The winds blow east, the winds blow west,From woodlands low to the eagle’s nest;The winds blow north, the winds blow south.To steal the sweets from the lily’s mouth!We come and go; we spread our sailsLike sea-gulls to the favoring gales;Or, soft and slow, our oars we dipUnder the lee of the stranded ship.Yet little recks she when or how,The grand White Lady of the Prow.We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh,But never she heeds as we glide by—Never she cares for our idle waysNor turns from the brink of the world her gaze!What does she see when her steadfast eyesPeer into the sunset mysteries,And all the secrets of time and spaceSeem unfolded before her face?What does she hear when, pale and calm,She lists for the great sea’s evening psalm?Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealèd lip,Thou fair white spirit of the ship,Could tell such tales of high emprise,Of valorous deeds and counsels wise!What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance,And meet thy first revealing glance,Or what Pygmalion from her sleepBid Galatea wake and weep?The wave’s wild passion stirs thee not—Oh, is thy life’s long love forgot?How canst thou bear this trancèd calmBy sunlit isles of bloom and balm—Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas,Empress alike of wave and breeze;Thou who hast swept from pole to pole,Where the great surges swell and roll;Breasted the billows white with wrath,Rode in the tempest’s fiery path,And proudly borne to waiting handsThe glorious spoil of farthest lands?How canst thou bear this silence, deepAnd tranquil as an infant’s sleep—Thou who hast heard above thy headThe white sails sing with wings outspread;Thou whose strong soul has thrilled to feelThe swift rush of the ploughing keel,The dash of waves, and the wild uproarOf ocean lashed from shore to shore?How canst thou bear this changeless rest,Thou who hast made the world thy quest?O Lady of the stranded ship,Once more our lingering oars we dipIn the clear blue that round thee lies,Fanned by the airs of Paradise!Farewell! farewell! But oft when dayOn our far hill-tops dies away,And night’s cool winds the pine-trees bow,Our eyes will see thee, even as now,Waiting—a spirit pale and calm—To hear the great sea’s evening psalm!
The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow,From the near isles the soft airs blow;From leagues remote, with roar and din,Over the reefs the waves rush in;The wild white breakers foam and fret,Day follows day, stars rise and set;Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fairAs some proud spirit of the air,Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow—She, the White Lady of the Prow!The winds blow east, the winds blow west,From woodlands low to the eagle’s nest;The winds blow north, the winds blow south.To steal the sweets from the lily’s mouth!We come and go; we spread our sailsLike sea-gulls to the favoring gales;Or, soft and slow, our oars we dipUnder the lee of the stranded ship.Yet little recks she when or how,The grand White Lady of the Prow.We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh,But never she heeds as we glide by—Never she cares for our idle waysNor turns from the brink of the world her gaze!What does she see when her steadfast eyesPeer into the sunset mysteries,And all the secrets of time and spaceSeem unfolded before her face?What does she hear when, pale and calm,She lists for the great sea’s evening psalm?Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealèd lip,Thou fair white spirit of the ship,Could tell such tales of high emprise,Of valorous deeds and counsels wise!What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance,And meet thy first revealing glance,Or what Pygmalion from her sleepBid Galatea wake and weep?The wave’s wild passion stirs thee not—Oh, is thy life’s long love forgot?How canst thou bear this trancèd calmBy sunlit isles of bloom and balm—Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas,Empress alike of wave and breeze;Thou who hast swept from pole to pole,Where the great surges swell and roll;Breasted the billows white with wrath,Rode in the tempest’s fiery path,And proudly borne to waiting handsThe glorious spoil of farthest lands?How canst thou bear this silence, deepAnd tranquil as an infant’s sleep—Thou who hast heard above thy headThe white sails sing with wings outspread;Thou whose strong soul has thrilled to feelThe swift rush of the ploughing keel,The dash of waves, and the wild uproarOf ocean lashed from shore to shore?How canst thou bear this changeless rest,Thou who hast made the world thy quest?O Lady of the stranded ship,Once more our lingering oars we dipIn the clear blue that round thee lies,Fanned by the airs of Paradise!Farewell! farewell! But oft when dayOn our far hill-tops dies away,And night’s cool winds the pine-trees bow,Our eyes will see thee, even as now,Waiting—a spirit pale and calm—To hear the great sea’s evening psalm!
The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow,From the near isles the soft airs blow;From leagues remote, with roar and din,Over the reefs the waves rush in;The wild white breakers foam and fret,Day follows day, stars rise and set;Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fairAs some proud spirit of the air,Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow—She, the White Lady of the Prow!
The winds blow east, the winds blow west,From woodlands low to the eagle’s nest;The winds blow north, the winds blow south.To steal the sweets from the lily’s mouth!We come and go; we spread our sailsLike sea-gulls to the favoring gales;Or, soft and slow, our oars we dipUnder the lee of the stranded ship.Yet little recks she when or how,The grand White Lady of the Prow.
We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh,But never she heeds as we glide by—Never she cares for our idle waysNor turns from the brink of the world her gaze!What does she see when her steadfast eyesPeer into the sunset mysteries,And all the secrets of time and spaceSeem unfolded before her face?What does she hear when, pale and calm,She lists for the great sea’s evening psalm?
Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealèd lip,Thou fair white spirit of the ship,Could tell such tales of high emprise,Of valorous deeds and counsels wise!What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance,And meet thy first revealing glance,Or what Pygmalion from her sleepBid Galatea wake and weep?The wave’s wild passion stirs thee not—Oh, is thy life’s long love forgot?
How canst thou bear this trancèd calmBy sunlit isles of bloom and balm—Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas,Empress alike of wave and breeze;Thou who hast swept from pole to pole,Where the great surges swell and roll;Breasted the billows white with wrath,Rode in the tempest’s fiery path,And proudly borne to waiting handsThe glorious spoil of farthest lands?
How canst thou bear this silence, deepAnd tranquil as an infant’s sleep—Thou who hast heard above thy headThe white sails sing with wings outspread;Thou whose strong soul has thrilled to feelThe swift rush of the ploughing keel,The dash of waves, and the wild uproarOf ocean lashed from shore to shore?How canst thou bear this changeless rest,Thou who hast made the world thy quest?
O Lady of the stranded ship,Once more our lingering oars we dipIn the clear blue that round thee lies,Fanned by the airs of Paradise!Farewell! farewell! But oft when dayOn our far hill-tops dies away,And night’s cool winds the pine-trees bow,Our eyes will see thee, even as now,Waiting—a spirit pale and calm—To hear the great sea’s evening psalm!
April days are over!O my gay young lover,Forth we fare togetherIn the soft May weather;Forth we wander, hand in hand,Seeking an enchanted landUnderneath a smiling sky,So blithely—thou and I!Soft spring days are over!O my ardent lover,Many a hill together,In the July weather,Climb we when the days are longAnd the summer heats are strong,And the harvest wains go by,So bravely—thou and I!July days are over!O my faithful lover,Side by side togetherIn the August weather,When the swift, wild storms befall us,And the fiery darts appall us,Wait we till the clouds sweep by,And stars shine—thou and I!Summer days are over!O my one true lover,Sit we now alone togetherIn the early autumn weather!From our nest the birds have flownTo fair dreamlands of their own,And we see the days go by,In silence—thou and I!Storm and stress are over!O my friend and lover,Closer now we lean togetherIn the Indian-summer weather;See the bright leaves falling, falling,Hear the low winds calling, calling,Glad to let the world go byUnheeding—thou and I!Winter days are over!O my life-long lover,Rest we now in peace togetherOut of reach of changeful weather!Not a sound can mar our sleeping—Breath of laughter, or of weeping,May not reach us where we lieUncaring—thou and I!
April days are over!O my gay young lover,Forth we fare togetherIn the soft May weather;Forth we wander, hand in hand,Seeking an enchanted landUnderneath a smiling sky,So blithely—thou and I!Soft spring days are over!O my ardent lover,Many a hill together,In the July weather,Climb we when the days are longAnd the summer heats are strong,And the harvest wains go by,So bravely—thou and I!July days are over!O my faithful lover,Side by side togetherIn the August weather,When the swift, wild storms befall us,And the fiery darts appall us,Wait we till the clouds sweep by,And stars shine—thou and I!Summer days are over!O my one true lover,Sit we now alone togetherIn the early autumn weather!From our nest the birds have flownTo fair dreamlands of their own,And we see the days go by,In silence—thou and I!Storm and stress are over!O my friend and lover,Closer now we lean togetherIn the Indian-summer weather;See the bright leaves falling, falling,Hear the low winds calling, calling,Glad to let the world go byUnheeding—thou and I!Winter days are over!O my life-long lover,Rest we now in peace togetherOut of reach of changeful weather!Not a sound can mar our sleeping—Breath of laughter, or of weeping,May not reach us where we lieUncaring—thou and I!
April days are over!O my gay young lover,Forth we fare togetherIn the soft May weather;Forth we wander, hand in hand,Seeking an enchanted landUnderneath a smiling sky,So blithely—thou and I!
Soft spring days are over!O my ardent lover,Many a hill together,In the July weather,Climb we when the days are longAnd the summer heats are strong,And the harvest wains go by,So bravely—thou and I!
July days are over!O my faithful lover,Side by side togetherIn the August weather,When the swift, wild storms befall us,And the fiery darts appall us,Wait we till the clouds sweep by,And stars shine—thou and I!
Summer days are over!O my one true lover,Sit we now alone togetherIn the early autumn weather!From our nest the birds have flownTo fair dreamlands of their own,And we see the days go by,In silence—thou and I!
Storm and stress are over!O my friend and lover,Closer now we lean togetherIn the Indian-summer weather;See the bright leaves falling, falling,Hear the low winds calling, calling,Glad to let the world go byUnheeding—thou and I!
Winter days are over!O my life-long lover,Rest we now in peace togetherOut of reach of changeful weather!Not a sound can mar our sleeping—Breath of laughter, or of weeping,May not reach us where we lieUncaring—thou and I!
[398]
“There’s a star in the East!” he cried,Jasper, the gray, the wise,To Melchior and to BalthazarUp-gazing to the skies.“Last night from my high towerI watched it as it burned,While all my trembling soulIn awe and wonder yearned.For I know the midnight heavens;I can call the stars by name—Orion and royal AshtarothAnd Cimah’s misty flame.I know where Hesper glows,And where, with fiery eye,Proud Mars in burning splendor leadsThe armies of the sky.But never have I seenA star that shone like this—The star so long foretoldBy sage and seer it is!When first I, sleepless, saw itSlow breaking through the dark—Nay, hear me, Balthazar,And thou, O Melchior, hark!—When first I saw the starIt bore the form of a child,It held in its hand a sceptre,Or the cross of the undefiled.Lo! somewhere on the earthIt shines above His rest—The Royal One, the Babe,On mortal mother’s breast.Now haste we forth to find Him—To worship at His feet,To Him of whom the prophets sangBearing oblations meet!”Then the Three Holy KingsWent forth in eager haste,With servants and with camels,Toward the desert waste.Ah! knew they what they bore?Gold for the earthly king—Frankincense for the God—Myrrh for man’s suffering.With breath of costly spicesAnd precious gums of Isis,The desert air was sweet,As on they fared by day and nightJudea’s King to greet.The strange star went before them,They followed where it led;“’Twill guide us to His presence,”Jasper, the holy, said.They crossed deep-flowing rivers,They climbed the mountains high,They slept in dreary placesUnder the lonely sky.One day, where stretched the desertBefore them far and wide,They saw a smoke-wreath curlingA spreading palm beside;And from a lowly dwelling,On household cares intent,A woman gazed upon them,In mute bewilderment.“O come with us!” cried Melchior,And ardent Balthazar,“We go to find the Christ-child,Led by yon blazing star!Thou knowest how the prophetsHis coming long foretold;We go to kneel before HimWith gifts of myrrh and gold.”But she, delaying, answered,“My lords, your words are good,And I your pious missionHave gladly understood,Yet I, ere I can join you,Have many things to do:I must set my house in order,Must spin and bake and brew.Go ye to find Messiah!And when my work is doneI will your footsteps follow,Mayhap ere set of sun.”Across the shining desertThe slow train passed from sight;She set her house in order,She bleached her linen white.With busy hands she laboredTill all at last was done—But thrice the moon had risen,And thrice the lordly sun!Then bound she on her sandals,Her pilgrim staff she took;With bread of wheat and barley,And water from the brook;And forth she went to find Him—The babe Emmanuel,Who should be born in BethlehemBy David’s sacred well.All that long day she journeyed;She scanned the desert wide,In all its lonely reachesThere was no soul beside—No track to guide her onward,No footprints in the sand,Only the vast, still spacesWide-stretched on either hand!Night came—but where the Wise MenHad seen His burning star,No glorious sign beheld sheClear beaming from afar,Though Orion and ArcturusShone bright above her head,And up the heavenly archesProud Mars his legions led!She did not find the Christ-child.’Tis said she seeks Him still,Over the wide earth roamingWith swift, remorseful will.Her thin white locks the dew-fallOf every clime has wet—In palace and in hovelShe seeks Messiah yet!In every child she fanciesThe Hidden One may be,On each bright head she gazesThe mystic crown to see.She twines the Christmas garlands,She lights the Christmas fires,She leads the joyful carolsOf all the Christmas choirs;She feeds the poor and hungry,And on her tender breastShe soothes all suffering childrenTo softest, sweetest rest.Attend her, holy Angels!Guard her, ye Cherubim!For whatsoe’er she does for theseShe does it as to Him!
“There’s a star in the East!” he cried,Jasper, the gray, the wise,To Melchior and to BalthazarUp-gazing to the skies.“Last night from my high towerI watched it as it burned,While all my trembling soulIn awe and wonder yearned.For I know the midnight heavens;I can call the stars by name—Orion and royal AshtarothAnd Cimah’s misty flame.I know where Hesper glows,And where, with fiery eye,Proud Mars in burning splendor leadsThe armies of the sky.But never have I seenA star that shone like this—The star so long foretoldBy sage and seer it is!When first I, sleepless, saw itSlow breaking through the dark—Nay, hear me, Balthazar,And thou, O Melchior, hark!—When first I saw the starIt bore the form of a child,It held in its hand a sceptre,Or the cross of the undefiled.Lo! somewhere on the earthIt shines above His rest—The Royal One, the Babe,On mortal mother’s breast.Now haste we forth to find Him—To worship at His feet,To Him of whom the prophets sangBearing oblations meet!”Then the Three Holy KingsWent forth in eager haste,With servants and with camels,Toward the desert waste.Ah! knew they what they bore?Gold for the earthly king—Frankincense for the God—Myrrh for man’s suffering.With breath of costly spicesAnd precious gums of Isis,The desert air was sweet,As on they fared by day and nightJudea’s King to greet.The strange star went before them,They followed where it led;“’Twill guide us to His presence,”Jasper, the holy, said.They crossed deep-flowing rivers,They climbed the mountains high,They slept in dreary placesUnder the lonely sky.One day, where stretched the desertBefore them far and wide,They saw a smoke-wreath curlingA spreading palm beside;And from a lowly dwelling,On household cares intent,A woman gazed upon them,In mute bewilderment.“O come with us!” cried Melchior,And ardent Balthazar,“We go to find the Christ-child,Led by yon blazing star!Thou knowest how the prophetsHis coming long foretold;We go to kneel before HimWith gifts of myrrh and gold.”But she, delaying, answered,“My lords, your words are good,And I your pious missionHave gladly understood,Yet I, ere I can join you,Have many things to do:I must set my house in order,Must spin and bake and brew.Go ye to find Messiah!And when my work is doneI will your footsteps follow,Mayhap ere set of sun.”Across the shining desertThe slow train passed from sight;She set her house in order,She bleached her linen white.With busy hands she laboredTill all at last was done—But thrice the moon had risen,And thrice the lordly sun!Then bound she on her sandals,Her pilgrim staff she took;With bread of wheat and barley,And water from the brook;And forth she went to find Him—The babe Emmanuel,Who should be born in BethlehemBy David’s sacred well.All that long day she journeyed;She scanned the desert wide,In all its lonely reachesThere was no soul beside—No track to guide her onward,No footprints in the sand,Only the vast, still spacesWide-stretched on either hand!Night came—but where the Wise MenHad seen His burning star,No glorious sign beheld sheClear beaming from afar,Though Orion and ArcturusShone bright above her head,And up the heavenly archesProud Mars his legions led!She did not find the Christ-child.’Tis said she seeks Him still,Over the wide earth roamingWith swift, remorseful will.Her thin white locks the dew-fallOf every clime has wet—In palace and in hovelShe seeks Messiah yet!In every child she fanciesThe Hidden One may be,On each bright head she gazesThe mystic crown to see.She twines the Christmas garlands,She lights the Christmas fires,She leads the joyful carolsOf all the Christmas choirs;She feeds the poor and hungry,And on her tender breastShe soothes all suffering childrenTo softest, sweetest rest.Attend her, holy Angels!Guard her, ye Cherubim!For whatsoe’er she does for theseShe does it as to Him!
“There’s a star in the East!” he cried,Jasper, the gray, the wise,To Melchior and to BalthazarUp-gazing to the skies.
“Last night from my high towerI watched it as it burned,While all my trembling soulIn awe and wonder yearned.
For I know the midnight heavens;I can call the stars by name—Orion and royal AshtarothAnd Cimah’s misty flame.
I know where Hesper glows,And where, with fiery eye,Proud Mars in burning splendor leadsThe armies of the sky.
But never have I seenA star that shone like this—The star so long foretoldBy sage and seer it is!
When first I, sleepless, saw itSlow breaking through the dark—Nay, hear me, Balthazar,And thou, O Melchior, hark!—
When first I saw the starIt bore the form of a child,It held in its hand a sceptre,Or the cross of the undefiled.
Lo! somewhere on the earthIt shines above His rest—The Royal One, the Babe,On mortal mother’s breast.
Now haste we forth to find Him—To worship at His feet,To Him of whom the prophets sangBearing oblations meet!”
Then the Three Holy KingsWent forth in eager haste,With servants and with camels,Toward the desert waste.
Ah! knew they what they bore?Gold for the earthly king—Frankincense for the God—Myrrh for man’s suffering.
With breath of costly spicesAnd precious gums of Isis,The desert air was sweet,As on they fared by day and nightJudea’s King to greet.
The strange star went before them,They followed where it led;“’Twill guide us to His presence,”Jasper, the holy, said.
They crossed deep-flowing rivers,They climbed the mountains high,They slept in dreary placesUnder the lonely sky.
One day, where stretched the desertBefore them far and wide,They saw a smoke-wreath curlingA spreading palm beside;
And from a lowly dwelling,On household cares intent,A woman gazed upon them,In mute bewilderment.
“O come with us!” cried Melchior,And ardent Balthazar,“We go to find the Christ-child,Led by yon blazing star!
Thou knowest how the prophetsHis coming long foretold;We go to kneel before HimWith gifts of myrrh and gold.”
But she, delaying, answered,“My lords, your words are good,And I your pious missionHave gladly understood,
Yet I, ere I can join you,Have many things to do:I must set my house in order,Must spin and bake and brew.
Go ye to find Messiah!And when my work is doneI will your footsteps follow,Mayhap ere set of sun.”
Across the shining desertThe slow train passed from sight;She set her house in order,She bleached her linen white.
With busy hands she laboredTill all at last was done—But thrice the moon had risen,And thrice the lordly sun!
Then bound she on her sandals,Her pilgrim staff she took;With bread of wheat and barley,And water from the brook;
And forth she went to find Him—The babe Emmanuel,Who should be born in BethlehemBy David’s sacred well.
All that long day she journeyed;She scanned the desert wide,In all its lonely reachesThere was no soul beside—
No track to guide her onward,No footprints in the sand,Only the vast, still spacesWide-stretched on either hand!
Night came—but where the Wise MenHad seen His burning star,No glorious sign beheld sheClear beaming from afar,
Though Orion and ArcturusShone bright above her head,And up the heavenly archesProud Mars his legions led!
She did not find the Christ-child.’Tis said she seeks Him still,Over the wide earth roamingWith swift, remorseful will.
Her thin white locks the dew-fallOf every clime has wet—In palace and in hovelShe seeks Messiah yet!
In every child she fanciesThe Hidden One may be,On each bright head she gazesThe mystic crown to see.
She twines the Christmas garlands,She lights the Christmas fires,She leads the joyful carolsOf all the Christmas choirs;
She feeds the poor and hungry,And on her tender breastShe soothes all suffering childrenTo softest, sweetest rest.
Attend her, holy Angels!Guard her, ye Cherubim!For whatsoe’er she does for theseShe does it as to Him!
Mary Magdalenè,At the break of day,Wan with tears and watchingHasted on her way;Bearing costly spices,Myrrh, and sweet perfume,Through the shadowy gardenTo the Master’s tomb.Slowly broke the gray dawn:On her head the breezeShook a rain of dew-dropsFrom the cypress-trees.Rose and lily partedAs to let her pass,And the violets blessed herFrom the tender grass.Little heed she paid them;Christ, the Lord, was dead;All at last was over,All at last was said.What of hope remainèd?Black against the sky,Calvary’s awful crossesStretched their arms on high!Mary MagdalenèMade her bitter moan:“From the sealèd sepulchreWho shall roll the stone?”Swift she ran, her spiritFilled with awe and fear;Wide the door stood openAs her feet drew near!All the place was floodedWith a radiance bright;Forth into the darknessStreamed a holy light.Down she stooped, and peeringThe dread tomb within,Saw a great white angelWhere the Lord had been!Sore she cried in anguish:“Who hath him betrayed?They have taken away my Lord!Where is he laid?”“Nay,” the shining angel,Calmly smiling, said—“Why seek ye the livingDown among the dead?He is not here, but risen!”All her soul stood still;Through her trembling pulsesRan a conscious thrill.“Mary!” said a low voice;“Rabboni!” answered she.Then life was brought to lightAnd immortality!Mary Magdalenè,First of woman bornTo see the clear light streamingO’er the hills of morn;First to hail the Lord Christ,Conqueror of Death,First to bow before HimWith abated breath;First to hear the MasterSay—“From Death’s dark prison,From its bonds and fetters,Lo! I have arisen!Now to God, my Father—Mine and yours—I go;And because I liveYe shall live also!”Didst thou grasp the meaning?Know that Death was dead?That the seed of womanHad bruised the serpent’s head?Didst thou know MessiahThe gates of hell had broken,And life unto its captivesOnce for all had spoken?O! through all the ages,Every son of man,Be he slave or monarch,Born to bliss or ban—Lord, or prince, or peasant,Jester, sage, or seer,Wife, or child, or mother,Priest, or worshipper—Through the grave’s lone portalsSoon or late had passed,But no sign or tokenBack to earth had cast!In Ramah was a voice heardSounding through the years—Rachel for her childrenPouring sighs and tears;Rizpah for her slain sonsWoful vigils keeping;David for young AbsalomIn the chamber weeping!All earth’s myriad millionsTo their dead had cried,Empty arms outreachingIn the silence wide,Yet from out the darknessCame nor word, nor sound,As the long ranks vanishedIn the black profound—Came no word till MaryHeard the Angel say—“Christ the Lord is risen;The Lord Christ lives to-day!”From the empty sepulchreStreamed the Light Divine;Grave where is thy victory?Where, O Death, is thine?Mary Magdalenè,Hope is born again;Clear the Day-star risesTo the eyes of men.Lo! the mists are fleeing!Shine, O Olivet,For the crown of promiseOn thy brow is set!Lift your heads, ye mountains!Clap your hands, ye hills!Into rapturous singingBreak, ye murmuring rills!Shout aloud, O forests!Swell the song, O seas!Wake, resistless ocean,All your symphonies!Wave your palms, O tropics!Lonely isles, rejoice!O ye silent deserts,Find a choral voice!Winds, on mighty trumpets,Blow the strains abroad,While each star in heavenHails its risen Lord!“Alleluia! Alleluia!”—How the voices ring!“Alleluia! Alleluia!”Earth and heaven sing!Alleluia! Christ is risen!Chant his praise alway!From the sealèd sepulchreChrist is risen to-day!
Mary Magdalenè,At the break of day,Wan with tears and watchingHasted on her way;Bearing costly spices,Myrrh, and sweet perfume,Through the shadowy gardenTo the Master’s tomb.Slowly broke the gray dawn:On her head the breezeShook a rain of dew-dropsFrom the cypress-trees.Rose and lily partedAs to let her pass,And the violets blessed herFrom the tender grass.Little heed she paid them;Christ, the Lord, was dead;All at last was over,All at last was said.What of hope remainèd?Black against the sky,Calvary’s awful crossesStretched their arms on high!Mary MagdalenèMade her bitter moan:“From the sealèd sepulchreWho shall roll the stone?”Swift she ran, her spiritFilled with awe and fear;Wide the door stood openAs her feet drew near!All the place was floodedWith a radiance bright;Forth into the darknessStreamed a holy light.Down she stooped, and peeringThe dread tomb within,Saw a great white angelWhere the Lord had been!Sore she cried in anguish:“Who hath him betrayed?They have taken away my Lord!Where is he laid?”“Nay,” the shining angel,Calmly smiling, said—“Why seek ye the livingDown among the dead?He is not here, but risen!”All her soul stood still;Through her trembling pulsesRan a conscious thrill.“Mary!” said a low voice;“Rabboni!” answered she.Then life was brought to lightAnd immortality!Mary Magdalenè,First of woman bornTo see the clear light streamingO’er the hills of morn;First to hail the Lord Christ,Conqueror of Death,First to bow before HimWith abated breath;First to hear the MasterSay—“From Death’s dark prison,From its bonds and fetters,Lo! I have arisen!Now to God, my Father—Mine and yours—I go;And because I liveYe shall live also!”Didst thou grasp the meaning?Know that Death was dead?That the seed of womanHad bruised the serpent’s head?Didst thou know MessiahThe gates of hell had broken,And life unto its captivesOnce for all had spoken?O! through all the ages,Every son of man,Be he slave or monarch,Born to bliss or ban—Lord, or prince, or peasant,Jester, sage, or seer,Wife, or child, or mother,Priest, or worshipper—Through the grave’s lone portalsSoon or late had passed,But no sign or tokenBack to earth had cast!In Ramah was a voice heardSounding through the years—Rachel for her childrenPouring sighs and tears;Rizpah for her slain sonsWoful vigils keeping;David for young AbsalomIn the chamber weeping!All earth’s myriad millionsTo their dead had cried,Empty arms outreachingIn the silence wide,Yet from out the darknessCame nor word, nor sound,As the long ranks vanishedIn the black profound—Came no word till MaryHeard the Angel say—“Christ the Lord is risen;The Lord Christ lives to-day!”From the empty sepulchreStreamed the Light Divine;Grave where is thy victory?Where, O Death, is thine?Mary Magdalenè,Hope is born again;Clear the Day-star risesTo the eyes of men.Lo! the mists are fleeing!Shine, O Olivet,For the crown of promiseOn thy brow is set!Lift your heads, ye mountains!Clap your hands, ye hills!Into rapturous singingBreak, ye murmuring rills!Shout aloud, O forests!Swell the song, O seas!Wake, resistless ocean,All your symphonies!Wave your palms, O tropics!Lonely isles, rejoice!O ye silent deserts,Find a choral voice!Winds, on mighty trumpets,Blow the strains abroad,While each star in heavenHails its risen Lord!“Alleluia! Alleluia!”—How the voices ring!“Alleluia! Alleluia!”Earth and heaven sing!Alleluia! Christ is risen!Chant his praise alway!From the sealèd sepulchreChrist is risen to-day!
Mary Magdalenè,At the break of day,Wan with tears and watchingHasted on her way;
Bearing costly spices,Myrrh, and sweet perfume,Through the shadowy gardenTo the Master’s tomb.
Slowly broke the gray dawn:On her head the breezeShook a rain of dew-dropsFrom the cypress-trees.
Rose and lily partedAs to let her pass,And the violets blessed herFrom the tender grass.
Little heed she paid them;Christ, the Lord, was dead;All at last was over,All at last was said.
What of hope remainèd?Black against the sky,Calvary’s awful crossesStretched their arms on high!
Mary MagdalenèMade her bitter moan:“From the sealèd sepulchreWho shall roll the stone?”
Swift she ran, her spiritFilled with awe and fear;Wide the door stood openAs her feet drew near!
All the place was floodedWith a radiance bright;Forth into the darknessStreamed a holy light.
Down she stooped, and peeringThe dread tomb within,Saw a great white angelWhere the Lord had been!
Sore she cried in anguish:“Who hath him betrayed?They have taken away my Lord!Where is he laid?”
“Nay,” the shining angel,Calmly smiling, said—“Why seek ye the livingDown among the dead?
He is not here, but risen!”All her soul stood still;Through her trembling pulsesRan a conscious thrill.
“Mary!” said a low voice;“Rabboni!” answered she.Then life was brought to lightAnd immortality!
Mary Magdalenè,First of woman bornTo see the clear light streamingO’er the hills of morn;
First to hail the Lord Christ,Conqueror of Death,First to bow before HimWith abated breath;
First to hear the MasterSay—“From Death’s dark prison,From its bonds and fetters,Lo! I have arisen!
Now to God, my Father—Mine and yours—I go;And because I liveYe shall live also!”
Didst thou grasp the meaning?Know that Death was dead?That the seed of womanHad bruised the serpent’s head?
Didst thou know MessiahThe gates of hell had broken,And life unto its captivesOnce for all had spoken?
O! through all the ages,Every son of man,Be he slave or monarch,Born to bliss or ban—
Lord, or prince, or peasant,Jester, sage, or seer,Wife, or child, or mother,Priest, or worshipper—
Through the grave’s lone portalsSoon or late had passed,But no sign or tokenBack to earth had cast!
In Ramah was a voice heardSounding through the years—Rachel for her childrenPouring sighs and tears;
Rizpah for her slain sonsWoful vigils keeping;David for young AbsalomIn the chamber weeping!
All earth’s myriad millionsTo their dead had cried,Empty arms outreachingIn the silence wide,
Yet from out the darknessCame nor word, nor sound,As the long ranks vanishedIn the black profound—
Came no word till MaryHeard the Angel say—“Christ the Lord is risen;The Lord Christ lives to-day!”
From the empty sepulchreStreamed the Light Divine;Grave where is thy victory?Where, O Death, is thine?
Mary Magdalenè,Hope is born again;Clear the Day-star risesTo the eyes of men.
Lo! the mists are fleeing!Shine, O Olivet,For the crown of promiseOn thy brow is set!
Lift your heads, ye mountains!Clap your hands, ye hills!Into rapturous singingBreak, ye murmuring rills!
Shout aloud, O forests!Swell the song, O seas!Wake, resistless ocean,All your symphonies!
Wave your palms, O tropics!Lonely isles, rejoice!O ye silent deserts,Find a choral voice!
Winds, on mighty trumpets,Blow the strains abroad,While each star in heavenHails its risen Lord!
“Alleluia! Alleluia!”—How the voices ring!“Alleluia! Alleluia!”Earth and heaven sing!
Alleluia! Christ is risen!Chant his praise alway!From the sealèd sepulchreChrist is risen to-day!