Roly-poly honey-bee,Humming in the clover,Under you the tossing leaves,And the blue sky over,Why are you so busy, pray?Never still a minute,Hovering now above a flower,Now half-buried in it!Jaunty robin-redbreast,Singing loud and cheerly,From the pink-white apple treeIn the morning early,Tell me, is your merry songJust for your own pleasure,Poured from such a tiny throat,Without stint or measure?Little yellow buttercup,By the way-side smiling,Lifting up your happy face,With such sweet beguiling,Why are you so gayly clad—Cloth of gold your raiment?Do the sunshine and the dewLook to you for payment?Roses in the garden beds,Lilies, cool and saintly,Darling blue-eyed violets,Pansies, hooded quaintly,Sweet-peas that, like butterflies,Dance the bright skies under,Bloom ye for your own delight,Or for ours, I wonder!
Roly-poly honey-bee,Humming in the clover,Under you the tossing leaves,And the blue sky over,Why are you so busy, pray?Never still a minute,Hovering now above a flower,Now half-buried in it!Jaunty robin-redbreast,Singing loud and cheerly,From the pink-white apple treeIn the morning early,Tell me, is your merry songJust for your own pleasure,Poured from such a tiny throat,Without stint or measure?Little yellow buttercup,By the way-side smiling,Lifting up your happy face,With such sweet beguiling,Why are you so gayly clad—Cloth of gold your raiment?Do the sunshine and the dewLook to you for payment?Roses in the garden beds,Lilies, cool and saintly,Darling blue-eyed violets,Pansies, hooded quaintly,Sweet-peas that, like butterflies,Dance the bright skies under,Bloom ye for your own delight,Or for ours, I wonder!
Roly-poly honey-bee,Humming in the clover,Under you the tossing leaves,And the blue sky over,Why are you so busy, pray?Never still a minute,Hovering now above a flower,Now half-buried in it!
Jaunty robin-redbreast,Singing loud and cheerly,From the pink-white apple treeIn the morning early,Tell me, is your merry songJust for your own pleasure,Poured from such a tiny throat,Without stint or measure?
Little yellow buttercup,By the way-side smiling,Lifting up your happy face,With such sweet beguiling,Why are you so gayly clad—Cloth of gold your raiment?Do the sunshine and the dewLook to you for payment?
Roses in the garden beds,Lilies, cool and saintly,Darling blue-eyed violets,Pansies, hooded quaintly,Sweet-peas that, like butterflies,Dance the bright skies under,Bloom ye for your own delight,Or for ours, I wonder!
Across the blue Atlantic wavesShe sent a little gift to me:A golden urn—a graceful toyAs one need care to see.Smiling, I held it in my hand,Thinking her message o’er and o’er,Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so nearThe undiscovered shore.Oh! had it been a funeral urn—The gift my darling sent to meWith loving thoughts and tender wordsAcross the heaving sea—A funeral urn which might have heldHer sacred ashes, sealed in restUtter as that which holds in thrallSome pulseless marble breast!Where drifts she now? On what far seasFloateth to-day her golden hair?What stars behold her pale hands, claspedIn ecstasy of prayer?Forever in this thought of mine,Like the fair Lady of Shalott,She drifteth, drifteth with the tide,But never comes to Camelot!
Across the blue Atlantic wavesShe sent a little gift to me:A golden urn—a graceful toyAs one need care to see.Smiling, I held it in my hand,Thinking her message o’er and o’er,Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so nearThe undiscovered shore.Oh! had it been a funeral urn—The gift my darling sent to meWith loving thoughts and tender wordsAcross the heaving sea—A funeral urn which might have heldHer sacred ashes, sealed in restUtter as that which holds in thrallSome pulseless marble breast!Where drifts she now? On what far seasFloateth to-day her golden hair?What stars behold her pale hands, claspedIn ecstasy of prayer?Forever in this thought of mine,Like the fair Lady of Shalott,She drifteth, drifteth with the tide,But never comes to Camelot!
Across the blue Atlantic wavesShe sent a little gift to me:A golden urn—a graceful toyAs one need care to see.
Smiling, I held it in my hand,Thinking her message o’er and o’er,Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so nearThe undiscovered shore.
Oh! had it been a funeral urn—The gift my darling sent to meWith loving thoughts and tender wordsAcross the heaving sea—
A funeral urn which might have heldHer sacred ashes, sealed in restUtter as that which holds in thrallSome pulseless marble breast!
Where drifts she now? On what far seasFloateth to-day her golden hair?What stars behold her pale hands, claspedIn ecstasy of prayer?
Forever in this thought of mine,Like the fair Lady of Shalott,She drifteth, drifteth with the tide,But never comes to Camelot!
“What, ho!” he cried, as up and downHe rode through the streets of Windham town—“What, ho! for the day of peace is done,And the day of wrath too well begun!Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills;Drive down the cattle from off your hills;For Boston lieth in sore distress,Pallid with hunger and long duress:Her children starve, while she hears the beatAnd the tramp of the red-coats in every street!”“What, ho! What, ho!” Like a storm unspent,Over the hill-sides he came and went;And Parson White, from his open doorLeaning bareheaded that August day,While the sun beat down on his temples gray,Watched him until he could see no more.Then straight he strode to the church, and flungHis whole soul into the peal he rung;Pulling the bell-rope till the towerSeemed to rock in the sudden shower—The shower of sound the farmers heard,Rending the air like a living word!Then swift they gathered with right good-willFrom field and anvil and shop and mill,To hear what the parson had to sayThat would not keep till the Sabbath-day.For only the women and children knewThe tale of the horsemen galloping through—The message he bore as up and downHe rode through the streets of Windham town.That night, as the parson sat at easeIn the porch, with his Bible on his knees,(Thanking God that at break of dayFrederic Manning would take his way,With cattle and sheep from off the hills,And a load of grain from the barns and mills,To the starving city where General GageWaited unholy war to wage),His little daughter beside him stood,Hiding her face in her muslin hood.In her arms her own pet lamb she bore,As it struggled down to the oaken floor:“It must go; I must give my lamb,” she said,“To the children that cry for meat and bread,”Then lifted to his her holy eyes,Wet with the tears of sacrifice.“Nay, nay,” he answered. “There is no needThat the hearts of babes should ache and bleed.Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play,You and your pet, through the livelong day.”He laid his hand on her shining hair,And smiled as he blessed her, standing there,With kerchief folded across her breast,And her small brown hands together pressed,A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet,With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet.Away to its place the lamb she led,Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed,While the moon rose up and the stars looked downOn the silent streets of Windham town.But when the heralds of morning came,Flushing the east with rosy flame,With low of cattle and scurry of feet,Driving his herd down the village street,Young Manning heard from a low stone wallA child’s voice clearly yet softly call;And saw in the gray dusk standing thereA little maiden with shining hair,While crowding close to her tender sideWas a snow-white lamb to her apron tied.“Oh, wait!” she cried, “for my lamb must goTo the children crying in want and woe.It is all I have.” And her tears fell fastAs she gave it one eager kiss—the last.“The road will be long to its feet. I prayLet your arms be its bed a part of the way;And give it cool water and tender grassWhenever a way-side brook you pass.”Then away she flew like a startled deer,Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear.Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyesOne moment up to the morning skies;Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strodeSturdily down the lengthening road.“Now God be my helper,” he cried, “and leadMe safe with my charge to the souls in need!Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole,Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll,To the city in want and woe that liesI will bear this lamb as a sacrifice.”
“What, ho!” he cried, as up and downHe rode through the streets of Windham town—“What, ho! for the day of peace is done,And the day of wrath too well begun!Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills;Drive down the cattle from off your hills;For Boston lieth in sore distress,Pallid with hunger and long duress:Her children starve, while she hears the beatAnd the tramp of the red-coats in every street!”“What, ho! What, ho!” Like a storm unspent,Over the hill-sides he came and went;And Parson White, from his open doorLeaning bareheaded that August day,While the sun beat down on his temples gray,Watched him until he could see no more.Then straight he strode to the church, and flungHis whole soul into the peal he rung;Pulling the bell-rope till the towerSeemed to rock in the sudden shower—The shower of sound the farmers heard,Rending the air like a living word!Then swift they gathered with right good-willFrom field and anvil and shop and mill,To hear what the parson had to sayThat would not keep till the Sabbath-day.For only the women and children knewThe tale of the horsemen galloping through—The message he bore as up and downHe rode through the streets of Windham town.That night, as the parson sat at easeIn the porch, with his Bible on his knees,(Thanking God that at break of dayFrederic Manning would take his way,With cattle and sheep from off the hills,And a load of grain from the barns and mills,To the starving city where General GageWaited unholy war to wage),His little daughter beside him stood,Hiding her face in her muslin hood.In her arms her own pet lamb she bore,As it struggled down to the oaken floor:“It must go; I must give my lamb,” she said,“To the children that cry for meat and bread,”Then lifted to his her holy eyes,Wet with the tears of sacrifice.“Nay, nay,” he answered. “There is no needThat the hearts of babes should ache and bleed.Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play,You and your pet, through the livelong day.”He laid his hand on her shining hair,And smiled as he blessed her, standing there,With kerchief folded across her breast,And her small brown hands together pressed,A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet,With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet.Away to its place the lamb she led,Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed,While the moon rose up and the stars looked downOn the silent streets of Windham town.But when the heralds of morning came,Flushing the east with rosy flame,With low of cattle and scurry of feet,Driving his herd down the village street,Young Manning heard from a low stone wallA child’s voice clearly yet softly call;And saw in the gray dusk standing thereA little maiden with shining hair,While crowding close to her tender sideWas a snow-white lamb to her apron tied.“Oh, wait!” she cried, “for my lamb must goTo the children crying in want and woe.It is all I have.” And her tears fell fastAs she gave it one eager kiss—the last.“The road will be long to its feet. I prayLet your arms be its bed a part of the way;And give it cool water and tender grassWhenever a way-side brook you pass.”Then away she flew like a startled deer,Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear.Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyesOne moment up to the morning skies;Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strodeSturdily down the lengthening road.“Now God be my helper,” he cried, “and leadMe safe with my charge to the souls in need!Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole,Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll,To the city in want and woe that liesI will bear this lamb as a sacrifice.”
“What, ho!” he cried, as up and downHe rode through the streets of Windham town—“What, ho! for the day of peace is done,And the day of wrath too well begun!Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills;Drive down the cattle from off your hills;For Boston lieth in sore distress,Pallid with hunger and long duress:Her children starve, while she hears the beatAnd the tramp of the red-coats in every street!”
“What, ho! What, ho!” Like a storm unspent,Over the hill-sides he came and went;And Parson White, from his open doorLeaning bareheaded that August day,While the sun beat down on his temples gray,Watched him until he could see no more.Then straight he strode to the church, and flungHis whole soul into the peal he rung;Pulling the bell-rope till the towerSeemed to rock in the sudden shower—
The shower of sound the farmers heard,Rending the air like a living word!Then swift they gathered with right good-willFrom field and anvil and shop and mill,To hear what the parson had to sayThat would not keep till the Sabbath-day.For only the women and children knewThe tale of the horsemen galloping through—The message he bore as up and downHe rode through the streets of Windham town.
That night, as the parson sat at easeIn the porch, with his Bible on his knees,(Thanking God that at break of dayFrederic Manning would take his way,With cattle and sheep from off the hills,And a load of grain from the barns and mills,To the starving city where General GageWaited unholy war to wage),His little daughter beside him stood,Hiding her face in her muslin hood.
In her arms her own pet lamb she bore,As it struggled down to the oaken floor:“It must go; I must give my lamb,” she said,“To the children that cry for meat and bread,”Then lifted to his her holy eyes,Wet with the tears of sacrifice.“Nay, nay,” he answered. “There is no needThat the hearts of babes should ache and bleed.Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play,You and your pet, through the livelong day.”
He laid his hand on her shining hair,And smiled as he blessed her, standing there,With kerchief folded across her breast,And her small brown hands together pressed,A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet,With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet.Away to its place the lamb she led,Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed,While the moon rose up and the stars looked downOn the silent streets of Windham town.
But when the heralds of morning came,Flushing the east with rosy flame,With low of cattle and scurry of feet,Driving his herd down the village street,Young Manning heard from a low stone wallA child’s voice clearly yet softly call;And saw in the gray dusk standing thereA little maiden with shining hair,While crowding close to her tender sideWas a snow-white lamb to her apron tied.
“Oh, wait!” she cried, “for my lamb must goTo the children crying in want and woe.It is all I have.” And her tears fell fastAs she gave it one eager kiss—the last.“The road will be long to its feet. I prayLet your arms be its bed a part of the way;And give it cool water and tender grassWhenever a way-side brook you pass.”Then away she flew like a startled deer,Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear.
Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyesOne moment up to the morning skies;Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strodeSturdily down the lengthening road.“Now God be my helper,” he cried, “and leadMe safe with my charge to the souls in need!Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole,Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll,To the city in want and woe that liesI will bear this lamb as a sacrifice.”
One year ago the plaudits of the crowd,The drum’s long thunder and the bugle’s blare,The bell’s gay clamor, pealing clear and loud,And rapturous music filling all the air;One year ago, on roofs and domes and spires,Ten thousand banners bursting into bloomAs the proud day advanced its golden fires,And all the crowding centuries gave it room;One year ago the laurel and the palm,The upward path, the height undimmed and far,And in the clear, strong light, serene and calm,One high, pure spirit, shining like a star!To-day—for loud acclaims the long lament;For shouts of triumph, tears that fall like rain;A world remembering, with anguish rent,Thy long, unmurmuring martyrdom of pain!The year moves on; the seasons come and go;Day follows day, and pale stars rise and set;Oh! in yon radiant heaven dost thou knowThe land that loved thee never can forget?It doth not swerve—it keeps its onward way,Unfaltering still, from farthest sea to sea;Yet, while it owns another’s rightful sway,It patient grows and strong, remembering thee!
One year ago the plaudits of the crowd,The drum’s long thunder and the bugle’s blare,The bell’s gay clamor, pealing clear and loud,And rapturous music filling all the air;One year ago, on roofs and domes and spires,Ten thousand banners bursting into bloomAs the proud day advanced its golden fires,And all the crowding centuries gave it room;One year ago the laurel and the palm,The upward path, the height undimmed and far,And in the clear, strong light, serene and calm,One high, pure spirit, shining like a star!To-day—for loud acclaims the long lament;For shouts of triumph, tears that fall like rain;A world remembering, with anguish rent,Thy long, unmurmuring martyrdom of pain!The year moves on; the seasons come and go;Day follows day, and pale stars rise and set;Oh! in yon radiant heaven dost thou knowThe land that loved thee never can forget?It doth not swerve—it keeps its onward way,Unfaltering still, from farthest sea to sea;Yet, while it owns another’s rightful sway,It patient grows and strong, remembering thee!
One year ago the plaudits of the crowd,The drum’s long thunder and the bugle’s blare,The bell’s gay clamor, pealing clear and loud,And rapturous music filling all the air;
One year ago, on roofs and domes and spires,Ten thousand banners bursting into bloomAs the proud day advanced its golden fires,And all the crowding centuries gave it room;
One year ago the laurel and the palm,The upward path, the height undimmed and far,And in the clear, strong light, serene and calm,One high, pure spirit, shining like a star!
To-day—for loud acclaims the long lament;For shouts of triumph, tears that fall like rain;A world remembering, with anguish rent,Thy long, unmurmuring martyrdom of pain!
The year moves on; the seasons come and go;Day follows day, and pale stars rise and set;Oh! in yon radiant heaven dost thou knowThe land that loved thee never can forget?
It doth not swerve—it keeps its onward way,Unfaltering still, from farthest sea to sea;Yet, while it owns another’s rightful sway,It patient grows and strong, remembering thee!
Our Prince has gone to his inheritance!Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile,Some crownèd king to leave his throne should chance,And try the rough ways of the world awhile?Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress,Would he not hasten to his own again?Why should he bear its labor and duress,And all the untold burden of its pain?Or what if from the golden palace gateThe king’s fair son on some bright morn should stray?Would he not send his lords of high estateTo lead him back ere fell the close of day?Even so our King from Heaven’s high portals sawThe fair young Prince where earth’s dull shades advance,And sent his messengers of love and lawTo bear him home to his inheritance!
Our Prince has gone to his inheritance!Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile,Some crownèd king to leave his throne should chance,And try the rough ways of the world awhile?Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress,Would he not hasten to his own again?Why should he bear its labor and duress,And all the untold burden of its pain?Or what if from the golden palace gateThe king’s fair son on some bright morn should stray?Would he not send his lords of high estateTo lead him back ere fell the close of day?Even so our King from Heaven’s high portals sawThe fair young Prince where earth’s dull shades advance,And sent his messengers of love and lawTo bear him home to his inheritance!
Our Prince has gone to his inheritance!Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile,Some crownèd king to leave his throne should chance,And try the rough ways of the world awhile?
Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress,Would he not hasten to his own again?Why should he bear its labor and duress,And all the untold burden of its pain?
Or what if from the golden palace gateThe king’s fair son on some bright morn should stray?Would he not send his lords of high estateTo lead him back ere fell the close of day?
Even so our King from Heaven’s high portals sawThe fair young Prince where earth’s dull shades advance,And sent his messengers of love and lawTo bear him home to his inheritance!
(An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt’s“Light of the World.”)
“Nay,” he said, “it is not done!At to-morrow’s set of sunCome again, if you would seeWhat the finished thought may be.”Straight they went. The heavy doorOn its hinges swung once more,As within the studio dimEye and heart took heed of Him!How the Presence filled the room,Brightening all its dusky gloom!Saints and martyrs turned their eyesFrom the hills of Paradise;Rapt in holy ecstasy,Mary smiled her Son to see,Letting all her lilies fallAt His feet—the Lord of all!But the painter bowed his head,Lost in wonder and in dread,And as at a holy shrineKnelt before the form divine.All had passed—the pride, the power,Of the soul’s creative hour—Exaltation’s soaring flightTo the spirit’s loftiest height.Had he dared to paint the Lord?Dared to paint the Christ, the Word?Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin!Ah, the shame his soul within!Saints might turn on him their eyesFrom the hills of Paradise,But the painter could not brookOn that pictured face to look.Yet the form was grand and fair,Fit to move a world to prayer;God like in its strength and stress,Human in its tenderness.From it streamed the Light divine,O’er it drooped the heavenly vine,And beneath the bending sprayStood the Life, the Truth, the Way!Suddenly with eager hold,Back he swept the curtain’s fold,Letting all the sunset glowO’er the living canvas flow.Surely then the wondrous eyesMet his own in tenderest wise,And the Lord Christ, half revealed,Smiled upon him as he kneeled!Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought,Up he brush and palette caught,And where deepest shade was thrownSet one sign for God alone!Years have passed—but, even yet,Where the massive frame is setYou may find these words: “Nec mePrætermittas, Domine!”“Neither pass me by, O Lord!”Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word,Low we bow before thy feet,Thy remembrance to entreat!In our soul’s most secret place,For no eye but thine to trace,Lo! this prayer we write: “Nec mePrætermittas, Domine!”
“Nay,” he said, “it is not done!At to-morrow’s set of sunCome again, if you would seeWhat the finished thought may be.”Straight they went. The heavy doorOn its hinges swung once more,As within the studio dimEye and heart took heed of Him!How the Presence filled the room,Brightening all its dusky gloom!Saints and martyrs turned their eyesFrom the hills of Paradise;Rapt in holy ecstasy,Mary smiled her Son to see,Letting all her lilies fallAt His feet—the Lord of all!But the painter bowed his head,Lost in wonder and in dread,And as at a holy shrineKnelt before the form divine.All had passed—the pride, the power,Of the soul’s creative hour—Exaltation’s soaring flightTo the spirit’s loftiest height.Had he dared to paint the Lord?Dared to paint the Christ, the Word?Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin!Ah, the shame his soul within!Saints might turn on him their eyesFrom the hills of Paradise,But the painter could not brookOn that pictured face to look.Yet the form was grand and fair,Fit to move a world to prayer;God like in its strength and stress,Human in its tenderness.From it streamed the Light divine,O’er it drooped the heavenly vine,And beneath the bending sprayStood the Life, the Truth, the Way!Suddenly with eager hold,Back he swept the curtain’s fold,Letting all the sunset glowO’er the living canvas flow.Surely then the wondrous eyesMet his own in tenderest wise,And the Lord Christ, half revealed,Smiled upon him as he kneeled!Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought,Up he brush and palette caught,And where deepest shade was thrownSet one sign for God alone!Years have passed—but, even yet,Where the massive frame is setYou may find these words: “Nec mePrætermittas, Domine!”“Neither pass me by, O Lord!”Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word,Low we bow before thy feet,Thy remembrance to entreat!In our soul’s most secret place,For no eye but thine to trace,Lo! this prayer we write: “Nec mePrætermittas, Domine!”
“Nay,” he said, “it is not done!At to-morrow’s set of sunCome again, if you would seeWhat the finished thought may be.”Straight they went. The heavy doorOn its hinges swung once more,As within the studio dimEye and heart took heed of Him!
How the Presence filled the room,Brightening all its dusky gloom!Saints and martyrs turned their eyesFrom the hills of Paradise;Rapt in holy ecstasy,Mary smiled her Son to see,Letting all her lilies fallAt His feet—the Lord of all!
But the painter bowed his head,Lost in wonder and in dread,And as at a holy shrineKnelt before the form divine.All had passed—the pride, the power,Of the soul’s creative hour—Exaltation’s soaring flightTo the spirit’s loftiest height.
Had he dared to paint the Lord?Dared to paint the Christ, the Word?Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin!Ah, the shame his soul within!Saints might turn on him their eyesFrom the hills of Paradise,But the painter could not brookOn that pictured face to look.
Yet the form was grand and fair,Fit to move a world to prayer;God like in its strength and stress,Human in its tenderness.From it streamed the Light divine,O’er it drooped the heavenly vine,And beneath the bending sprayStood the Life, the Truth, the Way!
Suddenly with eager hold,Back he swept the curtain’s fold,Letting all the sunset glowO’er the living canvas flow.Surely then the wondrous eyesMet his own in tenderest wise,And the Lord Christ, half revealed,Smiled upon him as he kneeled!
Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought,Up he brush and palette caught,And where deepest shade was thrownSet one sign for God alone!Years have passed—but, even yet,Where the massive frame is setYou may find these words: “Nec mePrætermittas, Domine!”
“Neither pass me by, O Lord!”Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word,Low we bow before thy feet,Thy remembrance to entreat!In our soul’s most secret place,For no eye but thine to trace,Lo! this prayer we write: “Nec mePrætermittas, Domine!”
(A Mother speaks)
Ah, dear God, when will it be day?I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.Tossing, I watch the silent starsMount up from the horizon bars:Orion with his flaming sword,Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;Auriga up the lofty archPursuing still his stately march—So patient and so calm are they.Ah, dear God! when will it be day?O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hearA cock crow through the silence clear!The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east,And, afar off, I catch the leastLow murmur of the city’s stirAs she shakes off the dreams of her!List! there’s a sound of hurrying feetFar down below me in the street.Thank God! the weary night is past,The morning comes—’tis day at last.Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise!The sun is up, it gilds the skies.She does not stir. The young sleep soundAs dead men in their graves profound.Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste!To-day there is no time to waste.Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair.Hand me the glass. Once I was fairAs thou art. Now I look so oldIt seems my death-knell should be tolled.Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale?Like a white ghost, so wan and frail?Well, that’s not strange. All night I layWaiting and watching for the day.But—there! I’ll drink it; it may makeMy cheeks burn brighter for his sakeWho comes to-day. My boy! my boy!How can I bear the unwonted joy?I, who for eight long years have weptWhile happier mothers smiling slept;While others decked their sons first-bornFor dance, or fête, or bridal morn,Or proudly smiled to see them standThe stateliest pillars of the land!For he, so gallant and so gay,As young and debonair as they,My beautiful, brave boy, my life,Went down in the unequal strife!The right or wrong? Oh, what care I?The good God judgeth up on high.And now He gives him back to me!I tremble so—I scarce can see.How full the streets are! I will waitHis coming here beside this gate,From which I watched him as he went,Eight years ago, to banishment.Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, whenYou see a band of stalwart men,With one fair boy among them—oneWith bright hair shining in the sun,Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes,Blue as the blue of summer skies.My boy! my boy!—Why come they not?O Son of God! hast Thou forgotThy Mother’s agony? Yet she,Was she not stronger far than we,We common mothers? Could she knowFrom her far heights such pain and woe?—Run farther down the street, and seeIf they’re not coming, Rosalie!Mother of Christ! how lag the hours!What? just beyond the convent towers,And coming straight this way? O heart,Be still and strong, and bear thy part,Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hearAbove the city’s hum the nearSlow tread of marching feet; I see—Nay, I cannotsee, Rosalie;Your eyes are younger. Is he there,My Antoine, with his sunny hair?It is like gold; it shines in the sun:Surely you see it? What? Not one—Not one bright head? All old, old men,Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—thenHe has not come—he is ill, or dead!O God, that I were in thy stead,My son! my son! Who touches me?Your pardon, sir. I am not sheFor whom you look. Go farther onEre yet the daylight shall be gone.‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’You?You are not he—my Antoine! You—A bowed, gray-bearded man, while heWas a mere boy who went from me,Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir.God bless you! Soon you will find herFor whom you seek. But I—ah, I—Still must I call and none reply!You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son!Thou art mine own, my banished one!
Ah, dear God, when will it be day?I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.Tossing, I watch the silent starsMount up from the horizon bars:Orion with his flaming sword,Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;Auriga up the lofty archPursuing still his stately march—So patient and so calm are they.Ah, dear God! when will it be day?O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hearA cock crow through the silence clear!The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east,And, afar off, I catch the leastLow murmur of the city’s stirAs she shakes off the dreams of her!List! there’s a sound of hurrying feetFar down below me in the street.Thank God! the weary night is past,The morning comes—’tis day at last.Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise!The sun is up, it gilds the skies.She does not stir. The young sleep soundAs dead men in their graves profound.Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste!To-day there is no time to waste.Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair.Hand me the glass. Once I was fairAs thou art. Now I look so oldIt seems my death-knell should be tolled.Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale?Like a white ghost, so wan and frail?Well, that’s not strange. All night I layWaiting and watching for the day.But—there! I’ll drink it; it may makeMy cheeks burn brighter for his sakeWho comes to-day. My boy! my boy!How can I bear the unwonted joy?I, who for eight long years have weptWhile happier mothers smiling slept;While others decked their sons first-bornFor dance, or fête, or bridal morn,Or proudly smiled to see them standThe stateliest pillars of the land!For he, so gallant and so gay,As young and debonair as they,My beautiful, brave boy, my life,Went down in the unequal strife!The right or wrong? Oh, what care I?The good God judgeth up on high.And now He gives him back to me!I tremble so—I scarce can see.How full the streets are! I will waitHis coming here beside this gate,From which I watched him as he went,Eight years ago, to banishment.Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, whenYou see a band of stalwart men,With one fair boy among them—oneWith bright hair shining in the sun,Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes,Blue as the blue of summer skies.My boy! my boy!—Why come they not?O Son of God! hast Thou forgotThy Mother’s agony? Yet she,Was she not stronger far than we,We common mothers? Could she knowFrom her far heights such pain and woe?—Run farther down the street, and seeIf they’re not coming, Rosalie!Mother of Christ! how lag the hours!What? just beyond the convent towers,And coming straight this way? O heart,Be still and strong, and bear thy part,Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hearAbove the city’s hum the nearSlow tread of marching feet; I see—Nay, I cannotsee, Rosalie;Your eyes are younger. Is he there,My Antoine, with his sunny hair?It is like gold; it shines in the sun:Surely you see it? What? Not one—Not one bright head? All old, old men,Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—thenHe has not come—he is ill, or dead!O God, that I were in thy stead,My son! my son! Who touches me?Your pardon, sir. I am not sheFor whom you look. Go farther onEre yet the daylight shall be gone.‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’You?You are not he—my Antoine! You—A bowed, gray-bearded man, while heWas a mere boy who went from me,Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir.God bless you! Soon you will find herFor whom you seek. But I—ah, I—Still must I call and none reply!You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son!Thou art mine own, my banished one!
Ah, dear God, when will it be day?I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.Tossing, I watch the silent starsMount up from the horizon bars:Orion with his flaming sword,Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;Auriga up the lofty archPursuing still his stately march—So patient and so calm are they.Ah, dear God! when will it be day?
O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hearA cock crow through the silence clear!The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east,And, afar off, I catch the leastLow murmur of the city’s stirAs she shakes off the dreams of her!List! there’s a sound of hurrying feetFar down below me in the street.Thank God! the weary night is past,The morning comes—’tis day at last.
Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise!The sun is up, it gilds the skies.She does not stir. The young sleep soundAs dead men in their graves profound.Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste!To-day there is no time to waste.Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair.Hand me the glass. Once I was fairAs thou art. Now I look so oldIt seems my death-knell should be tolled.
Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale?Like a white ghost, so wan and frail?Well, that’s not strange. All night I layWaiting and watching for the day.But—there! I’ll drink it; it may makeMy cheeks burn brighter for his sakeWho comes to-day. My boy! my boy!How can I bear the unwonted joy?I, who for eight long years have weptWhile happier mothers smiling slept;While others decked their sons first-bornFor dance, or fête, or bridal morn,Or proudly smiled to see them standThe stateliest pillars of the land!For he, so gallant and so gay,As young and debonair as they,My beautiful, brave boy, my life,Went down in the unequal strife!The right or wrong? Oh, what care I?The good God judgeth up on high.
And now He gives him back to me!I tremble so—I scarce can see.How full the streets are! I will waitHis coming here beside this gate,From which I watched him as he went,Eight years ago, to banishment.Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, whenYou see a band of stalwart men,With one fair boy among them—oneWith bright hair shining in the sun,Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes,Blue as the blue of summer skies.My boy! my boy!—Why come they not?O Son of God! hast Thou forgotThy Mother’s agony? Yet she,Was she not stronger far than we,We common mothers? Could she knowFrom her far heights such pain and woe?—Run farther down the street, and seeIf they’re not coming, Rosalie!
Mother of Christ! how lag the hours!What? just beyond the convent towers,And coming straight this way? O heart,Be still and strong, and bear thy part,Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hearAbove the city’s hum the nearSlow tread of marching feet; I see—Nay, I cannotsee, Rosalie;Your eyes are younger. Is he there,My Antoine, with his sunny hair?It is like gold; it shines in the sun:Surely you see it? What? Not one—Not one bright head? All old, old men,Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—thenHe has not come—he is ill, or dead!O God, that I were in thy stead,My son! my son! Who touches me?Your pardon, sir. I am not sheFor whom you look. Go farther onEre yet the daylight shall be gone.
‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’You?You are not he—my Antoine! You—A bowed, gray-bearded man, while heWas a mere boy who went from me,Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir.God bless you! Soon you will find herFor whom you seek. But I—ah, I—Still must I call and none reply!You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son!Thou art mine own, my banished one!
Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining,Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky;Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining:Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh!Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping;Watches and waits she the angels’ song to hear;Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping,Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear.Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing;Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells;With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging,While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells!Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices,All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain,“Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices,And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain!Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of gloryThe Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn!Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the storyHow Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born!
Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining,Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky;Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining:Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh!Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping;Watches and waits she the angels’ song to hear;Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping,Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear.Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing;Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells;With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging,While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells!Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices,All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain,“Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices,And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain!Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of gloryThe Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn!Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the storyHow Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born!
Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining,Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky;Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining:Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh!
Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping;Watches and waits she the angels’ song to hear;Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping,Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear.
Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing;Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells;With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging,While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells!
Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices,All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain,“Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices,And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain!
Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of gloryThe Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn!Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the storyHow Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born!
Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair,To Annie Blair spake she,As from beneath her wrinkled handShe peered far out to sea.“Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair,For my old eyes are dim;See you a single boat afloatWithin the horizon’s rim?”Sweet Annie looked to east, to west,To north and south looked she:There was no single boat afloatUpon the angry sea.The sky was dark, the winds were high,The breakers lashed the shore,And louder and still louder swelledThe tempest’s sullen roar.“Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried;“Doth any boat come in?”And scarce she heard the answering wordAbove the furious din.“Pray God no boat may put to seaIn such a gale!” she said;“Pray God no soul may dare to-nightThe rocks of Danger Head!”“This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,”Dame Margaret cried again,“When Mary’s Son, the Merciful,On Calvary was slain.The earth did quake, the rocks were rent,The graves were opened wide,And darkness like to this fell downWhen He—the Holy—died.Give me your hand, O Annie Blair;Your two knees fall upon;Christ send to you your lover back—To me, my only son!”All night they watched, all night they prayed,All night they heard the roarOf the fierce breakers dashing highUpon the lonely shore.Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand,A voice above the din:“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!Is Annie Blair within?High on the rocks of Danger HeadHer lover’s boat is cast,All rudderless, all anchorless—Mere hull and splintered mast.”Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand,And women wailing sore:“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!Your son you’ll see no more!God pity you! Christ comfort you!”The weeping women cried;But “May God pity Annie Blair!”Dame Margaret replied.“For life is long and youth is strong,And it must still bear on.Leave us alone to make our moan—My son! alas, my son!”The Easter morning, flushed with joy,Saw all the winds at rest,And far and near the blue sea smiledWith sunshine on its breast.The neighbors came, the neighbors went;They sought the house of prayer;But on the rocks of Danger HeadThe dame and Annie Blair,With still, white faces, watched the deepWithout a tear or moan.“I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair—“My heart is turned to stone.”Forth from the church the pastor came,And up the rocks strode he,Baring his thin white locks to meetThe salt breath of the sea.“The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake,The sea give up its dead,For Christ our Lord is risen indeed—’Tis Easter morn,” he said.Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry,A rush of hurrying feet,The swarming of a hundred menAdown the village street.“Now unto God and Christ the LordBe praise and thanks alway!The sea hath given up its deadThis blessed Easter-day.”
Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair,To Annie Blair spake she,As from beneath her wrinkled handShe peered far out to sea.“Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair,For my old eyes are dim;See you a single boat afloatWithin the horizon’s rim?”Sweet Annie looked to east, to west,To north and south looked she:There was no single boat afloatUpon the angry sea.The sky was dark, the winds were high,The breakers lashed the shore,And louder and still louder swelledThe tempest’s sullen roar.“Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried;“Doth any boat come in?”And scarce she heard the answering wordAbove the furious din.“Pray God no boat may put to seaIn such a gale!” she said;“Pray God no soul may dare to-nightThe rocks of Danger Head!”“This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,”Dame Margaret cried again,“When Mary’s Son, the Merciful,On Calvary was slain.The earth did quake, the rocks were rent,The graves were opened wide,And darkness like to this fell downWhen He—the Holy—died.Give me your hand, O Annie Blair;Your two knees fall upon;Christ send to you your lover back—To me, my only son!”All night they watched, all night they prayed,All night they heard the roarOf the fierce breakers dashing highUpon the lonely shore.Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand,A voice above the din:“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!Is Annie Blair within?High on the rocks of Danger HeadHer lover’s boat is cast,All rudderless, all anchorless—Mere hull and splintered mast.”Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand,And women wailing sore:“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!Your son you’ll see no more!God pity you! Christ comfort you!”The weeping women cried;But “May God pity Annie Blair!”Dame Margaret replied.“For life is long and youth is strong,And it must still bear on.Leave us alone to make our moan—My son! alas, my son!”The Easter morning, flushed with joy,Saw all the winds at rest,And far and near the blue sea smiledWith sunshine on its breast.The neighbors came, the neighbors went;They sought the house of prayer;But on the rocks of Danger HeadThe dame and Annie Blair,With still, white faces, watched the deepWithout a tear or moan.“I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair—“My heart is turned to stone.”Forth from the church the pastor came,And up the rocks strode he,Baring his thin white locks to meetThe salt breath of the sea.“The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake,The sea give up its dead,For Christ our Lord is risen indeed—’Tis Easter morn,” he said.Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry,A rush of hurrying feet,The swarming of a hundred menAdown the village street.“Now unto God and Christ the LordBe praise and thanks alway!The sea hath given up its deadThis blessed Easter-day.”
Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair,To Annie Blair spake she,As from beneath her wrinkled handShe peered far out to sea.
“Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair,For my old eyes are dim;See you a single boat afloatWithin the horizon’s rim?”
Sweet Annie looked to east, to west,To north and south looked she:There was no single boat afloatUpon the angry sea.
The sky was dark, the winds were high,The breakers lashed the shore,And louder and still louder swelledThe tempest’s sullen roar.
“Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried;“Doth any boat come in?”And scarce she heard the answering wordAbove the furious din.
“Pray God no boat may put to seaIn such a gale!” she said;“Pray God no soul may dare to-nightThe rocks of Danger Head!”
“This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,”Dame Margaret cried again,“When Mary’s Son, the Merciful,On Calvary was slain.
The earth did quake, the rocks were rent,The graves were opened wide,And darkness like to this fell downWhen He—the Holy—died.
Give me your hand, O Annie Blair;Your two knees fall upon;Christ send to you your lover back—To me, my only son!”
All night they watched, all night they prayed,All night they heard the roarOf the fierce breakers dashing highUpon the lonely shore.
Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand,A voice above the din:“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!Is Annie Blair within?
High on the rocks of Danger HeadHer lover’s boat is cast,All rudderless, all anchorless—Mere hull and splintered mast.”
Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand,And women wailing sore:“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!Your son you’ll see no more!
God pity you! Christ comfort you!”The weeping women cried;But “May God pity Annie Blair!”Dame Margaret replied.
“For life is long and youth is strong,And it must still bear on.Leave us alone to make our moan—My son! alas, my son!”
The Easter morning, flushed with joy,Saw all the winds at rest,And far and near the blue sea smiledWith sunshine on its breast.
The neighbors came, the neighbors went;They sought the house of prayer;But on the rocks of Danger HeadThe dame and Annie Blair,
With still, white faces, watched the deepWithout a tear or moan.“I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair—“My heart is turned to stone.”
Forth from the church the pastor came,And up the rocks strode he,Baring his thin white locks to meetThe salt breath of the sea.
“The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake,The sea give up its dead,For Christ our Lord is risen indeed—’Tis Easter morn,” he said.
Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry,A rush of hurrying feet,The swarming of a hundred menAdown the village street.
“Now unto God and Christ the LordBe praise and thanks alway!The sea hath given up its deadThis blessed Easter-day.”
“Oh, whither bound, my captain?The wind is blowing free,And overhead the white sails spreadAs we go out to sea.”He looked to north, he looked to south,Or ever a word he spake;“With orders sealed my sails I set—Due east my course I take.”“But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried,“This only do I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever wind may blow.”For many a day we sailéd east.“O captain, tell me true,When will our good ship come to port?”“I cannot answer you!”“Then, prithee, gallant captain,Let us but drift awhile!The current setteth southwardPast many a sunny isle,Where cocoas grow, and mangoes,And groves of feathery palm,And nightingales sing all night longTo roses breathing balm.”“Nay, tempt me not,” he answered,“This only do I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever winds may blow!”Then sailed we on, and sailed we eastInto the whirlwind’s track.Wild was the tempest overhead,The sea was strewn with wrack.“Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain,Thou’rt rushing on to death!”But back he answer shouted,With unabated breath:“Turn back who will, I turn not!For this one thing I know,That I must sail due eastwardHowever winds may blow!”“Oh, art thou fool or madman?Thy port is but a dream,And never on the horizon’s rimWill its fair turrets gleam.”Then smiled the captain wisely,And slowly answered he,The while his keen glance widenedOver the lonely sea:“I carry sealéd orders.This only thing I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever winds may blow!”
“Oh, whither bound, my captain?The wind is blowing free,And overhead the white sails spreadAs we go out to sea.”He looked to north, he looked to south,Or ever a word he spake;“With orders sealed my sails I set—Due east my course I take.”“But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried,“This only do I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever wind may blow.”For many a day we sailéd east.“O captain, tell me true,When will our good ship come to port?”“I cannot answer you!”“Then, prithee, gallant captain,Let us but drift awhile!The current setteth southwardPast many a sunny isle,Where cocoas grow, and mangoes,And groves of feathery palm,And nightingales sing all night longTo roses breathing balm.”“Nay, tempt me not,” he answered,“This only do I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever winds may blow!”Then sailed we on, and sailed we eastInto the whirlwind’s track.Wild was the tempest overhead,The sea was strewn with wrack.“Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain,Thou’rt rushing on to death!”But back he answer shouted,With unabated breath:“Turn back who will, I turn not!For this one thing I know,That I must sail due eastwardHowever winds may blow!”“Oh, art thou fool or madman?Thy port is but a dream,And never on the horizon’s rimWill its fair turrets gleam.”Then smiled the captain wisely,And slowly answered he,The while his keen glance widenedOver the lonely sea:“I carry sealéd orders.This only thing I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever winds may blow!”
“Oh, whither bound, my captain?The wind is blowing free,And overhead the white sails spreadAs we go out to sea.”
He looked to north, he looked to south,Or ever a word he spake;“With orders sealed my sails I set—Due east my course I take.”
“But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried,“This only do I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever wind may blow.”
For many a day we sailéd east.“O captain, tell me true,When will our good ship come to port?”“I cannot answer you!”
“Then, prithee, gallant captain,Let us but drift awhile!The current setteth southwardPast many a sunny isle,
Where cocoas grow, and mangoes,And groves of feathery palm,And nightingales sing all night longTo roses breathing balm.”
“Nay, tempt me not,” he answered,“This only do I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever winds may blow!”
Then sailed we on, and sailed we eastInto the whirlwind’s track.Wild was the tempest overhead,The sea was strewn with wrack.
“Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain,Thou’rt rushing on to death!”But back he answer shouted,With unabated breath:
“Turn back who will, I turn not!For this one thing I know,That I must sail due eastwardHowever winds may blow!”
“Oh, art thou fool or madman?Thy port is but a dream,And never on the horizon’s rimWill its fair turrets gleam.”
Then smiled the captain wisely,And slowly answered he,The while his keen glance widenedOver the lonely sea:
“I carry sealéd orders.This only thing I know,That I must sail due eastwardWhatever winds may blow!”
So long, so short,So swift, so slow,Are the years of manAs they come and go!O love, it was so long ago!So long, so long that we were young,And in the cloisters of our heartsHope all her joy-bells rung!So long, so long that since that hourFull half a lifetime hath gone by—How ran the days ere first we met,Belovéd, thou and I?We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawnMust still presage the rising sun,And rose and crimson flush the eastEre day is well begun.We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraithsThat fled when Day’s full splendor kissedOur souls’ high places, and its windsSwept the vales clear of mist!So long, so short,So swift, so slow,Are the years of manAs they come and go!O love, it was but yesterday!Who said it was so long ago?How many times the rose hath bloomed,Why should we care to know?For it was just as sweet last June,As dewy fresh, as fair, as red,As when our first glad Eden knewThe rare perfumes it shed!O love, it was but yesterday!If yesterday is far away,As brightly on the hill-tops liesThe sunshine of to-day.Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad!O circling years, fly swift or slow!Your ripening harvests shall not fail,Nor autumn’s utmost glow.
So long, so short,So swift, so slow,Are the years of manAs they come and go!O love, it was so long ago!So long, so long that we were young,And in the cloisters of our heartsHope all her joy-bells rung!So long, so long that since that hourFull half a lifetime hath gone by—How ran the days ere first we met,Belovéd, thou and I?We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawnMust still presage the rising sun,And rose and crimson flush the eastEre day is well begun.We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraithsThat fled when Day’s full splendor kissedOur souls’ high places, and its windsSwept the vales clear of mist!So long, so short,So swift, so slow,Are the years of manAs they come and go!O love, it was but yesterday!Who said it was so long ago?How many times the rose hath bloomed,Why should we care to know?For it was just as sweet last June,As dewy fresh, as fair, as red,As when our first glad Eden knewThe rare perfumes it shed!O love, it was but yesterday!If yesterday is far away,As brightly on the hill-tops liesThe sunshine of to-day.Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad!O circling years, fly swift or slow!Your ripening harvests shall not fail,Nor autumn’s utmost glow.
So long, so short,So swift, so slow,Are the years of manAs they come and go!
O love, it was so long ago!So long, so long that we were young,And in the cloisters of our heartsHope all her joy-bells rung!So long, so long that since that hourFull half a lifetime hath gone by—How ran the days ere first we met,Belovéd, thou and I?
We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawnMust still presage the rising sun,And rose and crimson flush the eastEre day is well begun.We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraithsThat fled when Day’s full splendor kissedOur souls’ high places, and its windsSwept the vales clear of mist!
So long, so short,So swift, so slow,Are the years of manAs they come and go!
O love, it was but yesterday!Who said it was so long ago?How many times the rose hath bloomed,Why should we care to know?For it was just as sweet last June,As dewy fresh, as fair, as red,As when our first glad Eden knewThe rare perfumes it shed!
O love, it was but yesterday!If yesterday is far away,As brightly on the hill-tops liesThe sunshine of to-day.Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad!O circling years, fly swift or slow!Your ripening harvests shall not fail,Nor autumn’s utmost glow.
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve.Not all with tranquil heart,Even at thy dear feet,Wrapped in devotion sweet,May sit apart!Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bearThe burden of the day,Its labor and its heat,While others at thy feetMay muse and pray!Yea, Lord!—Yet some must doLife’s daily task-work; someWho fain would sing, must toilAmid earth’s dust and moil,While lips are dumb!Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn,And woman bake the bread!And some must watch and wakeEarly, for others’ sake,Who pray instead!Yea, Lord!—Yet even thouHast need of earthly care.I bring the bread and wineTo thee, O Guest Divine!Be this my prayer!
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve.Not all with tranquil heart,Even at thy dear feet,Wrapped in devotion sweet,May sit apart!Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bearThe burden of the day,Its labor and its heat,While others at thy feetMay muse and pray!Yea, Lord!—Yet some must doLife’s daily task-work; someWho fain would sing, must toilAmid earth’s dust and moil,While lips are dumb!Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn,And woman bake the bread!And some must watch and wakeEarly, for others’ sake,Who pray instead!Yea, Lord!—Yet even thouHast need of earthly care.I bring the bread and wineTo thee, O Guest Divine!Be this my prayer!
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve.Not all with tranquil heart,Even at thy dear feet,Wrapped in devotion sweet,May sit apart!
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bearThe burden of the day,Its labor and its heat,While others at thy feetMay muse and pray!
Yea, Lord!—Yet some must doLife’s daily task-work; someWho fain would sing, must toilAmid earth’s dust and moil,While lips are dumb!
Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn,And woman bake the bread!And some must watch and wakeEarly, for others’ sake,Who pray instead!
Yea, Lord!—Yet even thouHast need of earthly care.I bring the bread and wineTo thee, O Guest Divine!Be this my prayer!
What is the hour of the day?O watchman, can you tell?Hark! from the tower of TimeStrikes the alarum-bell!The strokes I cannot count.O watchman, can you seeOn the misty dial-plateWhat hours remain for me?I know the rosy dawnFaded—how long ago!—Lost in the radiant depthsOf morning’s golden glow.Then all the mountain topsStood breathless at high noon,While earth for brief reposePut off her sandal shoon.Now faster fly the hours—The afternoon is here;O watchman in the tower,Tell me, is sunset near?Yet—why care I to know?—Beyond the sunset barsUpon the dead day waitThe brightest of the stars!
What is the hour of the day?O watchman, can you tell?Hark! from the tower of TimeStrikes the alarum-bell!The strokes I cannot count.O watchman, can you seeOn the misty dial-plateWhat hours remain for me?I know the rosy dawnFaded—how long ago!—Lost in the radiant depthsOf morning’s golden glow.Then all the mountain topsStood breathless at high noon,While earth for brief reposePut off her sandal shoon.Now faster fly the hours—The afternoon is here;O watchman in the tower,Tell me, is sunset near?Yet—why care I to know?—Beyond the sunset barsUpon the dead day waitThe brightest of the stars!
What is the hour of the day?O watchman, can you tell?Hark! from the tower of TimeStrikes the alarum-bell!
The strokes I cannot count.O watchman, can you seeOn the misty dial-plateWhat hours remain for me?
I know the rosy dawnFaded—how long ago!—Lost in the radiant depthsOf morning’s golden glow.
Then all the mountain topsStood breathless at high noon,While earth for brief reposePut off her sandal shoon.
Now faster fly the hours—The afternoon is here;O watchman in the tower,Tell me, is sunset near?
Yet—why care I to know?—Beyond the sunset barsUpon the dead day waitThe brightest of the stars!
I walked along a narrow way;The sun was shining everywhere;The jocund earth was glad and gay,With morning freshness in the air.The grass was green beneath my feet;The skies were blue and soft o’erhead;The robin carolled clear and sweet,And flowers their fragrance round me shed.How shone the great hills far away;How clear they rose against the blue;How fair the tranquil meadows lay,Where the bright river glances through!But suddenly, as on I pressed,Before me frowned a closéd gate;Filled with dismay, and sore distressed,I strove in vain to conquer fate!Beyond, the hills for which I sighed—Beyond, the valleys still and fair—Beyond, the meadows stretching wide,And all the shining fields of air!What does it mean, O Father! whenThy children reach some closéd gate,Which, though they knock and knock again,Will not its watch and ward abate?Still shall they batter at the walls?Or still, like children, cry and fret,While the loud clamor of their callsSwells high in turbulent regret?When thou hast barred the door, shall theyChallenge thy wisdom, God of love?Or humbly wait beside the wayTill thou the barrier shalt remove?Too oft we cannot hear thee speak,So loud our voices and our prayers,While to the patient and the meekThe gate thou openest unawares!
I walked along a narrow way;The sun was shining everywhere;The jocund earth was glad and gay,With morning freshness in the air.The grass was green beneath my feet;The skies were blue and soft o’erhead;The robin carolled clear and sweet,And flowers their fragrance round me shed.How shone the great hills far away;How clear they rose against the blue;How fair the tranquil meadows lay,Where the bright river glances through!But suddenly, as on I pressed,Before me frowned a closéd gate;Filled with dismay, and sore distressed,I strove in vain to conquer fate!Beyond, the hills for which I sighed—Beyond, the valleys still and fair—Beyond, the meadows stretching wide,And all the shining fields of air!What does it mean, O Father! whenThy children reach some closéd gate,Which, though they knock and knock again,Will not its watch and ward abate?Still shall they batter at the walls?Or still, like children, cry and fret,While the loud clamor of their callsSwells high in turbulent regret?When thou hast barred the door, shall theyChallenge thy wisdom, God of love?Or humbly wait beside the wayTill thou the barrier shalt remove?Too oft we cannot hear thee speak,So loud our voices and our prayers,While to the patient and the meekThe gate thou openest unawares!
I walked along a narrow way;The sun was shining everywhere;The jocund earth was glad and gay,With morning freshness in the air.
The grass was green beneath my feet;The skies were blue and soft o’erhead;The robin carolled clear and sweet,And flowers their fragrance round me shed.
How shone the great hills far away;How clear they rose against the blue;How fair the tranquil meadows lay,Where the bright river glances through!
But suddenly, as on I pressed,Before me frowned a closéd gate;Filled with dismay, and sore distressed,I strove in vain to conquer fate!
Beyond, the hills for which I sighed—Beyond, the valleys still and fair—Beyond, the meadows stretching wide,And all the shining fields of air!
What does it mean, O Father! whenThy children reach some closéd gate,Which, though they knock and knock again,Will not its watch and ward abate?
Still shall they batter at the walls?Or still, like children, cry and fret,While the loud clamor of their callsSwells high in turbulent regret?
When thou hast barred the door, shall theyChallenge thy wisdom, God of love?Or humbly wait beside the wayTill thou the barrier shalt remove?
Too oft we cannot hear thee speak,So loud our voices and our prayers,While to the patient and the meekThe gate thou openest unawares!
Not asking how or why,Before thy will,O Father, let my heartLie hushed and still!Why should I seek to know?Thou art all-wise;If thou dost bid me go,Let that suffice.If thou dost bid me stay,Make me contentIn narrow bounds to dwellTill life be spent.If thou dost seal the lipsThat fain would speak,Let me be still till thouThe seal shalt break.If thou dost make pale PainThy minister,Then let my patient heartClasp hands with her.Or, if thou sendest JoyTo walk with me,My Father, let her leadMe nearer thee!Teach me that Joy and PainAlike are thine;Teach me my life to leaveIn hands divine!
Not asking how or why,Before thy will,O Father, let my heartLie hushed and still!Why should I seek to know?Thou art all-wise;If thou dost bid me go,Let that suffice.If thou dost bid me stay,Make me contentIn narrow bounds to dwellTill life be spent.If thou dost seal the lipsThat fain would speak,Let me be still till thouThe seal shalt break.If thou dost make pale PainThy minister,Then let my patient heartClasp hands with her.Or, if thou sendest JoyTo walk with me,My Father, let her leadMe nearer thee!Teach me that Joy and PainAlike are thine;Teach me my life to leaveIn hands divine!
Not asking how or why,Before thy will,O Father, let my heartLie hushed and still!
Why should I seek to know?Thou art all-wise;If thou dost bid me go,Let that suffice.
If thou dost bid me stay,Make me contentIn narrow bounds to dwellTill life be spent.
If thou dost seal the lipsThat fain would speak,Let me be still till thouThe seal shalt break.
If thou dost make pale PainThy minister,Then let my patient heartClasp hands with her.
Or, if thou sendest JoyTo walk with me,My Father, let her leadMe nearer thee!
Teach me that Joy and PainAlike are thine;Teach me my life to leaveIn hands divine!
They tell me you have been in Wonderland.Why, so have I! No boat’s keel touched the strand,No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding carBore me to mystic realms, unknown and far.And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes,Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies;I, too, have been in Wonderland, and knowHow through its secret vales the weird winds blow.One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn—I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn,Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the southA young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth.She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and nearHer minstrels’ voices, jubilant and clear;While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet,All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet,Ran over hill and dale, to bring to herGreen robes with wild flowers ’broidered. All astirWere the gay, courtier butterflies; the treesFlung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze;The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed,Her happy servitors around her pressed,Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filledWith life’s new wine, that all her pulses thrilled.In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day,In a gray casket, deftly hidden away,I found two pearls; but as I looked they grewTo living jewels, that took wing and flew.And once a creeping worm, within my sightWove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and whiteThen, bursting from its cerements, soared in air,A radiant vision, most supremely fair.Out of the darksome mould, before my eyesI saw a shaft of emerald arise,Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold,And set with gems of splendors manifold.Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood,When o’er the vaulted dome there swept a floodOf lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyreTook to its heart a globe of crimson fire.The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl becameA liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame;And as I gazed, a silver crescent hungIn violet depths, a thousand stars among.I saw a woman, marvellously fair,Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air;Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold,A marble goddess of transcendent mould.I saw a folded bud, in one short hour,Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower.O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far;Near as this rose, remote as yonder star!
They tell me you have been in Wonderland.Why, so have I! No boat’s keel touched the strand,No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding carBore me to mystic realms, unknown and far.And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes,Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies;I, too, have been in Wonderland, and knowHow through its secret vales the weird winds blow.One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn—I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn,Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the southA young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth.She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and nearHer minstrels’ voices, jubilant and clear;While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet,All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet,Ran over hill and dale, to bring to herGreen robes with wild flowers ’broidered. All astirWere the gay, courtier butterflies; the treesFlung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze;The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed,Her happy servitors around her pressed,Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filledWith life’s new wine, that all her pulses thrilled.In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day,In a gray casket, deftly hidden away,I found two pearls; but as I looked they grewTo living jewels, that took wing and flew.And once a creeping worm, within my sightWove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and whiteThen, bursting from its cerements, soared in air,A radiant vision, most supremely fair.Out of the darksome mould, before my eyesI saw a shaft of emerald arise,Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold,And set with gems of splendors manifold.Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood,When o’er the vaulted dome there swept a floodOf lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyreTook to its heart a globe of crimson fire.The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl becameA liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame;And as I gazed, a silver crescent hungIn violet depths, a thousand stars among.I saw a woman, marvellously fair,Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air;Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold,A marble goddess of transcendent mould.I saw a folded bud, in one short hour,Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower.O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far;Near as this rose, remote as yonder star!
They tell me you have been in Wonderland.Why, so have I! No boat’s keel touched the strand,No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding carBore me to mystic realms, unknown and far.
And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes,Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies;I, too, have been in Wonderland, and knowHow through its secret vales the weird winds blow.
One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn—I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn,Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the southA young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth.
She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and nearHer minstrels’ voices, jubilant and clear;While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet,All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet,
Ran over hill and dale, to bring to herGreen robes with wild flowers ’broidered. All astirWere the gay, courtier butterflies; the treesFlung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze;
The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed,Her happy servitors around her pressed,Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filledWith life’s new wine, that all her pulses thrilled.
In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day,In a gray casket, deftly hidden away,I found two pearls; but as I looked they grewTo living jewels, that took wing and flew.
And once a creeping worm, within my sightWove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and whiteThen, bursting from its cerements, soared in air,A radiant vision, most supremely fair.
Out of the darksome mould, before my eyesI saw a shaft of emerald arise,Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold,And set with gems of splendors manifold.
Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood,When o’er the vaulted dome there swept a floodOf lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyreTook to its heart a globe of crimson fire.
The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl becameA liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame;And as I gazed, a silver crescent hungIn violet depths, a thousand stars among.
I saw a woman, marvellously fair,Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air;Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold,A marble goddess of transcendent mould.
I saw a folded bud, in one short hour,Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower.O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far;Near as this rose, remote as yonder star!