RETROSPECTION

I look down the lengthening distanceFar back to youth’s valley of hope.How strange seemed the ways of existence,How infinite life and its scope!

What dreams, what ambitions came throngingTo people a world of my own!How the heart in my bosom was longing,For pleasures and places unknown.

But the hill-tops of pleasure and beautyWere covered with mist at the dawn;And only the rugged road DutyShone clear, as my feet wandered on.

I loved not the path and its leading,I hated the rocks and the dust;But a Voice from the Silence was pleading,It spoke but one syllable—“Trust.”

I saw, as the morning grew older,The fair flowered hills of delight;And the feet of my comrades grew bolder,They hurried away from my sight.

And when on the pathway I faltered,And when I rebelled at my fate,The Voice with assurance unaltered,Again spoke one syllable—“Wait.”

Along the hard highway I travelledAnd saw, with dim vision, how soonThe morning’s gold locks were unravelled,By fingers of amorous noon.

A turn in the pathway of duty—I stood in the perfect day’s prime,Close, close to the hillside of beautyThe Voice from the Silence said “Climb”

The road to the beautiful RegionsLies ever through Duty’s hard way.Oh ye who go searching in legions,Know this and be patient to-day.

Last night I saw Helena.  She whose praiseOf late all men have sounded.  She for whomYoung Angus rashly sought a silent tombRather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long,She is so ripe with dangers.  Yet meanwhileI find no fascination in her smile,Although I make her theme of this poor song.

“Her golden tresses?” yes, they may be fair,And yet to me each shining silken tressSeems robbed of beauty and all lustreless—Too many hands have stroked Helena’s hair.

(I know a little maiden so demureShe will not let her one true lover’s handsIn playful fondness touch her soft brown bandsSo dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)

“Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?” that may be,And yet they are not beautiful to me.Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hidSo underneath white curtains, and so veiledThat I have sometimes plead for hours, and failedTo see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

“Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?”“Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?”I would not taste its sweetness for a crown;Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried,Lies like a young grape’s bloom, untouched and sweet,And though I plead in passion at her feet,She would not let me brush it if I died.)

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vieFor thy rare smile, or die from loss of it,Armoured by my sweet lady’s trust, I sit,And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh.

Nothing remains of unrecorded agesThat lie in the silent cemetery time;Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages,Their glory may have been indeed sublime.How weak do seem our strivings after power,How poor the grandest efforts of our brains,If out of all we are, in one short hourNothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces,Time and decay uproot the forest trees.Even the mighty mountains leave their places,And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seasThe great earth writhes in some convulsive spasmsAnd turns the proudest cities into plains.The level sea becomes a yawning chasm—Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces,The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry,Rivers are drained and altered in their courses,Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky.Ideas die and old religions perish,Our rarest pleasures and our keenest painsAre swept away with all we hate or cherish—Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal NamelessAnd all-creative spirit of the Law,Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless,Invincible, resistless, with no flaw;So full of love it must create for ever,Destroying that it may create again,Persistent and perfecting in endeavour,It yet must bring forth angels, after men—This, this remains!

I and my Soul are alone to-day,All in the shining weather;We were sick of the world, and put it away,So we could rejoice together.

Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue skyIs mixing a rare, sweet wine,In the burnished gold of this cup on high,For me, and this Soul of mine.

We find it a safe and royal drink,And a cure for every pain;It helps us to love, and helps us to think,And strengthens body and brain.

And sitting here, with my Soul alone,Where the yellow sun-rays fall,Of all the friends I have ever knownI find it thebestof all.

We rarely meet when the world is near,For the World hath a pleasing artAnd brings me so much that is bright and dearThat my Soul it keepeth apart.

But when I grow weary of mirth and glee,Of glitter, glow, and splendour,Like a tried old friend it comes to me,With a smile that is sad and tender.

And we walk together as two friends may,And laugh and drink God’s wine.Oh, a royal comrade any dayI find this Soul of mine.

Now, while thy rounded cheek is fresh and fair,While beauty lingers, laughing, in thine eyes,Ere thy young heart shall meet the stranger, “Care,”Or thy blithe soul become the home of sighs,Were it not kindness should I give thee restBy plunging this sharp dagger in thy breast?Dying so young, with all thy wealth of youth,What part of life wouldst thou not claim, in sooth?Only the woe,Sweetheart, that sad souls know.

Now, in this sacred hour of supreme trust,Of pure delight and palpitating joy,Ere change can come, as come it surely must,With jarring doubts and discords, to destroyOur far too perfect peace, I pray thee, Sweet,Were it not best for both of us, and meet,If I should bring swift death to seal our bliss?Dying so full of joy, what could we miss?Nothing but tears,Sweetheart, and weary years.

How slight the action!  Just one well-aimed blowHere, where I feel thy warm heart’s pulsing beat,And then another through my own, and soOur perfect union would be made complete:So, past all parting, I should claim thee mine.Dead with our youth, and faith, and love divine,Should we not keep the best of life that way?What shall we gain by living day on day?What shall we gain,Sweetheart, but bitter pain?

[In an interview with Lawrence Barrett, he said: “The literature of the New World must look to the West for its poetry.”]

Not to the crowded East,Where, in a well-worn groove,Like the harnessed wheel of a great machine,The trammelled mind must move—Where Thought must follow the fashion of Thought,Or be counted vulgar and set at naught.

Not to the languid South,Where the mariners of the brainAre lured by the Sirens of the Sense,And wrecked upon its main—Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind’s breathTo a torpid sleep that ends in death.

But to the mighty West,That chosen realm of God,Where Nature reaches her hands to men,And Freedom walks abroad—Where mind is King, and fashion is naught,There shall the New World look for thought

To the West, the beautiful West,She shall look, and not in vain—For out of its broad and boundless storeCome muscle, and nerve, and brain.Let the bards of the East and the South be dumb—For out of the West shall the Poets come.

They shall come with souls as greatAs the cradle where they were rocked;They shall come with brows that are touched with fireLike the gods with whom they have walked;They shall come from the West in royal state,The Singers and Thinkers for whom we wait.

I set out for the Land of Content,By the gay crowded pleasure-highway,With laughter, and jesting, I wentWith the mirth-loving throng for a day;Then I knew I had wandered astray,For I met returned pilgrims, belated,Who said, “We are weary and sated,But we found not the Land of Content.”

I turned to the steep path of fame,I said, “It is over yon height—This land with the beautiful name—Ambition will lend me its light.”But I paused in my journey ere night,For the way grew so lonely and troubled;I said—my anxiety doubled—“This is not the road to Content.”

Then I joined the great rabble and throngThat frequents the moneyed world’s mart;But the greed, and the grasping and wrong,Left me only one wish—to depart.And sickened, and saddened at heart,I hurried away from the gateway,For my soul and my spirit said straightway.“This is not the road to Content.”

Then weary in body and brain,An overgrown path I detected,And I said “I will hide with my painIn this byway, unused and neglected.”Lo! it led to the realm God selectedTo crown with His best gifts of beauty,And through the dark pathway of dutyI came to the land of Content.

High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning,Albeit the sun shone bright;Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning,“Remember Night!”

[Read at Reunion of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.]

After the battles are over,And the war drums cease to beat,And no more is heard on the hillsideThe sound of hurrying feet,Full many a noble action,That was done in the days of strifeBy the soldier is half forgotten,In the peaceful walks of life.

Just as the tangled grasses,In Summer’s warmth and light,Grow over the graves of the fallenAnd hide them away from sight,So many an act of valour,And many a deed sublime,Fade from the mind of the soldierO’ergrown by the grass of time

Not so should they be rewarded,Those noble deeds of old!They should live for ever and ever,When the heroes’ hearts are cold.Then rally, ye brave old comrades,Old veterans, reunite!Uproot Time’s tangled grasses—Live over the march, and the fight.

Let Grant come up from the White House,And clasp each brother’s hand,First chieftain of the army,Last chieftain of the land.Let him rest from a nation’s burdens,And go, in thought, with his men,Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh,And save the day again.

This silent hero of battlesKnew no such word as defeat.It was left for the rebels’ learning,Along with the word—retreat.He was not given to talking,But he found that guns would preachIn a way that was more convincingThan fine and flowery speech

Three cheers for the grave commanderOf the grand old Tennessee!Who won the first great battle—Gained the first great victory.His motto was always “Conquer,”“Success” was his countersign,And “though it took all Summer,”He kept fighting upon “that line.”

Let Sherman, the stern old General,Come rallying with his men;Let them march once more through GeorgiaAnd down to the sea again.Oh! that grand old tramp to Savannah,Three hundred miles to the coast,It will live in the heart of the nation,For ever its pride and boast.

As Sheridan went to the battle,When a score of miles away,He has come to the feast and banquet,By the iron horse to-day.Its pace is not much swifterThan the pace of that famous steedWhich bore him down to the contestAnd saved the day by his speed.

Then go over the ground to-day, boysTread each remembered spot.It will be a gleesome journey,On the swift-shod feet of thought;You can fight a bloodless battle,You can skirmish along the route,But it’s not worth while to forage,There are rations enough without.

Don’t start if you hear the cannon,It is not the sound of doom,It does not call to the contest—To the battle’s smoke and gloom.“Let us have peace,” was spoken,And lo! peace ruled again;And now the nation is shouting,Through the cannon’s voice, “Amen.”

O boys who besieged old Vicksburgh,Can time e’er wash awayThe triumph of her surrender,Nine years ago to-day?Can you ever forget the moment,When you saw the flag of white,That told how the grim old cityHad fallen in her might?

Ah, ’twas a bold, brave army,When the boys, with a right good will,Went gaily marching and singingTo the fight at Champion Hill.They met with a warm reception,But the soul of “Old John Brown”Was abroad on that field of battle,And our flag didNOTgo down.

Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain,Of Corinth and Donelson,Of Kenesaw and Atlanta,And tell how the day was won!Hush! bow the head for a moment—There are those who cannot come.No bugle-call can arouse them—No sound of fife or drum.

Oh, boys who died for the country,Oh, dear and sainted dead!What can we say about youThat has not once been said?Whether you fell in the contest,Struck down by shot and shell,Or pined ’neath the hand of sicknessOr starved in the prison cell,

We know that you died for Freedom,To save our land from shame,To rescue a perilled Nation,And we give you deathless fame.’Twas the cause of Truth and JusticeThat you fought and perished for,And we say it, oh, so gently,“Our boys who died in the war.”

Saviours of our Republic,Heroes who wore the blue,We owe the peace that surrounds us—And our Nation’s strength to you.We owe it to you that our banner,The fairest flag in the world,Is to-day unstained, unsullied,On the Summer air unfurled.

We look on its stripes and spangles,And our hearts are filled the whileWith love for the brave commanders,And the boys of the rank and file.The grandest deeds of valourWere never written out,The noblest acts of virtueThe world knows nothing about.

And many a private soldier,Who walks his humble way,With no sounding name or title,Unknown to the world to-day,In the eyes of God is a heroAs worthy of the baysAs any mighty GeneralTo whom the world gives praise.

Brave men of a mighty army,We extend you friendship’s handI speak for the “Loyal Women,”Those pillars of our land.We wish you a hearty welcome,We are proud that you gather hereTo talk of old times togetherOn this brightest day in the year.

And if Peace, whose snow-white pinionsBrood over our land to-day,Should ever again go from us,(God grant she may ever stay!)Should our Nation call in her perilFor “Six hundred thousand more,”The loyal women would hear her,And send you out as before.

We would bring out the treasured knapsack,We would take the sword from the wall,And hushing our own hearts’ pleadings,Hear only the country’s call.For next to our God is our Nation;And we cherish the honoured nameOf the bravest of all brave armiesWho fought for that Nation’s fame.

I have been across the bridges of the years.Wet with tearsWere the ties on which I trod, going backDown the trackTo the valley where I left, ’neath skies of Truth,My lost youth.

As I went, I dropped my burdens, one and all—Let them fall;All my sorrows, all my wrinkles, all my care,My white hair,I laid down, like some lone pilgrim’s heavy pack,By the track.

As I neared the happy valley with light feet,My heart beatTo the rhythm of a song I used to knowLong ago,And my spirits gushed and bubbled like a fountainDown a mountain.

On the border of that valley I found you,Tried and true;And we wandered through the golden Summer-LandHand in hand.And my pulses beat with rapture in the blissesOf your kisses.

And we met there, in those green and verdant places,Smiling faces,And sweet laughter echoed upward from the dellsLike gold bells.And the world was spilling over with the gloryOf Youth’s story.

It was but a dreamer’s journey of the brain;And againI have left the happy valley far behind;And I findTime stands waiting with his burdens in a packFor my back.

As he speeds me, like a rough, well-meaning friend,To the end,Will I find again the lost ones loved so well?Who can tell!But the dead know what the life will be to come—And they are dumb!

As some dusk mother shields from all alarmsThe tired child she gathers to her breast,The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hearHer voice of winds low crooning on my ear.O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.

The day is full of gladness, and the lightSo beautifies the common outer things,I only see with my external sight,And only hear the great world’s voice which rings.But silently from daylight and from dinThe sweet Night draws me—whispers, “Look within!”And looking, as one wakened from a dream,I see whatis—no longer what doth seem.

The Night says, “Listen!” and upon my earRevealed, as are the visions to my sight,The voices known as “Beautiful” come nearAnd whisper of the vastly Infinite.Great, blue-eyed Truth, her sister Purity,Their brother Honour, all converse with me,And kiss my brow, and say, “Be brave of heart!”O holy three! how beautiful thou art!

The Night says, “Child, sleep that thou may’st ariseStrong for to-morrow’s struggle.”  And I feelHer shadowy fingers pressing on my eyes:Like thistledown I float to the Ideal—The Slumberland, made beautiful and brightAs death, by dreams of loved ones gone from sight,O food for souls, sweet dreams of pure delight,How beautiful the holy hours of Night!

The world grows green on a thousand hills—By a thousand willows the bees are humming,And a million birds by a million rills,Sing of the golden season coming.But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea,And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing,I feel that the summer is all for me,And all for me are the joys it is bringing.

All for me the bumble-beeDrones his song in the perfect weather;And, just on purpose to sing to me,Thrush and blue-bird came North together.Just for me, in red and white,Bloom and blossom the fields of clover;And all for me and my delightThe wild Wind follows and plays the lover.

The mighty sun, with a scorching kiss(I have read, and heard, and do not doubt it)Has burned up a thousand worlds like this,And never stopped to think about it.And yet I believe he hurries upJust on purpose to kiss my flowers—To drink the dew from the lily-cup,And help it to grow through golden hours.

I know I am only a speck of dust,An individual mite of masses,Clinging upon the outer crustOf a little ball of cooling gases.And yet, and yet, say what you will,And laugh, if you please, at my lack of reason,For me wholly, and for me still,Blooms and blossoms the Summer season.

Nobody else has ever heardThe story the Wind to me discloses;And none but I and the humming-birdCan read the hearts of the crimson roses.Ah, my Summer—my love—my own!The world grows glad in your smiling weather;Yet all for me, and me alone,You and your Court came North together.

If the sad old world should jump a cogSometime, in its dizzy spinning,And go off the track with a sudden jog,What an end would come to the sinning,What a rest from strife and the burdens of lifeFor the millions of people in it,What a way out of care, and worry and wear,All in a beautiful minute.

As ’round the sun with a curving sweepIt hurries and runs and races,Should it lose its balance, and go with a leapInto the vast sea-spaces,What a blest relief it would bring to the grief,And the trouble and toil about us,To be suddenly hurled from the solar worldAnd let it go on without us.

With not a sigh or a sad good-byeFor loved ones left behind us,We would go with a lunge and a mighty plungeWhere never a grave should find us.What a wild mad thrill our veins would fillAs the great earth, like a feather,Should float through the air to God knows where,And carry us all together.

No dark, damp tomb and no mourner’s gloom,No tolling bell in the steeple,But in one swift breath a painless deathFor a million billion people.What greater bliss could we ask than this,To sweep with a bird’s free motionThrough leagues of space to a resting place,In a vast and vapoury ocean—To pass away from this life for ayeWith never a dear tie sundered,And a world on fire for a funeral pyre,While the stars looked on and wondered?

Is it the world, or my eyes, that are sadder?I see not the grace that I used to seeIn the meadow-brook whose song was so glad, orIn the boughs of the willow tree.The brook runs slower—its song seems lowerAnd not the song that it sang of old;And the tree I admired looks weary and tiredOf the changeless story of heat and cold.

When the sun goes up, and the stars go under,In that supreme hour of the breaking day,Is it my eyes, or the dawn, I wonder,That finds less of the gold, and more of the grayI see not the splendour, the tints so tender,The rose-hued glory I used to see;And I often borrow a vague half-sorrowThat another morning has dawned for me.

When the royal smile of that welcome comerBeams on the meadow and burns in the sky,Is it my eyes, or does the SummerBring less of bloom than in days gone by?The beauty that thrilled me, the rapture that filled me,To an overflowing of happy tears,I pass unseeing, my sad eyes beingDimmed by the shadow of vanished years.

When the heart grows weary, all things seem dreary;When the burden grows heavy, the way seems long.Thank God for sending kind death as an ending,Like a grand Amen to a minor song.

Not they who know the awful gibbet’s anguish,Not they who, while sad years go by them, inThe sunless cells of lonely prisons languish,Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.

’Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected,Yet with grim fear for ever at their side,Who hug the corpse of some sin undetected,A corpse no grave or coffin-lid can hide—

’Tis they who are in their own chambers hauntedBy thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude,And sit down, uninvited and unwanted,And make a nightmare of the solitude.

I feel the stirrings in me of great things.New half-fledged thoughts rise up and beat their wings,And tremble on the margin of their nest,Then flutter back, and hide within my breast.

Beholding space, they doubt their untried strength.Beholding men, they fear them.  But at length,Grown all too great and active for the heartThat broods them with such tender mother art,Forgetting fear, and men, and all, that hour,Save the impelling consciousness of powerThat stirs within them—they shall soar awayUp to the very portals of the Day.

Oh, what exultant rapture thrills me throughWhen I contemplate all those thoughts may do;Like snow-white eagles penetrating space,They may explore full many an unknown place,And build their nests on mountain heights unseen,Whereon doth lie that dreamed-of rest serene.Stay thou a little longer in my breast,Till my fond heart shall push thee from the nestAnxious to see thee soar to heights divine—Oh, beautiful but half-fledged thoughts of mine.

What can be said in New Year rhymes,That’s not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,And that’s the burden of the year.

A vision beauteous as the morn,With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming,Slow glided o’er a field late shornWhere walked a poet idly dreaming.He saw her, and joy lit his face,“Oh, vanish not at human speaking,”He cried, “thou form of magic grace,Thou art the poem I am seeking.

“I’ve sought thee long!  I claim thee now—My thought embodied, living, real.”She shook the tresses from her brow.“Nay, nay!” she said, “I am ideal.I am the phantom of desire—The spirit of all great endeavour,I am the voice that says, ‘Come higher,’That calls men up and up for ever.

“’Tis not alone thy thought supremeThat here upon thy path has risen;I am the artist’s highest dream,The ray of light he cannot prison.I am the sweet ecstatic noteThan all glad music gladder, clearer,That trembles in the singer’s throat,And dies without a human hearer.

“I am the greater, better yield,That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbour,For me he bravely tills the fieldAnd whistles gaily at his labour.Not thou alone, O poet soul,Dost seek me through an endless morrow,But to the toiling, hoping wholeI am at once the hope and sorrow.

“The spirit of the unattained,I am to those who seek to name me,A good desired but never gained:All shall pursue, but none shall claim me.”

How happy they are, in all seeming,How gay, or how smilingly proud,How brightly their faces are beaming,These people who make up the crowd!How they bow, how they bend, how they flutter,How they look at each other and smile,How they glow, and whatbon motsthey utter!But a strange thought has found me the while!

It is odd, but I stand here and fancyThese people who now play a part,All forced by some strange necromancyTo speak, and to act, from the heart.What a hush would come over the laughter!What a silence would fall on the mirth!And then what a wail would sweep after,As the night-wind sweeps over the earth!

If the secrets held under and hiddenIn the intricate hearts of the crowdWere suddenly called to, and biddenTo rise up and cry out aloud,How strange one would look to another!Old friends of long standing and years—Own brothers would not know each other,Robed new in their sorrows and fears.

From broadcloth, and velvet, and laces,Would echo the groans of despair,And there would be blanching of facesAnd wringing of hands and of hair.That man with his record of honour,That lady down there with the rose,That girl with Spring’s freshness upon her,Who knoweth the secrets of those?

Smile on, O ye maskers, smile sweetly!Step lightly, bow low and laugh loud!Though the world is deceived and completely,I know ye, O sad-hearted crowd!I watch you with infinite pity:But play on, play ever your part,Be gleeful, be joyful, be witty!’Tis better than showing the heart.

Life and I are lovers, strayingArm in arm along:Often like two children Maying,Full of mirth and song,

Life plucks all the blooming hoursGrowing by the way;Binds them on my brow like flowers,Calls me Queen of May.

Then again, in rainy weather,We sit vis-à-vis,Planning work we’ll do togetherIn the years to be.

Sometimes Life denies me blisses,And I frown or pout;But we make it up with kissesEre the day is out.

Woman-like, I sometimes grieve him,Try his trust and faith,Saying I shall one day leave himFor his rival, Death.

Then he always grows more zealous,Tender, and more true;Loves the more for being jealous,As all lovers do.

Though I swear by stars above him,And by worlds beyond,That I love him—love him—love him;Though my heart is fond;

Though he gives me, doth my lover,Kisses with each breath—I shall one day throw him over,And plight troth with Death.

Upon the white cheek of the Cherub YearI saw a tear.Alas!  I murmured, that the Year should borrowSo soon a sorrow.Just then the sunlight fell with sudden flame:The tear becameA wondrous diamond sparkling in the light—A beauteous sight.

Upon my soul there fell such woeful loss,I said, “The CrossIs grievous for a life as young as mine.”Just then, like wine,God’s sunlight shone from His high Heavens down;And lo! a crownGleamed in the place of what I thought a burden—My sorrow’s guerdon.

Of a thousand things that the Year snowed under—The busy Old Year who has gone away—How many will rise in the Spring, I wonder,Brought to life by the sun of May?Will the rose-tree branches, so wholly hiddenThat never a rose-tree seems to be,At the sweet Spring’s call come forth unbidden,And bud in beauty, and bloom for me?

Will the fair green Earth, whose throbbing bosomIs hid like a maid’s in her gown at night,Wake out of her sleep, and with blade and blossomGem her garments to please my sight?Over the knoll in the valley yonderThe loveliest buttercups bloomed and grew;When the snow has gone that drifted them under,Will they shoot up sunward, and bloom anew?

When wild winds blew, and a sleet-storm pelted,I lost a jewel of priceless worth;If I walk that way when snows have melted,Will the gem gleam up from the bare brown Earth?I laid a love that was dead or dying,For the year to bury and hide from sight;But out of a trance will it waken, crying,And push to my heart, like a leaf to the light?

Under the snow lie things so cherished—Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men—Faces that vanished, and trusts that perished,Never to sparkle and glow again.The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder,And covered it over and hurried away:Of the thousand things that he did, I wonderHow many will rise at the call of May?O wise Young Year, with your hands held underYour mantle of ermine, tell me, pray!

Toward even, when the day leans downTo kiss the upturned face of night,Out just beyond the loud-voiced townI know a spot of calm delight.Like crimson arrows from a quiverThe red rays pierce the waters flowing,While we go dreaming, singing, rowingTo Leudemanns-on-the-River.

The hills, like some glad mocking-bird,Send back our laughter and our singing,While faint—and yet more faint is heardThe steeple bells all sweetly ringing.Some message did the winds deliverTo each glad heart that August night,All heard, but all heard not aright,By Leudemanns-on-the-River.

Night falls as in some foreign clime,Between the hills that slope and rise.So dusk the shades at landing-time,We could not see each other’s eyes.We only saw the moonbeams quiverFar down upon the stream! that nightThe new moon gave but little lightBy Leudemanns-on-the-River.

How dusky were those paths that ledUp from the river to the hall.The tall trees branching overheadInvite the early shades that fall.In all the glad blithe world, oh, neverWere hearts more free from care than whenWe wandered through those walks, we ten,By Leudemanns-on-the-River.

So soon, so soon, the changes came.This August day we two alone,On that same river, not the same,Dream of a night for ever flown.Strange distances have come to severThe hearts that gaily beat in pleasure,Long miles we cannot cross or measure—From Leudemanns-on-the-River.

We’ll pluck two leaves, dear friend, to-day.The green, the russet! seems it strangeSo soon, so soon, the leaves can change!Ah me! so runs all life away.This night-wind chills me, and I shiver;The Summer-time is almost past.One more good-bye—perhaps the lastTo Leudemanns-on-the-River.

Every morning and every nightThere passes our window near the street,A little girl with an eye so bright,And a cheek so round and a lip so sweet!The daintiest, jauntiest little missThat ever any one longed to kiss,

She is neat as wax, and fresh to view,And her look is wholesome, and clean, and good.Whatever her gown, her hood is blue,And so we call her our “Little Blue Hood,”For we know not the name of the dear little lass,But we call to each other to see her pass,

“Little Blue Hood is coming now!”And we watch from the window while she goes by,She has such a bonny, smooth, white brow,And a fearless look in her long-lashed eye!And a certain dignity wedded to graceSeems to envelop her form and face.

Every morning, in sun or rain,She walks by the window with sweet, grave air,And never guesses behind the paneWe two are watching and thinking her fair;Lovingly watching her down the street,Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet.

Somebody ties that hood of blueUnder the face so fair to see,Somebody loves her, beside we two,Somebody kisses her—why can’t we?Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair,Are you glad we love you, or don’t you care?

Up from the South come the birds that were banished,Frightened away by the presence of frost.Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished,Back to the forest the leaves that were lost.Over the hillside the carpet of splendour,Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again;Along the horizon, the tints that were tender,Lost hues of Summer-time, burn bright as then.

Only the mountains’ high summits are hoary,To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key.Once more the gleaming shore lists to the storyTold by an amorous Summer-kissed sea.All things revive that in Winter time perished,The rose buds again in the light o’ the sun,All that was beautiful, all that was cherished,Sweet things and dear things and all things—save one.

Late, when the year and the roses were lyingLow with the ruins of Summer and bloom,Down in the dust fell a love that was dying,And the snow piled over it, and made it a tomb.Lo! now the roses are budded for blossom—Lo! now the Summer is risen again.Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom?Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?

Life without love is a year without Summer,Heart without love is a wood without song.Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer:Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long?Rise! ah, thou can’st not! the rose-tree that sheddestIts beautiful leaves, in the Springtime may bloom,But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest,Love buried once, rises not from the tomb.Green things may grow on the hillside and heather,Birds seek the forest and build there and sing.All things revive in the beautiful weather,But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.

After the May time, and after the June time,Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet,Cometh the round world’s royal noon time,The red midsummer of blazing heat.When the sun, like an eye that never closes,Bends on the earth its fervid gaze,And the winds are still, and the crimson rosesDroop and wither and die in its rays.

Unto my heart has come that season,O my lady, my worshipped one,When over the stars of Pride and ReasonSails Love’s cloudless, noonday sun.Like a great red ball in my bosom burningWith fires that nothing can quench or tame.It glows till my heart itself seems turningInto a liquid lake of flame.

The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender,The dreams and fears of an earlier day,Under the noontide’s royal splendour,Droop like roses and wither away.From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing,From the isle of pain no breeze is sent.Only the sun in a white heat glowingOver an ocean of great content.

Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory,Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon,For the Autumn must come with its mournful story,And Love’s midsummer will fade too soon.

I saw the wild honey-bee kissing a roseA wee one, that growsDown low on the bush, where her sisters aboveCannot see all that’s doneAs the moments roll on.Nor hear all the whispers and murmurs of love.

They flaunt out their beautiful leaves in the sun,And they flirt, every one,With the wild bees who pass, and the gay butterflies.And that wee thing in pink—Why, they never once thinkThat she’s won a lover right under their eyes.

It reminded me, Kate, of a time—you know when!You were so petite then,Your dresses were short, and your feet were so small.Your sisters, Maud-BelleAnd Madeline—well,Theybothset their caps for me, after that ball.

How the blue eyes and black eyes smiled up in my face!’Twas a neck-and-neck race,Till that day when you opened the door in the hall,And looked up and looked down,With your sweet eyes of brown,Andyouseemed so tiny, andIfelt so tall.

Your sisters had sent you to keep me, my dear,Till they should appear.Then you were dismissed like a child in disgrace.How meekly you went!But your brown eyes, they sentA thrill to my heart, and a flush to my face.

We always were meeting some way after that.You hung up my hat,And got it again, when I finished my call.Sixteen, andsosweet!Oh, those cute little feet!Shall I ever forget how they tripped down the hall?

Shall I ever forget the first kiss by the door,Or the vows murmured o’er,Or the rage and surprise of Maud-Belle?  Well-a-day,How swiftly time flows,And who would supposeThat abeecould have carried me so far away.

Across the miles that stretch between,Through days of gloom or glad sunlight,There shines a face I have not seenWhich yet doth make my world more bright.

He may be near, he may be far,Or near or far I cannot see,But faithful as the morning starHe yet shall rise and come to me.

What though fate leads us separate ways,The world is round, and time is fleet.A journey of a few brief days,And face to face we two shall meet.

Shall meet beneath God’s arching skies,While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam,And looking in each other’s eyesShall hold the past but as a dream.

But round and perfect and complete,Life like a star shall climb the height,As we two press with willing feetTogether toward the Infinite.

And still behind the space between,As back of dawns the sunbeams play,There shines the face I have not seen,Whose smile shall wake my world to-day.

One leaned on velvet cushions like a queen—To see him pass, the hero of an hour,Whom men called great.  She bowed with languid mien,And smiled, and blushed, and knew her beauty’s power.

One trailed her tinselled garments through the street,And thrust aside the crowd, and found a placeSo near, the blooded courser’s prancing feetCast sparks of fire upon her painted face.

One took the hot-house blossoms from her breast,And tossed them down, as he went riding by,And blushed rose-red to see them fondly pressedTo bearded lips, while eye spoke unto eye.

One, bold and hardened with her sinful life,Yet shrank and shivered painfully, becauseHis cruel glance cut keener than a knife,The glance of him who made her what she was.

One was observed, and lifted up to fame,Because the hero smiled upon her! whileOne who was shunned and hated, found her shameIn basking in the death-light of his smile.

Slipping away—slipping away!Out of our brief year slips the May;And Winter lingers, and Summer flies;And Sorrow abideth, and Pleasure dies;And the days are short, and the nights are long;And little is right, and much is wrong.

Slipping away is the Summer time;It has lost its rhythm and lilting rhyme—For the grace goes out of the day so soon,And the tired head aches in the glare of noon,And the way seems long to the hills that lieUnder the calm of the western sky.

Slipping away are the friends whose worthLent a glow to the sad old earth:One by one they slip from our sight;One by one their graves gleam white;Or we count them lost by the crueller deathOf a trust betrayed, or a murdered faith.

Slipping away are the hopes that madeBliss out of sorrow, and sun out of shade,Slipping away is our hold on life;And out of the struggle and wearing strife,From joys that diminish, and woes that increase,We are slipping away to the shores of Peace.

It is done! in the fire’s fitful flashes,The last line has withered and curled.In a tiny white heap of dead ashesLie buried the hopes of your world.There were mad foolish vows in each letter,It is well they have shrivelled and burned,And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter,It was better removed and returned.

But ah, is it done?  In the embersWhere letters and tokens were cast,Have you burned up the heart that remembers,And treasures its beautiful past?Do you think in this swift reckless fashionTo ruthlessly burn and destroyThe months that were freighted with passion,The dreams that were drunken with joy?

Can you burn up the rapture of kissesThat flashed from the lips to the soul,Or the heart that grows sick for lost blissesIn spite of its strength of control?Have you burned up the touch of warm fingersThat thrilled through each pulse and each vein,Or the sound of a voice that still lingersAnd hurts with a haunting refrain?

Is it done? is the life drama ended?You have put all the lights out, and yet,Though the curtain, rung down, has descended,Can the actors go home and forget?Ah, no! they will turn in their sleepingWith a strange restless pain in their hearts,And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping,Will dream they are playing their parts.

Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve,That you were married, or soon to be.I have not thought of you, I believe,Since last we parted.  Let me see:Five long Summers have passed since then—Each has been pleasant in its own way—And you are but one of a dozen menWho have played the suitor a Summer day.

But, nevertheless, when I heard your name,Coupled with some one’s, not my own,There burned in my bosom a sudden flame,That carried me back to the day that is flown.I was sitting again by the laughing brook,With you at my feet, and the sky above,And my heart was fluttering under your look—The unmistakable look of Love.

Again your breath, like a South wind, fannedMy cheek, where the blushes came and went;And the tender clasp of your strong, warm handSudden thrills through my pulses sent.Again you were mine by Love’s own right—Mine for ever by Love’s decree:So for a moment it seemed last night,When somebody mentioned your name to me.

Just for the moment I thought you mine—Loving me, wooing me, as of old.The tale remembered seemed half divine—Though I held it lightly enough when told.The past seemed fairer than when it was near,As “blessings brighten when taking flight;”And just for the moment I held you dear—When somebody mentioned your name last night.

In a garb that was guiltless of coloursShe stood, with a dull, listless air—A creature of dumps and of dolours,But most undeniably fair.

The folds of her garment fell round her,Revealing the curve of each limb;Well proportioned and graceful I found her,Although quite alarmingly slim.

From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal—“High art” was she down to her feet;And though I could not understand allShe said, I could see she was sweet.

Impressed by her limpness and languor,I proffered a chair near at hand;She looked back a mild sort of anger—Posed anew, and continued to stand.

Some praises I next tried to mutterOf the fan that she held to her face;She said it was “utterly utter,”And waved it with languishing grace.

I then, in a strain quite poetic,Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky,She looked—said its curve was “æsthetic.”But the “tone was too dreadfully high.”

Her lovely face, lit by the splendourThat glorified landscape and sea,Woke thoughts that were daring and tender:Didherthoughts, too, rest upon me?

“Oh, tell me,” I cried, growing bolder,“Have I in your musings a place?”“Well, yes,” she said over her shoulder:“I was thinking of nothing in space.”

Lie still and rest, in that serene reposeThat on this holy morning comes to thoseWho have been burdened with the cares which makeThe sad heart weary and the tired head ache.Lie still and rest—God’s day of all is best.

Awake! arise!  Cast off thy drowsy dreams!Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams.“As Monday goes, so goes the week,” dames say.Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day.And see! thy neighbourAlready seeks his labour.

Another morning’s banners are unfurled—Another day looks smiling on the world.It holds new laurels for thy soul to win;Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin,Nor sad, away,Send it to yesterday.

Half-way unto the end—the week’s high noon.The morning hours do speed away so soon!And, when the noon is reached, however bright,Instinctively we look toward the night.The glow is lostOnce the meridian cross’d.

So well the week has sped, hast thou a friend,Go spend an hour in converse.  It will lendNew beauty to thy labours and thy lifeTo pause a little sometimes in the strife.Toil soon seems rudeThat has no interlude.

From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray;Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day,Neglect no labour and no duty shirk:Not many hours are left thee for thy work—And it were meetThat all should be complete.

Now with the almost finished task make haste.So near the night thou hast no time to waste.Post up accounts, and let thy Soul’s eyes lookFor flaws and errors in Life’s ledger-book.When labours cease,How sweet the sense of peace!

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