As brothers here we've shared the smiles,The tears of boyhood's hour,And felt the sweet companionshipOf manhood's love and power.But now the tie is snapped. He's fledBeyond the mortal sight.The grave with all its mysteryAsserts Death's power to blight.Alas! Death seems the cruel thingIn this bright world of ours.The bravest soul shrinks from its holdThough loving faith empowers.But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear,With comfort as of yore?"Dear brother, Death is but more Life,The grave is heaven's door."
As brothers here we've shared the smiles,The tears of boyhood's hour,And felt the sweet companionshipOf manhood's love and power.But now the tie is snapped. He's fledBeyond the mortal sight.The grave with all its mysteryAsserts Death's power to blight.Alas! Death seems the cruel thingIn this bright world of ours.The bravest soul shrinks from its holdThough loving faith empowers.But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear,With comfort as of yore?"Dear brother, Death is but more Life,The grave is heaven's door."
As brothers here we've shared the smiles,The tears of boyhood's hour,And felt the sweet companionshipOf manhood's love and power.
But now the tie is snapped. He's fledBeyond the mortal sight.The grave with all its mysteryAsserts Death's power to blight.
Alas! Death seems the cruel thingIn this bright world of ours.The bravest soul shrinks from its holdThough loving faith empowers.
But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear,With comfort as of yore?"Dear brother, Death is but more Life,The grave is heaven's door."
July 12, 1886.
Another birthday here?It hardly seems a yearSince I these words did hear,—When three score years and one did crown thee,—"Not till I am an octagon,Or, worse still, a centurion,Shall I be old, with factories goneAll idiomatic and forlorn."But thou art still a "membrane" dearOf what we call society's cheer;"Ordained beforehand, in advance."('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting,But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring,Of "fluid" thoughts which counteractThe "bigamies" of fate and fact.Alas! thy crutch of many yearsStill hints "romantic" pains and fears;A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say,To keep "plumbago" still at bay!Its helpful mission has a shareIn "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare.And, by the way, not crutch aloneFinds in that book its value shown.There in the depths of friendship's minesAre seen thy tenderest, purest lines;Impromptus born at love's commandTo deck occasion's wise demand.One finds no "Sarah's desert" there,No "reprehensible" despair;But teeming thoughts on Mounds and PressPoured out in pure unselfishness.This brings to mind thyKnitting-Work,Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk,And other books with humor rife,Done in the priming of thy life."Contusion of ideas." O no;What "Angular Saxon" would say so?"Congestive thoughts then so inaneThey'd decompose the soundest brain."Yes, there it is, thy humor still,Not seventy years and two can kill.'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore,A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.
Another birthday here?It hardly seems a yearSince I these words did hear,—When three score years and one did crown thee,—"Not till I am an octagon,Or, worse still, a centurion,Shall I be old, with factories goneAll idiomatic and forlorn."But thou art still a "membrane" dearOf what we call society's cheer;"Ordained beforehand, in advance."('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting,But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring,Of "fluid" thoughts which counteractThe "bigamies" of fate and fact.Alas! thy crutch of many yearsStill hints "romantic" pains and fears;A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say,To keep "plumbago" still at bay!Its helpful mission has a shareIn "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare.And, by the way, not crutch aloneFinds in that book its value shown.There in the depths of friendship's minesAre seen thy tenderest, purest lines;Impromptus born at love's commandTo deck occasion's wise demand.One finds no "Sarah's desert" there,No "reprehensible" despair;But teeming thoughts on Mounds and PressPoured out in pure unselfishness.This brings to mind thyKnitting-Work,Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk,And other books with humor rife,Done in the priming of thy life."Contusion of ideas." O no;What "Angular Saxon" would say so?"Congestive thoughts then so inaneThey'd decompose the soundest brain."Yes, there it is, thy humor still,Not seventy years and two can kill.'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore,A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.
Another birthday here?It hardly seems a yearSince I these words did hear,—When three score years and one did crown thee,—"Not till I am an octagon,Or, worse still, a centurion,Shall I be old, with factories goneAll idiomatic and forlorn."
But thou art still a "membrane" dearOf what we call society's cheer;"Ordained beforehand, in advance."('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)
To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting,But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring,Of "fluid" thoughts which counteractThe "bigamies" of fate and fact.
Alas! thy crutch of many yearsStill hints "romantic" pains and fears;A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say,To keep "plumbago" still at bay!
Its helpful mission has a shareIn "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare.And, by the way, not crutch aloneFinds in that book its value shown.
There in the depths of friendship's minesAre seen thy tenderest, purest lines;Impromptus born at love's commandTo deck occasion's wise demand.
One finds no "Sarah's desert" there,No "reprehensible" despair;But teeming thoughts on Mounds and PressPoured out in pure unselfishness.
This brings to mind thyKnitting-Work,Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk,And other books with humor rife,Done in the priming of thy life.
"Contusion of ideas." O no;What "Angular Saxon" would say so?"Congestive thoughts then so inaneThey'd decompose the soundest brain."
Yes, there it is, thy humor still,Not seventy years and two can kill.'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore,A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.
SENT TO THE DINNER GIVEN IN HONOR OF WALT WHITMAN'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, AT CAMDEN, N.J., MAY 31, 1889, AT 5 O'CLOCK P.M.
SENT TO THE DINNER GIVEN IN HONOR OF WALT WHITMAN'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, AT CAMDEN, N.J., MAY 31, 1889, AT 5 O'CLOCK P.M.
"Splendor of ended day floating and fillingme,"BComes to my mind as I think of the hourWhen our poet and friend will be lovingly drinkingThe mystical cup of the seventy years' power.Were I the man-of-war bird he has picturedNothing could keep me from flying that way.But, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinderMy tasting the joys of that festive birthday;For on the swift wings of the ending day's splendorMy soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth.Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendshipWill feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his health?—Splendor of ended dayBe but the doorOpening the endless wayLife evermore.
"Splendor of ended day floating and fillingme,"BComes to my mind as I think of the hourWhen our poet and friend will be lovingly drinkingThe mystical cup of the seventy years' power.Were I the man-of-war bird he has picturedNothing could keep me from flying that way.But, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinderMy tasting the joys of that festive birthday;For on the swift wings of the ending day's splendorMy soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth.Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendshipWill feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his health?—Splendor of ended dayBe but the doorOpening the endless wayLife evermore.
"Splendor of ended day floating and fillingme,"BComes to my mind as I think of the hourWhen our poet and friend will be lovingly drinkingThe mystical cup of the seventy years' power.
Were I the man-of-war bird he has picturedNothing could keep me from flying that way.But, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinderMy tasting the joys of that festive birthday;
For on the swift wings of the ending day's splendorMy soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth.Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendshipWill feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his health?—Splendor of ended dayBe but the doorOpening the endless wayLife evermore.
B"Song at Sunset."—W. W.
B"Song at Sunset."—W. W.
(Suggested by Arlo Bates' sonnet, "The Unknown God," published in theBoston Courierof August 21, 1887.)
(Suggested by Arlo Bates' sonnet, "The Unknown God," published in theBoston Courierof August 21, 1887.)
If Paul in Athens' street left nothing moreThan what he found when deep in sacred thought,He stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought,—TheTo the Unknown Godof heathen lore,—Then were he only one on thought's wide shoreTo lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught,Undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught,Declared he God as known forevermore.Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life,Are more than vision deified. They areLove's balm to permeate true mental strife,And bring to sin-sick weary souls a starOf hope born of temptation's struggles rife.To the Known God.Through Paul we dare thus far.
If Paul in Athens' street left nothing moreThan what he found when deep in sacred thought,He stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought,—TheTo the Unknown Godof heathen lore,—Then were he only one on thought's wide shoreTo lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught,Undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught,Declared he God as known forevermore.Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life,Are more than vision deified. They areLove's balm to permeate true mental strife,And bring to sin-sick weary souls a starOf hope born of temptation's struggles rife.To the Known God.Through Paul we dare thus far.
If Paul in Athens' street left nothing moreThan what he found when deep in sacred thought,He stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought,—TheTo the Unknown Godof heathen lore,—Then were he only one on thought's wide shoreTo lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught,Undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught,Declared he God as known forevermore.
Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life,Are more than vision deified. They areLove's balm to permeate true mental strife,And bring to sin-sick weary souls a starOf hope born of temptation's struggles rife.To the Known God.Through Paul we dare thus far.
August, 1887.
O type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste,Attuned to law of man as well as God,We hail thee as a guide, who, having trodWith Christ the spirit-fields, in eager hasteMakes glad return to give us blessed tasteOf fruit there found. Through thee our feet are shodWith gospel-peace, while thy imperial rodBecomes our need in times of drought or waste.How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer,O master-spirit of the priests of earth?By daily doing penance without fear,Or resting satisfied in deeds of worth?O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.
O type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste,Attuned to law of man as well as God,We hail thee as a guide, who, having trodWith Christ the spirit-fields, in eager hasteMakes glad return to give us blessed tasteOf fruit there found. Through thee our feet are shodWith gospel-peace, while thy imperial rodBecomes our need in times of drought or waste.How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer,O master-spirit of the priests of earth?By daily doing penance without fear,Or resting satisfied in deeds of worth?O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.
O type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste,Attuned to law of man as well as God,We hail thee as a guide, who, having trodWith Christ the spirit-fields, in eager hasteMakes glad return to give us blessed tasteOf fruit there found. Through thee our feet are shodWith gospel-peace, while thy imperial rodBecomes our need in times of drought or waste.
How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer,O master-spirit of the priests of earth?By daily doing penance without fear,Or resting satisfied in deeds of worth?O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.
Boston, 1890.
[That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century. It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set off—in 1639—from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there, Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in 1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to this day.]
[That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century. It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set off—in 1639—from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there, Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in 1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to this day.]
Before a smouldering fire at twilight hourI muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed,Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemedTwo hundred years ago with life and power.I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flowerIn light of home; while life that onlyseemedOn history's page becomes the real, redeemedFrom all the chaff that time fails not to shower.Ah, such old places, holding through the yearsContinuous life of man's activity,Reveal a wealth beyond that which appearsIn modern homes built e'er so lovingly.Imbued so long with human hopes and fears,Have they not claim to personality?
Before a smouldering fire at twilight hourI muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed,Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemedTwo hundred years ago with life and power.I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flowerIn light of home; while life that onlyseemedOn history's page becomes the real, redeemedFrom all the chaff that time fails not to shower.Ah, such old places, holding through the yearsContinuous life of man's activity,Reveal a wealth beyond that which appearsIn modern homes built e'er so lovingly.Imbued so long with human hopes and fears,Have they not claim to personality?
Before a smouldering fire at twilight hourI muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed,Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemedTwo hundred years ago with life and power.I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flowerIn light of home; while life that onlyseemedOn history's page becomes the real, redeemedFrom all the chaff that time fails not to shower.
Ah, such old places, holding through the yearsContinuous life of man's activity,Reveal a wealth beyond that which appearsIn modern homes built e'er so lovingly.Imbued so long with human hopes and fears,Have they not claim to personality?
Of all those born into the name to shareThe charming freedom of the Porter Manse,None were more worthy of inheritanceThan she who now presides as lady there.Her gracious calm makes hospitality wearA beauteous crown of peace. Kind toleranceAnd wide-embracing sympathy enhanceHer power to please and lighten daily care.'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truthOf home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a traceIn all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth,Of making home a loved abiding place.
Of all those born into the name to shareThe charming freedom of the Porter Manse,None were more worthy of inheritanceThan she who now presides as lady there.Her gracious calm makes hospitality wearA beauteous crown of peace. Kind toleranceAnd wide-embracing sympathy enhanceHer power to please and lighten daily care.'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truthOf home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a traceIn all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth,Of making home a loved abiding place.
Of all those born into the name to shareThe charming freedom of the Porter Manse,None were more worthy of inheritanceThan she who now presides as lady there.Her gracious calm makes hospitality wearA beauteous crown of peace. Kind toleranceAnd wide-embracing sympathy enhanceHer power to please and lighten daily care.
'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truthOf home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a traceIn all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth,Of making home a loved abiding place.
July 12, 1888.
When lingering Day at last recedes from sight,And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place,Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved faceReflecting glorious rays of sunset light,'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delightThrough oft-frequented avenues of spaceTo those dear souls—the dearest of the race—Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height.From this old mountain-top I come to you,My large souled trusted friend of many a year,With birthday greetings of the roseate hueLeft by a perfect Day just lingering here.Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true,And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!
When lingering Day at last recedes from sight,And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place,Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved faceReflecting glorious rays of sunset light,'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delightThrough oft-frequented avenues of spaceTo those dear souls—the dearest of the race—Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height.From this old mountain-top I come to you,My large souled trusted friend of many a year,With birthday greetings of the roseate hueLeft by a perfect Day just lingering here.Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true,And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!
When lingering Day at last recedes from sight,And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place,Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved faceReflecting glorious rays of sunset light,'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delightThrough oft-frequented avenues of spaceTo those dear souls—the dearest of the race—Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height.From this old mountain-top I come to you,My large souled trusted friend of many a year,With birthday greetings of the roseate hueLeft by a perfect Day just lingering here.Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true,And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!
Mount Wachusett, Mass.
Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need,Forgetting self, if only we be served,How oft thy loving sympathy has nervedOur fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed,Or brought to being thoughts that intercedeFor others' progress. We, all undeserved,Cannot forget that life to ends thus curvedMade time for us to plant our own pet seed.The world owes much to many a sister dear,Who, banishing with tears in midnight hourA fond desire for larger, happier sphere,Strives faithfully in lowly life to showerRich daily blessings. Such may know e'en hereA Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.
Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need,Forgetting self, if only we be served,How oft thy loving sympathy has nervedOur fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed,Or brought to being thoughts that intercedeFor others' progress. We, all undeserved,Cannot forget that life to ends thus curvedMade time for us to plant our own pet seed.The world owes much to many a sister dear,Who, banishing with tears in midnight hourA fond desire for larger, happier sphere,Strives faithfully in lowly life to showerRich daily blessings. Such may know e'en hereA Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.
Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need,Forgetting self, if only we be served,How oft thy loving sympathy has nervedOur fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed,Or brought to being thoughts that intercedeFor others' progress. We, all undeserved,Cannot forget that life to ends thus curvedMade time for us to plant our own pet seed.
The world owes much to many a sister dear,Who, banishing with tears in midnight hourA fond desire for larger, happier sphere,Strives faithfully in lowly life to showerRich daily blessings. Such may know e'en hereA Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.
Chelsea, Mass., 1887.
TO F. D. L.
September 26.
Time brings to thee from out his storehouse oldAnother year, which graciously awaitsThy fair soul's bidding, as it estimatesThe wealth the parting year has left untold.Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfoldThe fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,It brings continued hope of life that datesMan's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,To aid the growing soul pick out the wayTo life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moansOr wildest joys can man's true progress stay,If, in these pauses, he but hear the tonesOf immortality's soothing, deathless lay.
Time brings to thee from out his storehouse oldAnother year, which graciously awaitsThy fair soul's bidding, as it estimatesThe wealth the parting year has left untold.Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfoldThe fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,It brings continued hope of life that datesMan's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,To aid the growing soul pick out the wayTo life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moansOr wildest joys can man's true progress stay,If, in these pauses, he but hear the tonesOf immortality's soothing, deathless lay.
Time brings to thee from out his storehouse oldAnother year, which graciously awaitsThy fair soul's bidding, as it estimatesThe wealth the parting year has left untold.Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfoldThe fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,It brings continued hope of life that datesMan's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,To aid the growing soul pick out the wayTo life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moansOr wildest joys can man's true progress stay,If, in these pauses, he but hear the tonesOf immortality's soothing, deathless lay.
1887.
(After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall in 1888.)
O marvellous child, a temple where in easeExpectant Genius dwells, while lingering hereOn earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere,Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keysTo new and wondrous unheard harmonies?O favored boy, marked out to be the peerOf those who in all ages God's voice hear,Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!May chilling poverty, or sin that datesSoul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise designTo have full sway—as she anticipates—In working out, in time, her laws divine.
O marvellous child, a temple where in easeExpectant Genius dwells, while lingering hereOn earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere,Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keysTo new and wondrous unheard harmonies?O favored boy, marked out to be the peerOf those who in all ages God's voice hear,Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!May chilling poverty, or sin that datesSoul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise designTo have full sway—as she anticipates—In working out, in time, her laws divine.
O marvellous child, a temple where in easeExpectant Genius dwells, while lingering hereOn earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere,Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keysTo new and wondrous unheard harmonies?O favored boy, marked out to be the peerOf those who in all ages God's voice hear,Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!
Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!May chilling poverty, or sin that datesSoul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise designTo have full sway—as she anticipates—In working out, in time, her laws divine.
AFTER THE DENIAL.
John 21: 15–18.
When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore,The risen Lord, still anxious that his ownShould know love's secret as to him 'twas known,Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me moreThan these?" The third time Peter's heart was sore.Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone?"Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his moan.Then, "Feed my sheep," Christ answered as before.Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'erThe shores of time, and longs for human love;The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep,And makes response as Peter did of yore."Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights above,Thou knowest that we love thee. "Feed my sheep."
When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore,The risen Lord, still anxious that his ownShould know love's secret as to him 'twas known,Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me moreThan these?" The third time Peter's heart was sore.Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone?"Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his moan.Then, "Feed my sheep," Christ answered as before.Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'erThe shores of time, and longs for human love;The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep,And makes response as Peter did of yore."Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights above,Thou knowest that we love thee. "Feed my sheep."
When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore,The risen Lord, still anxious that his ownShould know love's secret as to him 'twas known,Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me moreThan these?" The third time Peter's heart was sore.Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone?"Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his moan.Then, "Feed my sheep," Christ answered as before.Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'erThe shores of time, and longs for human love;The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep,And makes response as Peter did of yore."Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights above,Thou knowest that we love thee. "Feed my sheep."
GETHSEMANE.
Matthew 26:36–46.
"Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heartOf Christ, still longing in the bitterest hourFor human sympathy and love to showerA needed strength beyond words to impart!Humanity is richer for this artOf seeing in poor finite man a power—Before which even ministering angels cower—To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart.Alas! the power to know will bring the pain.But through the pain of wisdom's true insightIs Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain.Possessed of this, we see in tenderest lightHis sorrowing heart in failing to obtainThe longed-for love in hour of darkest night.
"Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heartOf Christ, still longing in the bitterest hourFor human sympathy and love to showerA needed strength beyond words to impart!Humanity is richer for this artOf seeing in poor finite man a power—Before which even ministering angels cower—To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart.Alas! the power to know will bring the pain.But through the pain of wisdom's true insightIs Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain.Possessed of this, we see in tenderest lightHis sorrowing heart in failing to obtainThe longed-for love in hour of darkest night.
"Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heartOf Christ, still longing in the bitterest hourFor human sympathy and love to showerA needed strength beyond words to impart!Humanity is richer for this artOf seeing in poor finite man a power—Before which even ministering angels cower—To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart.Alas! the power to know will bring the pain.But through the pain of wisdom's true insightIs Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain.Possessed of this, we see in tenderest lightHis sorrowing heart in failing to obtainThe longed-for love in hour of darkest night.
By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side,In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold,The spirit of the waters, as of old,Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide,It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride,The heart of man has on its bosom told;And hails as conqueror Him who once did holdIts heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried.Loved spirit of the waters, we too hailThe power of Him who walked the holy seaOf Galilee. Capacity to failWere harder to believe than victory.May He who conquered wildest Nature's heartHis infinite power and rest to us impart!
By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side,In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold,The spirit of the waters, as of old,Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide,It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride,The heart of man has on its bosom told;And hails as conqueror Him who once did holdIts heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried.Loved spirit of the waters, we too hailThe power of Him who walked the holy seaOf Galilee. Capacity to failWere harder to believe than victory.May He who conquered wildest Nature's heartHis infinite power and rest to us impart!
By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side,In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold,The spirit of the waters, as of old,Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide,It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride,The heart of man has on its bosom told;And hails as conqueror Him who once did holdIts heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried.
Loved spirit of the waters, we too hailThe power of Him who walked the holy seaOf Galilee. Capacity to failWere harder to believe than victory.May He who conquered wildest Nature's heartHis infinite power and rest to us impart!
August, 1891.
From holy depths he to the Father prayed,"Forgive them, for they know not what they do."His heart, pierced then with anguish through and through,Cried out "'Tis finished," as he death obeyed.In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighedWith tenderest love and longing towards those who,Through ignorance of what they might be too,Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid."They know not what they do." O blessed sightInto the heart of sin's great mystery.Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light,Clothed in her garment of sincerity.Blest are those souls who reach this precious height;They know the secret of Christ's victory.
From holy depths he to the Father prayed,"Forgive them, for they know not what they do."His heart, pierced then with anguish through and through,Cried out "'Tis finished," as he death obeyed.In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighedWith tenderest love and longing towards those who,Through ignorance of what they might be too,Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid."They know not what they do." O blessed sightInto the heart of sin's great mystery.Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light,Clothed in her garment of sincerity.Blest are those souls who reach this precious height;They know the secret of Christ's victory.
From holy depths he to the Father prayed,"Forgive them, for they know not what they do."His heart, pierced then with anguish through and through,Cried out "'Tis finished," as he death obeyed.In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighedWith tenderest love and longing towards those who,Through ignorance of what they might be too,Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid."They know not what they do." O blessed sightInto the heart of sin's great mystery.Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light,Clothed in her garment of sincerity.Blest are those souls who reach this precious height;They know the secret of Christ's victory.
While dwelling in sweet wisdom's fruitful ways,In company with poets grand and goodWho met our human nature's every mood,What life was ours, beyond our words to praise!In seeking for the secret of the laysWhich clothed in art pure Nature's daily food,Or brought to light a Christian brotherhood,Did we not garner thoughts for future days?'Tis one of wisdom's joys, while lingering hereTo plant her seeds of righteousness and peace,To give a sweet companionship and cheerTo those who seek from her their soul's increase.This, friends, we've felt in our Club atmosphere.May its sweet memory linger till life cease!
While dwelling in sweet wisdom's fruitful ways,In company with poets grand and goodWho met our human nature's every mood,What life was ours, beyond our words to praise!In seeking for the secret of the laysWhich clothed in art pure Nature's daily food,Or brought to light a Christian brotherhood,Did we not garner thoughts for future days?'Tis one of wisdom's joys, while lingering hereTo plant her seeds of righteousness and peace,To give a sweet companionship and cheerTo those who seek from her their soul's increase.This, friends, we've felt in our Club atmosphere.May its sweet memory linger till life cease!
While dwelling in sweet wisdom's fruitful ways,In company with poets grand and goodWho met our human nature's every mood,What life was ours, beyond our words to praise!In seeking for the secret of the laysWhich clothed in art pure Nature's daily food,Or brought to light a Christian brotherhood,Did we not garner thoughts for future days?'Tis one of wisdom's joys, while lingering hereTo plant her seeds of righteousness and peace,To give a sweet companionship and cheerTo those who seek from her their soul's increase.This, friends, we've felt in our Club atmosphere.May its sweet memory linger till life cease!
Chelsea, Mass., 1888.
CFor an account of this Home Club, see theBoston Literary World, of July 9, 1887, and June 9, 1888; also,Lend a Hand, for September, 1889.
CFor an account of this Home Club, see theBoston Literary World, of July 9, 1887, and June 9, 1888; also,Lend a Hand, for September, 1889.
Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss,While the holy angels bless thee with a kiss.Lullaby, lullaby.So shall mamma feel a breathOf celestial power,To beautify the ministry,Of baby's waking hour.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby.
Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss,While the holy angels bless thee with a kiss.Lullaby, lullaby.So shall mamma feel a breathOf celestial power,To beautify the ministry,Of baby's waking hour.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby.
Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss,While the holy angels bless thee with a kiss.Lullaby, lullaby.So shall mamma feel a breathOf celestial power,To beautify the ministry,Of baby's waking hour.Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,Harold, baby boy.Lullaby, lullaby.
How I love you, baby dear,Sister Rosamond!I must kiss you,I must hug you,I must be your little beau,To protect youOr to rescueFrom the faults of friend or foe.I must grow more wise and gracefulEvery way,That I may be true and helpfulFor the dayWhen, as lovely fair young woman,You will need my stay.Darling Rosebud,How I love you,How I love you, sister dear!Oh, I will be good and pure,Striving always to endureWhat will make me honest, kind,Generous, manly, strong in mind,Worthy of my Rosebud.Darling Rosebud,Sweetest Rosebud,How I love you, sister dear!
How I love you, baby dear,Sister Rosamond!I must kiss you,I must hug you,I must be your little beau,To protect youOr to rescueFrom the faults of friend or foe.I must grow more wise and gracefulEvery way,That I may be true and helpfulFor the dayWhen, as lovely fair young woman,You will need my stay.Darling Rosebud,How I love you,How I love you, sister dear!Oh, I will be good and pure,Striving always to endureWhat will make me honest, kind,Generous, manly, strong in mind,Worthy of my Rosebud.Darling Rosebud,Sweetest Rosebud,How I love you, sister dear!
How I love you, baby dear,Sister Rosamond!I must kiss you,I must hug you,I must be your little beau,To protect youOr to rescueFrom the faults of friend or foe.I must grow more wise and gracefulEvery way,That I may be true and helpfulFor the dayWhen, as lovely fair young woman,You will need my stay.Darling Rosebud,How I love you,How I love you, sister dear!Oh, I will be good and pure,Striving always to endureWhat will make me honest, kind,Generous, manly, strong in mind,Worthy of my Rosebud.Darling Rosebud,Sweetest Rosebud,How I love you, sister dear!
Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor—I see!Creeping here and creeping there,Into mischief everywhere,Mamma's little pet and care—I see!Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse—I see!Never slipping from her place,Joyous laughter keeping paceWith a motion full of grace—I see!Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride—I know!Lighting up the passing daysWith such happy, winsome ways,Joy of household life that pays—I know!Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed—Sleep on!Waking, heaven will be more nearFor the angels' presence here,Whispering secrets in her ear—Sleep on! Sleep on!
Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor—I see!Creeping here and creeping there,Into mischief everywhere,Mamma's little pet and care—I see!Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse—I see!Never slipping from her place,Joyous laughter keeping paceWith a motion full of grace—I see!Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride—I know!Lighting up the passing daysWith such happy, winsome ways,Joy of household life that pays—I know!Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed—Sleep on!Waking, heaven will be more nearFor the angels' presence here,Whispering secrets in her ear—Sleep on! Sleep on!
Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor—I see!Creeping here and creeping there,Into mischief everywhere,Mamma's little pet and care—I see!
Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse—I see!Never slipping from her place,Joyous laughter keeping paceWith a motion full of grace—I see!
Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride—I know!Lighting up the passing daysWith such happy, winsome ways,Joy of household life that pays—I know!
Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed—Sleep on!Waking, heaven will be more nearFor the angels' presence here,Whispering secrets in her ear—Sleep on! Sleep on!
Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor—I see!Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face,Laughing brown eyes, ways of grace,Chubby hands that interlace—I see!Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk—I see!Clinging now to mamma's dress,Trembling in new happiness,Then at last a sweet success—I see!Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad year—I know!Cousins; each in her own wayGrowing wiser every day,Full of promise as of play—I know!Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home—Good-bye!Each a little picture fair,Carrying blessing everywhere.Grateful are we for our share—Good-bye! Good-bye!
Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor—I see!Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face,Laughing brown eyes, ways of grace,Chubby hands that interlace—I see!Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk—I see!Clinging now to mamma's dress,Trembling in new happiness,Then at last a sweet success—I see!Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad year—I know!Cousins; each in her own wayGrowing wiser every day,Full of promise as of play—I know!Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home—Good-bye!Each a little picture fair,Carrying blessing everywhere.Grateful are we for our share—Good-bye! Good-bye!
Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor—I see!Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face,Laughing brown eyes, ways of grace,Chubby hands that interlace—I see!
Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk—I see!Clinging now to mamma's dress,Trembling in new happiness,Then at last a sweet success—I see!
Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad year—I know!Cousins; each in her own wayGrowing wiser every day,Full of promise as of play—I know!
Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home—Good-bye!Each a little picture fair,Carrying blessing everywhere.Grateful are we for our share—Good-bye! Good-bye!
Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla!—Ah, here she comes bounding,So quickly responding,Oh, who could but love her!Her fur like chinchilla—Her movements all grace—Such a wise little face—What kitty is like her?Oh, who could but love her,Our dear pretty 'Chilla!
Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla!—Ah, here she comes bounding,So quickly responding,Oh, who could but love her!Her fur like chinchilla—Her movements all grace—Such a wise little face—What kitty is like her?Oh, who could but love her,Our dear pretty 'Chilla!
Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla!—Ah, here she comes bounding,So quickly responding,Oh, who could but love her!Her fur like chinchilla—Her movements all grace—Such a wise little face—What kitty is like her?Oh, who could but love her,Our dear pretty 'Chilla!
(A FACT.)
My little nephew, four years old,A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy,Was one day playing by my sideWith this and that pet toy,When all at once he said to me,—As, laying down my book,I paused a while to watch with joyHis bright, expressive look,—"If Mac and I should plant todaySome paper in the ground,Say, would it grow to be a bookLike yours, with leaves all bound?"These were the same two little boysWhose nurse searched far and wideFor little sister's rubber shoes;"Where can they be?" she cried."I know," replied Mac, eagerly,"We planted them last night,To see if they would bigger growTo fit our feet all right."Dear little boys! These fancies hintOf future questions deep,When evolution's grand ideaShall o'er their vision sweep.God grant that when these come to them,As at Truth's shrine they bow,A childlike faith and earnestnessMay fill them then as now.
My little nephew, four years old,A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy,Was one day playing by my sideWith this and that pet toy,When all at once he said to me,—As, laying down my book,I paused a while to watch with joyHis bright, expressive look,—"If Mac and I should plant todaySome paper in the ground,Say, would it grow to be a bookLike yours, with leaves all bound?"These were the same two little boysWhose nurse searched far and wideFor little sister's rubber shoes;"Where can they be?" she cried."I know," replied Mac, eagerly,"We planted them last night,To see if they would bigger growTo fit our feet all right."Dear little boys! These fancies hintOf future questions deep,When evolution's grand ideaShall o'er their vision sweep.God grant that when these come to them,As at Truth's shrine they bow,A childlike faith and earnestnessMay fill them then as now.
My little nephew, four years old,A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy,Was one day playing by my sideWith this and that pet toy,
When all at once he said to me,—As, laying down my book,I paused a while to watch with joyHis bright, expressive look,—
"If Mac and I should plant todaySome paper in the ground,Say, would it grow to be a bookLike yours, with leaves all bound?"
These were the same two little boysWhose nurse searched far and wideFor little sister's rubber shoes;"Where can they be?" she cried.
"I know," replied Mac, eagerly,"We planted them last night,To see if they would bigger growTo fit our feet all right."
Dear little boys! These fancies hintOf future questions deep,When evolution's grand ideaShall o'er their vision sweep.
God grant that when these come to them,As at Truth's shrine they bow,A childlike faith and earnestnessMay fill them then as now.
(A FACT)
Our little Bertram, six years old,Sat on his grandpa's knee,Enjoying to the full the loveThat grandpa gave so free,When, looking up bewitchingly,He said,—the little teaze,—"Will grandpa give me just one centTo buy some candy, please?"Who could resist such loveliness?This grandpa could not, sure.So with a kiss he gave the cent—Ah, how such things allure!No sooner was the cent in hand,Than off the fair boy ranTo buy his candy, "'lasses kind,"Or little "candy-man."Now on his way, in scanning wellA window full of toys,He spied a ring with big red stone,O'erlooked by other boys.All thought of candy was forgot.He'd buy that ring so fineFor his new sister, Rosamond—Oh, how his eyes did shine!How could he stop to calculateThe size of such a thing;His only care was for the price—Would one cent buy the ring?Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought;And never girl or boyWent tripping homeward through the streetsWith greater wealth or joy.
Our little Bertram, six years old,Sat on his grandpa's knee,Enjoying to the full the loveThat grandpa gave so free,When, looking up bewitchingly,He said,—the little teaze,—"Will grandpa give me just one centTo buy some candy, please?"Who could resist such loveliness?This grandpa could not, sure.So with a kiss he gave the cent—Ah, how such things allure!No sooner was the cent in hand,Than off the fair boy ranTo buy his candy, "'lasses kind,"Or little "candy-man."Now on his way, in scanning wellA window full of toys,He spied a ring with big red stone,O'erlooked by other boys.All thought of candy was forgot.He'd buy that ring so fineFor his new sister, Rosamond—Oh, how his eyes did shine!How could he stop to calculateThe size of such a thing;His only care was for the price—Would one cent buy the ring?Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought;And never girl or boyWent tripping homeward through the streetsWith greater wealth or joy.
Our little Bertram, six years old,Sat on his grandpa's knee,Enjoying to the full the loveThat grandpa gave so free,
When, looking up bewitchingly,He said,—the little teaze,—"Will grandpa give me just one centTo buy some candy, please?"
Who could resist such loveliness?This grandpa could not, sure.So with a kiss he gave the cent—Ah, how such things allure!
No sooner was the cent in hand,Than off the fair boy ranTo buy his candy, "'lasses kind,"Or little "candy-man."
Now on his way, in scanning wellA window full of toys,He spied a ring with big red stone,O'erlooked by other boys.
All thought of candy was forgot.He'd buy that ring so fineFor his new sister, Rosamond—Oh, how his eyes did shine!
How could he stop to calculateThe size of such a thing;His only care was for the price—Would one cent buy the ring?
Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought;And never girl or boyWent tripping homeward through the streetsWith greater wealth or joy.
(A FACT.)
When nearly eight years old, dear little MacWas called from out his happy home-life hereTo that blest sphereBeyond earth's dearest power to call him back."His questions wise will now sure answer find,"Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face,In happy chaseOf many a thought which flitted through his mind."Yes, he knows more than we," another said,"Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guideTo where abideThe things we need most to be comforted."While thus the older ones their comfort sought,Two of the children paused in midst of play,To have their sayConcerning this great mystery Death had brought."Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh,"He's gone way up to heaven where angels are,Way up so farThat we can't ever see him till we die.""He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be.I saw them put him in the cold dark ground,And I went roundAnd threw some flowers in for him to see.""He isn't there," replied the four-year old,"He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so.Heis, I know.He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought,While Miriam felt the joy of victory.Then suddenlyThe lovely six-year-old this idea caught:"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground;His head, his feet, and every other part,But just his heart—And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."The child thus solved the thought that troubled so.And as I overheard this earnest talk,—Which might some shock,—I wondered if we could more wisdom show.As each seemed satisfied, their play went on.But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind,And left behindThe wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night,"She softly said, "It can't be very dark,NotverydarkFor Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days,Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide,When sadly triedBy doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.
When nearly eight years old, dear little MacWas called from out his happy home-life hereTo that blest sphereBeyond earth's dearest power to call him back."His questions wise will now sure answer find,"Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face,In happy chaseOf many a thought which flitted through his mind."Yes, he knows more than we," another said,"Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guideTo where abideThe things we need most to be comforted."While thus the older ones their comfort sought,Two of the children paused in midst of play,To have their sayConcerning this great mystery Death had brought."Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh,"He's gone way up to heaven where angels are,Way up so farThat we can't ever see him till we die.""He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be.I saw them put him in the cold dark ground,And I went roundAnd threw some flowers in for him to see.""He isn't there," replied the four-year old,"He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so.Heis, I know.He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought,While Miriam felt the joy of victory.Then suddenlyThe lovely six-year-old this idea caught:"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground;His head, his feet, and every other part,But just his heart—And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."The child thus solved the thought that troubled so.And as I overheard this earnest talk,—Which might some shock,—I wondered if we could more wisdom show.As each seemed satisfied, their play went on.But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind,And left behindThe wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night,"She softly said, "It can't be very dark,NotverydarkFor Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days,Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide,When sadly triedBy doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.
When nearly eight years old, dear little MacWas called from out his happy home-life hereTo that blest sphereBeyond earth's dearest power to call him back.
"His questions wise will now sure answer find,"Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face,In happy chaseOf many a thought which flitted through his mind.
"Yes, he knows more than we," another said,"Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guideTo where abideThe things we need most to be comforted."
While thus the older ones their comfort sought,Two of the children paused in midst of play,To have their sayConcerning this great mystery Death had brought.
"Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh,"He's gone way up to heaven where angels are,Way up so farThat we can't ever see him till we die."
"He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be.I saw them put him in the cold dark ground,And I went roundAnd threw some flowers in for him to see."
"He isn't there," replied the four-year old,"He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so.Heis, I know.He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."
A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought,While Miriam felt the joy of victory.Then suddenlyThe lovely six-year-old this idea caught:
"I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground;His head, his feet, and every other part,But just his heart—And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."
The child thus solved the thought that troubled so.And as I overheard this earnest talk,—Which might some shock,—I wondered if we could more wisdom show.
As each seemed satisfied, their play went on.But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind,And left behindThe wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.
At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night,"She softly said, "It can't be very dark,NotverydarkFor Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."
Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days,Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide,When sadly triedBy doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.
DMacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887.
DMacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887.
July, 1888.
Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy;Climbing up the steep path sideTo Wachusett's top,With that graceful skip and hopBorn where fairies hide;Seeing Holyoke from the height,Old Monadnock clear,While Washacum twin-lakes nearSparkle in sun-light;Tripping down the mountain-roadBack to cottage home,Only pausing there to roamWhere laurel finds abode;Jumping on the new-mown hay,Sitting under trees,Feeling every mountain breeze,Hearing birds' sweet lay;Lying on the mossy stoneBy the brook's cascade,Listening 'neath the sylvan shadeTo its rippling tone;Down at pretty Echo Lake,Plucking maiden-hair,Gathering glistening "sundew" thereFor "dear mamma's sake";Picking in the pastures nearBerries red and blue;Spying where the mayflowers grewEarlier in the year;Watching for the sun to rise,Following sunset-cloud,Singing low and singing loudWhile the swift day flies;Waiting for the "Tally-Ho,"With its looked-for mails,Hearing strangers tell their talesAs they come and go;Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy.
Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy;Climbing up the steep path sideTo Wachusett's top,With that graceful skip and hopBorn where fairies hide;Seeing Holyoke from the height,Old Monadnock clear,While Washacum twin-lakes nearSparkle in sun-light;Tripping down the mountain-roadBack to cottage home,Only pausing there to roamWhere laurel finds abode;Jumping on the new-mown hay,Sitting under trees,Feeling every mountain breeze,Hearing birds' sweet lay;Lying on the mossy stoneBy the brook's cascade,Listening 'neath the sylvan shadeTo its rippling tone;Down at pretty Echo Lake,Plucking maiden-hair,Gathering glistening "sundew" thereFor "dear mamma's sake";Picking in the pastures nearBerries red and blue;Spying where the mayflowers grewEarlier in the year;Watching for the sun to rise,Following sunset-cloud,Singing low and singing loudWhile the swift day flies;Waiting for the "Tally-Ho,"With its looked-for mails,Hearing strangers tell their talesAs they come and go;Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy.
Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy;
Climbing up the steep path sideTo Wachusett's top,With that graceful skip and hopBorn where fairies hide;
Seeing Holyoke from the height,Old Monadnock clear,While Washacum twin-lakes nearSparkle in sun-light;
Tripping down the mountain-roadBack to cottage home,Only pausing there to roamWhere laurel finds abode;
Jumping on the new-mown hay,Sitting under trees,Feeling every mountain breeze,Hearing birds' sweet lay;
Lying on the mossy stoneBy the brook's cascade,Listening 'neath the sylvan shadeTo its rippling tone;
Down at pretty Echo Lake,Plucking maiden-hair,Gathering glistening "sundew" thereFor "dear mamma's sake";
Picking in the pastures nearBerries red and blue;Spying where the mayflowers grewEarlier in the year;
Watching for the sun to rise,Following sunset-cloud,Singing low and singing loudWhile the swift day flies;
Waiting for the "Tally-Ho,"With its looked-for mails,Hearing strangers tell their talesAs they come and go;
Happy little girl and boy,Dancing hand in handOver hill and valley land,Filled with summer joy.
(A FACT.)