COUNTRY CHURCHYARDTHE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,Each in his narrow cell forever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.
THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,Each in his narrow cell forever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.
THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,Each in his narrow cell forever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."
After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,The moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.[Hark! how the holy calm that breathes aroundBids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;In still small accents whispering from the groundThe grateful earnest of eternal peace.]*Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade.Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,Each in his narrow cell forever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care;No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Awaits alike the inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn or animated bust:Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid;Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;Chill penury repressed their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray serene;The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,The little tryant of his fields withstood,Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.Th' applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes,Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of luxury and prideWith incense kindled at the muse's flame.Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learned to stray;Along the cool sequestered vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenor of their way.Yet even these bones from insult to protect,Some frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse,The place of fame and elegy supply;And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead,Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn."There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by."Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn.Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love."One morn I missed him on the customed hill,Along the heath, and near his favorite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;"The next, with dirges due in sad array,Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."THE EPITAPH.Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melancholy marked him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send;He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose)The bosom of his Father and his God.THOMAS GRAY.* Removed by the author from the original poem.
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,The moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.
[Hark! how the holy calm that breathes aroundBids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;In still small accents whispering from the groundThe grateful earnest of eternal peace.]*
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade.Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,Each in his narrow cell forever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care;No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Awaits alike the inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust:Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid;Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;Chill penury repressed their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene;The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,The little tryant of his fields withstood,Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of luxury and prideWith incense kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learned to stray;Along the cool sequestered vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet even these bones from insult to protect,Some frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse,The place of fame and elegy supply;And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead,Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn.Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him on the customed hill,Along the heath, and near his favorite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
"The next, with dirges due in sad array,Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send;He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose)The bosom of his Father and his God.
THOMAS GRAY.
* Removed by the author from the original poem.
GOD'S-ACRE.I like that ancient Saxon phrase which callsThe burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;It consecrates each grave within its walls,And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name impartsComfort to those who in the grave have sownThe seed that they had garnered in their hearts,Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.Into its furrows shall we all be cast,In the sure faith that we shall rise againAt the great harvest, when the archangel's blastShall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,In the fair gardens of that second birth;And each bright blossom mingle its perfumeWith that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;This is the field and Acre of our God,This is the place where human harvests grow!HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
GOD'S-ACRE.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase which callsThe burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;It consecrates each grave within its walls,And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name impartsComfort to those who in the grave have sownThe seed that they had garnered in their hearts,Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,In the sure faith that we shall rise againAt the great harvest, when the archangel's blastShall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,In the fair gardens of that second birth;And each bright blossom mingle its perfumeWith that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;This is the field and Acre of our God,This is the place where human harvests grow!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
SLEEPY HOLLOW.No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops,No winding torches paint the midnight air;Here the green pines delight, the aspen droopsAlong the modest pathways, and those fairPale asters of the season spread their plumesAround this field, fit garden for our tombs.And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bellSlow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place,Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,But in its kind and supplicating grace,It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be moreFriend to the friendless than thou wast before;Learn from the loved one's rest serenity:To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound,And thou repose beneath the whispering tree,One tribute more to this submissive ground;—Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride,Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride:Rather to those ascents of being turn,Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the yearEternal, and the incessant watch-fires burnOf unspent holiness and goodness clear,—Forget man's littleness, deserve the best,God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.
SLEEPY HOLLOW.
No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops,No winding torches paint the midnight air;Here the green pines delight, the aspen droopsAlong the modest pathways, and those fairPale asters of the season spread their plumesAround this field, fit garden for our tombs.
And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bellSlow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place,Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,But in its kind and supplicating grace,It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be moreFriend to the friendless than thou wast before;
Learn from the loved one's rest serenity:To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound,And thou repose beneath the whispering tree,One tribute more to this submissive ground;—Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride,Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride:
Rather to those ascents of being turn,Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the yearEternal, and the incessant watch-fires burnOf unspent holiness and goodness clear,—Forget man's littleness, deserve the best,God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.
WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.
THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD.Four straight brick walls, severely plain,A quiet city square surround;A level space of nameless graves,—The Quakers' burial-ground.In gown of gray, or coat of drab,They trod the common ways of life,With passions held in sternest leash,And hearts that knew not strife.To yon grim meeting-house they fared,With thoughts as sober as their speech,To voiceless prayer, to songless praise,To hear the elders preach.Through quiet lengths of days they came,With scarce a change to this repose;Of all life's loveliness they tookThe thorn without the rose.But in the porch and o'er the graves,Glad rings the southward robin's glee,And sparrows fill the autumn airWith merry mutiny;While on the graves of drab and grayThe red and gold of autumn lie,And wilful Nature decks the sodIn gentlest mockery.SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.
THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD.
Four straight brick walls, severely plain,A quiet city square surround;A level space of nameless graves,—The Quakers' burial-ground.
In gown of gray, or coat of drab,They trod the common ways of life,With passions held in sternest leash,And hearts that knew not strife.
To yon grim meeting-house they fared,With thoughts as sober as their speech,To voiceless prayer, to songless praise,To hear the elders preach.
Through quiet lengths of days they came,With scarce a change to this repose;Of all life's loveliness they tookThe thorn without the rose.
But in the porch and o'er the graves,Glad rings the southward robin's glee,And sparrows fill the autumn airWith merry mutiny;
While on the graves of drab and grayThe red and gold of autumn lie,And wilful Nature decks the sodIn gentlest mockery.
SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.
GREENWOOD CEMETERY.How calm they sleep beneath the shadeWho once were weary of the strife,And bent, like us, beneath the loadOf human life!The willow hangs with sheltering graceAnd benediction o'er their sod,And Nature, hushed, assures the soulThey rest in God.O weary hearts, what rest is here,From all that curses yonder town!So deep the peace, I almost longTo lay me down.For, oh, it will be blest to sleep,Nor dream, nor move, that silent night,Till wakened in immortal strengthAnd heavenly light!CRAMMOND KENNEDY.
GREENWOOD CEMETERY.
How calm they sleep beneath the shadeWho once were weary of the strife,And bent, like us, beneath the loadOf human life!
The willow hangs with sheltering graceAnd benediction o'er their sod,And Nature, hushed, assures the soulThey rest in God.
O weary hearts, what rest is here,From all that curses yonder town!So deep the peace, I almost longTo lay me down.
For, oh, it will be blest to sleep,Nor dream, nor move, that silent night,Till wakened in immortal strengthAnd heavenly light!
CRAMMOND KENNEDY.
THE DEAD.The dead abide with us! Though stark and coldEarth seems to grip them, they are with us still:They have forged our chains of being for good or ill;And their invisible hands these hands yet hold.Our perishable bodies are the mouldIn which their strong imperishable will—Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil—Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.Vibrations infinite of life in death,As a star's travelling light survives its star!So may we hold our lives, that when we areThe fate of those who then will draw this breath,They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar,And curse the heritage which we bequeath.MATHILDE BLIND.
THE DEAD.
The dead abide with us! Though stark and coldEarth seems to grip them, they are with us still:They have forged our chains of being for good or ill;And their invisible hands these hands yet hold.Our perishable bodies are the mouldIn which their strong imperishable will—Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil—Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.Vibrations infinite of life in death,As a star's travelling light survives its star!So may we hold our lives, that when we areThe fate of those who then will draw this breath,They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar,And curse the heritage which we bequeath.
MATHILDE BLIND.
ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD.Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,For a great sign the icy stair shall goBetween the heights to heaven.One moment stood he as the angels stand,High in the stainless eminence of air;The next, he was not, to his fatherlandTranslated unaware.FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS.
ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD.
Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,For a great sign the icy stair shall goBetween the heights to heaven.
One moment stood he as the angels stand,High in the stainless eminence of air;The next, he was not, to his fatherlandTranslated unaware.
FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS.
THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.As I came wandering down Glen Spean,Where the braes are green and grassy,With my light step I overtookA weary-footed lassie.She had one bundle on her back,Another in her hand,And she walked as one who was full loathTo travel from the land.Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"—for sheHad hair of flowing gold,And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,Right pleasant to behold—"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee,On this bright summer day,To travel sad and shoeless thusUpon the stony way?"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,And thou art burdened so;March lightly now, and let me bearThe bundles as we go.""No, no!" she said, "that may not be;What's mine is mine to bear;Of good or ill, as God may will,I take my portioned share.""But you have two, and I have none;One burden give to me;I'll take that bundle from thy backThat heavier seems to be."No, no!" she said; "this, if you will,Thatholds—no hand but mineMay bear its weight from dear Glen Spean'Cross the Atlantic brine!""Well, well! but tell me what may beWithin that precious load,Which thou dost bear with such fine careAlong the dusty road?"Belike it is some present rareFrom friend in parting hour;Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont,Thou tak'st with thee thy dower"She drooped her head, and with her handShe gave a mournful wave:"Oh, do not jest, dear sir!—it isTurf from my mother's grave!"I spoke no word: we sat and weptBy the road-side together;No purer dew on that bright dayWas dropped upon the heather.JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.
As I came wandering down Glen Spean,Where the braes are green and grassy,With my light step I overtookA weary-footed lassie.
She had one bundle on her back,Another in her hand,And she walked as one who was full loathTo travel from the land.
Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"—for sheHad hair of flowing gold,And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,Right pleasant to behold—
"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee,On this bright summer day,To travel sad and shoeless thusUpon the stony way?
"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,And thou art burdened so;March lightly now, and let me bearThe bundles as we go."
"No, no!" she said, "that may not be;What's mine is mine to bear;Of good or ill, as God may will,I take my portioned share."
"But you have two, and I have none;One burden give to me;I'll take that bundle from thy backThat heavier seems to be.
"No, no!" she said; "this, if you will,Thatholds—no hand but mineMay bear its weight from dear Glen Spean'Cross the Atlantic brine!"
"Well, well! but tell me what may beWithin that precious load,Which thou dost bear with such fine careAlong the dusty road?
"Belike it is some present rareFrom friend in parting hour;Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont,Thou tak'st with thee thy dower"
She drooped her head, and with her handShe gave a mournful wave:"Oh, do not jest, dear sir!—it isTurf from my mother's grave!"
I spoke no word: we sat and weptBy the road-side together;No purer dew on that bright dayWas dropped upon the heather.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
THE OLD SEXTON.Nigh to a grave that was newly made,Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;His work was done, and he paused to waitThe funeral train at the open gate.A relic of bygone days was he,And his locks were white as the foamy sea;And these words came from his lips so thin:"I gather them in: I gather them in."I gather them in! for man and boy,Year after year of grief and joy,I've builded the houses that lie around,In every nook of this burial ground;Mother and daughter, father and son,Come to my solitude, one by one:But come they strangers or come they kin—I gather them in, I gather them in."Many are with me, but still I 'm alone,I 'm king of the dead—and I make my throneOn a monument slab of marble cold;And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold:Come they from cottage or come they from hall,Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin—I gather them in, I gather them in."I gather them in, and their-final restIs here, down here, in earth's dark breast!"And the sexton ceased, for the funeral trainWound mutely o'er that solemn plain!And I said to my heart, when time is told,A mightier voice than that sexton's oldWill sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din—"I gather them in, I gather them in."PARK BENJAMIN.
THE OLD SEXTON.
Nigh to a grave that was newly made,Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;His work was done, and he paused to waitThe funeral train at the open gate.A relic of bygone days was he,And his locks were white as the foamy sea;And these words came from his lips so thin:"I gather them in: I gather them in.
"I gather them in! for man and boy,Year after year of grief and joy,I've builded the houses that lie around,In every nook of this burial ground;Mother and daughter, father and son,Come to my solitude, one by one:But come they strangers or come they kin—I gather them in, I gather them in.
"Many are with me, but still I 'm alone,I 'm king of the dead—and I make my throneOn a monument slab of marble cold;And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold:Come they from cottage or come they from hall,Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin—I gather them in, I gather them in.
"I gather them in, and their-final restIs here, down here, in earth's dark breast!"And the sexton ceased, for the funeral trainWound mutely o'er that solemn plain!And I said to my heart, when time is told,A mightier voice than that sexton's oldWill sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din—"I gather them in, I gather them in."
PARK BENJAMIN.
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.The snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm-treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.From sheds new-roofed with CarraraCame Chanticleer's muffled crow.The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,And still fluttered down the snow.I stood and watched by the windowThe noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,Like brown leaves whirling by.I thought of a mound in sweet AuburnWhere a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently,As did robins the babes in the wood.Up spoke our own little Mabel,Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"And I told of the good All-fatherWho cares for us here below.Again I looked at the snow-fall,And thought of the leaden skyThat arched o'er our first great sorrow,When that mound was heaped so high.I remember the gradual patienceThat fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hidingThe scar of our deep-plunged woe.And again to the child I whispered,"The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful FatherAlone can make it fall!"Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;And she, kissing back, could not knowThatmykiss was given to her sister,Folded close under deepening snow.JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.
The snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm-treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with CarraraCame Chanticleer's muffled crow.The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the windowThe noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet AuburnWhere a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently,As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"And I told of the good All-fatherWho cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall,And thought of the leaden skyThat arched o'er our first great sorrow,When that mound was heaped so high.
I remember the gradual patienceThat fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hidingThe scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,"The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful FatherAlone can make it fall!"
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;And she, kissing back, could not knowThatmykiss was given to her sister,Folded close under deepening snow.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
THE MORNING-GLORY.We wreathed about our darling's headThe morning-glory bright;Her little face looked out beneathSo full of life and light,So lit as with a sunrise,That we could only say,"She is the morning-glory true,And her poor types are they."So always from that happy timeWe called her by their name,And very fitting did it seem,—For sure as morning came,Behind her cradle bars she smiledTo catch the first faint ray,As from the trellis smiles the flowerAnd opens to the day.But not so beautiful they rearTheir airy cups of blue,As turned her sweet eyes to the light,Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;And not so close their tendrils fineRound their supports are thrown,As those dear arms whose outstretched pleaClasped all hearts to her own.We used to think how she had come,Even as comes the flower,The last and perfect added giftTo crown Love's morning hour;And how in her was imaged forthThe love we could not say,As on the little dewdrops roundShines back the heart of day.We never could have thought, O God,That she must wither up,Almost before a day was flown,Like the morning-glory's cup;We never thought to see her droopHer fair and noble head,Till she lay stretched before our eyes,Wilted, and cold, and dead!The morning-glory's blossomingWill soon be coming round,—We see their rows of heart-shaped leavesUpspringing from the ground;The tender things the winter killedRenew again their birth,But the glory of our morningHas passed away from earth.Earth! in vain our aching eyesStretch over thy green plain!Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,Her spirit to sustain;But up in groves of ParadiseFull surely we shall seeOur morning-glory beautifulTwine round our dear Lord's knee.MARIA WHITE LOWELL.
THE MORNING-GLORY.
We wreathed about our darling's headThe morning-glory bright;Her little face looked out beneathSo full of life and light,So lit as with a sunrise,That we could only say,"She is the morning-glory true,And her poor types are they."
So always from that happy timeWe called her by their name,And very fitting did it seem,—For sure as morning came,Behind her cradle bars she smiledTo catch the first faint ray,As from the trellis smiles the flowerAnd opens to the day.
But not so beautiful they rearTheir airy cups of blue,As turned her sweet eyes to the light,Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;And not so close their tendrils fineRound their supports are thrown,As those dear arms whose outstretched pleaClasped all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come,Even as comes the flower,The last and perfect added giftTo crown Love's morning hour;And how in her was imaged forthThe love we could not say,As on the little dewdrops roundShines back the heart of day.
We never could have thought, O God,That she must wither up,Almost before a day was flown,Like the morning-glory's cup;We never thought to see her droopHer fair and noble head,Till she lay stretched before our eyes,Wilted, and cold, and dead!
The morning-glory's blossomingWill soon be coming round,—We see their rows of heart-shaped leavesUpspringing from the ground;The tender things the winter killedRenew again their birth,But the glory of our morningHas passed away from earth.
Earth! in vain our aching eyesStretch over thy green plain!Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,Her spirit to sustain;But up in groves of ParadiseFull surely we shall seeOur morning-glory beautifulTwine round our dear Lord's knee.
MARIA WHITE LOWELL.
THE WIDOW'S MITE.A widow—she had only one!A puny and decrepit son;But, day and night,Though fretful oft, and weak and small,A loving child, he was her all—The Widow's Mite.The Widow's Mite—ay, so sustained,She battled onward, nor complained,Though friends were fewer:And while she toiled for daily fare,A little crutch upon the stairWas music to her.I saw her then,—and now I seeThat, though resigned and cheerful, sheHas sorrowed much:She has, He gave it tenderly,Much faith; and carefully laid by,The little crutch.FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
A widow—she had only one!A puny and decrepit son;But, day and night,Though fretful oft, and weak and small,A loving child, he was her all—The Widow's Mite.
The Widow's Mite—ay, so sustained,She battled onward, nor complained,Though friends were fewer:And while she toiled for daily fare,A little crutch upon the stairWas music to her.
I saw her then,—and now I seeThat, though resigned and cheerful, sheHas sorrowed much:She has, He gave it tenderly,Much faith; and carefully laid by,The little crutch.
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.
ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?Each day, when the glow of sunsetFades in the western sky,And the wee ones, tired of playing,Go tripping lightly by,I steal away from my husband,Asleep in his easy-chair,And watch from the open door-wayTheir faces fresh and fair.Alone in the dear old homesteadThat once was full of life,Ringing with girlish laughter,Echoing boyish strife,We two are waiting together;And oft, as the shadows come,With tremulous voice he calls me,"It is night! are the children home?""Yes, love!" I answer him gently,"They're all home long ago;"—And I sing, in my quivering treble,A song so soft and low,Till the old man drops to slumber,With his head upon his hand,And I tell to myself the numberAt home in the better land.At home, where never a sorrowShall dim their eyes with tears!Where the smile of God is on themThrough all the summer years!I know,—yet my arms are empty,That fondly folded seven,And the mother heart within meIs almost starved for heaven.Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,I only shut my eyes,And the children are all about me,A vision from the skies:The babes whose dimpled fingersLost the way to my breast,And the beautiful ones, the angels,Passed to the world of the blest.With never a cloud upon them,I see their radiant brows;My boys that I gave to freedom,—The red sword sealed their vows!In a tangled Southern forest,Twin brothers bold and brave,They fell; and the flag they died for,Thank God! floats over their grave.A breath, and the vision is liftedAway on wings of light,And again we two are together,All alone in the night.They tell me his mind is failing,But I smile at idle fears;He is only back with the children,In the dear and peaceful years.And still, as the summer sunsetFades away in the west,And the wee ones, tired of playing,Go trooping home to rest,My husband calls from his corner,"Say, love, have the children come?"And I answer, with eyes uplifted,"Yes, dear! they are all at home."MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER.
ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?
Each day, when the glow of sunsetFades in the western sky,And the wee ones, tired of playing,Go tripping lightly by,I steal away from my husband,Asleep in his easy-chair,And watch from the open door-wayTheir faces fresh and fair.
Alone in the dear old homesteadThat once was full of life,Ringing with girlish laughter,Echoing boyish strife,We two are waiting together;And oft, as the shadows come,With tremulous voice he calls me,"It is night! are the children home?"
"Yes, love!" I answer him gently,"They're all home long ago;"—And I sing, in my quivering treble,A song so soft and low,Till the old man drops to slumber,With his head upon his hand,And I tell to myself the numberAt home in the better land.
At home, where never a sorrowShall dim their eyes with tears!Where the smile of God is on themThrough all the summer years!I know,—yet my arms are empty,That fondly folded seven,And the mother heart within meIs almost starved for heaven.
Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,I only shut my eyes,And the children are all about me,A vision from the skies:The babes whose dimpled fingersLost the way to my breast,And the beautiful ones, the angels,Passed to the world of the blest.
With never a cloud upon them,I see their radiant brows;My boys that I gave to freedom,—The red sword sealed their vows!In a tangled Southern forest,Twin brothers bold and brave,They fell; and the flag they died for,Thank God! floats over their grave.
A breath, and the vision is liftedAway on wings of light,And again we two are together,All alone in the night.They tell me his mind is failing,But I smile at idle fears;He is only back with the children,In the dear and peaceful years.
And still, as the summer sunsetFades away in the west,And the wee ones, tired of playing,Go trooping home to rest,My husband calls from his corner,"Say, love, have the children come?"And I answer, with eyes uplifted,"Yes, dear! they are all at home."
MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER.
JIM'S KIDS.Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill,Over the beach lived he and his wife,In a little house—you can see it still—An' their two fair boys; upon my lifeYou never seen two likelier kids,In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise,Than them two boys!Jim would go out in his boat on the sea,Just as the rest of us fishermen did,An' when he come back at night thar'd be,Up to his knees in the surf, each kid,A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim;He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roarOf the waves on the shore.But one night Jim came a sailin' homeAnd the little kids weren't on the sands;Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come,And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands,And he learnt the worst up on the hill,In the little house, an' he bowed his head,"The fever," they said.'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim,With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes,They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him,For they kinder wandered in mind. Their criesWere about the waves and fisherman JimAnd the little boat a sailin' for shoreTill they spoke no more.Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on,And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came,But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone,And he never was heard to speak the nameOf the little kids who were buried there,Upon the hill in sight o' the sea,Under a willow tree.One night they came and told me to hasteTo the house on the hill, for Jim was sick,And they said I hadn't no time to waste,For his tide was ebbin' powerful quickAn' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like,An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see,An' had called for me.And fisherman Jim sez he to me,"It's my last, last cruise, you understand,I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea,But off on the further shore, on the sand,Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my nameJess as they did, oh, mate, you know,In the long ago."No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die,For all that night he seemed to seeHis little boys of the years gone by,And to hear sweet voices forgot by me;An' just as the mornin' sun came up,"They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried,And so he died.EUGENE FIELD.
JIM'S KIDS.
Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill,Over the beach lived he and his wife,In a little house—you can see it still—An' their two fair boys; upon my lifeYou never seen two likelier kids,In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise,Than them two boys!
Jim would go out in his boat on the sea,Just as the rest of us fishermen did,An' when he come back at night thar'd be,Up to his knees in the surf, each kid,A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim;He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roarOf the waves on the shore.
But one night Jim came a sailin' homeAnd the little kids weren't on the sands;Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come,And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands,And he learnt the worst up on the hill,In the little house, an' he bowed his head,"The fever," they said.
'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim,With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes,They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him,For they kinder wandered in mind. Their criesWere about the waves and fisherman JimAnd the little boat a sailin' for shoreTill they spoke no more.
Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on,And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came,But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone,And he never was heard to speak the nameOf the little kids who were buried there,Upon the hill in sight o' the sea,Under a willow tree.
One night they came and told me to hasteTo the house on the hill, for Jim was sick,And they said I hadn't no time to waste,For his tide was ebbin' powerful quickAn' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like,An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see,An' had called for me.
And fisherman Jim sez he to me,"It's my last, last cruise, you understand,I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea,But off on the further shore, on the sand,Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my nameJess as they did, oh, mate, you know,In the long ago."
No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die,For all that night he seemed to seeHis little boys of the years gone by,And to hear sweet voices forgot by me;An' just as the mornin' sun came up,"They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried,And so he died.
EUGENE FIELD.
THE MAY QUEEN.You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,—Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.There 's many a black, black eye, they say, butnoneso bright as mine;There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say:So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay;For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I seeBut Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white;And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.They say he's dying all for love,—but that can never be;They say his heart is breaking, mother,—what is that to me?There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still,And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play,For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year;To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.NEW YEAR'S EVE.If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year.It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,—Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me.To-night I saw the sun set,—he set and left behindThe good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never seeThe blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,—Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.There's not a flower on all the hills,—the frost is on the pane;I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again.I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,—I long to see a flower so before the day I die.The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave,But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave.Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,—When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning lightYou'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow coolOn the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;You should not fret for me, mother—you have another child.If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say.And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore,And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,—She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor.Let her take 'em—they are hers; I shall never garden more.But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I setAbout the parlor window and the box of mignonette.Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born.All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,—So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.CONCLUSION.I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb.How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies;And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise;And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow;And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go.It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done!But still I think it can't be long before I find release;And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair,And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin;Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in.Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be;For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,—There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,—It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear;I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;With all my strength I prayed for both,—and so I felt resigned,And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed;And then did something speak to me,—I know not what was said;For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,And up the valley came again the music on the wind.But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,—it's mine;"And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars;Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I knowThe blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go.And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;But Effie, you must comfortherwhen I am past away.And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow;He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,—Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is doneThe voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,—Forever and forever with those just souls and true,—And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,—And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,—To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,—And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
THE MAY QUEEN.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,—Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
There 's many a black, black eye, they say, butnoneso bright as mine;There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say:So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay;For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I seeBut Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white;And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.
They say he's dying all for love,—but that can never be;They say his heart is breaking, mother,—what is that to me?There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day;And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still,And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play,For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year;To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year.It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,—Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me.
To-night I saw the sun set,—he set and left behindThe good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never seeThe blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,—Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There's not a flower on all the hills,—the frost is on the pane;I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again.I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,—I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave,But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave.
Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,—When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning lightYou'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow coolOn the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;You should not fret for me, mother—you have another child.
If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say.And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.
Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore,And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,—She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor.Let her take 'em—they are hers; I shall never garden more.But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I setAbout the parlor window and the box of mignonette.
Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born.All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,—So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
CONCLUSION.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb.How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.
O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies;And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise;And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow;And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go.
It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done!But still I think it can't be long before I find release;And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.
O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair,And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.
He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin;Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in.Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be;For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,—There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,—It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.
For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear;I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;With all my strength I prayed for both,—and so I felt resigned,And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed;And then did something speak to me,—I know not what was said;For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,—it's mine;"And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars;Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.
So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I knowThe blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go.And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;But Effie, you must comfortherwhen I am past away.
And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow;He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,—Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is doneThe voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,—Forever and forever with those just souls and true,—And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?
Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,—And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,—To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,—And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
ON ANNE ALLEN.The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree—Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—Heaping them up before her Father's doorWhen I saw her whom I shall see no more—We cannot bribe thee, Death.She went abroad the falling leaves among,She saw the merry season fade, and sung—Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good—She knew thee not, O Death.She bound her shining hair across her brow,She went into the garden fading now;Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—And if one sighed to think that it was sere,She smiled to think that it would bloom next year!She feared thee not, O Death.Blooming she came back to the cheerful roomWith all the fairer flowers yet in bloom—Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,And placed the fairest at her Father's side—She cannot charm thee, Death.Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall—Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,As she went singing softly up the stair—No voice can charm thee, Death.Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,That made sweet music of the winter wind?Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—Idly they gaze upon her empty place,Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face—She is with thee, O Death.EDWARD FITZGERALD.
ON ANNE ALLEN.
The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree—Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—Heaping them up before her Father's doorWhen I saw her whom I shall see no more—We cannot bribe thee, Death.
She went abroad the falling leaves among,She saw the merry season fade, and sung—Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good—She knew thee not, O Death.
She bound her shining hair across her brow,She went into the garden fading now;Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—And if one sighed to think that it was sere,She smiled to think that it would bloom next year!She feared thee not, O Death.
Blooming she came back to the cheerful roomWith all the fairer flowers yet in bloom—Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,And placed the fairest at her Father's side—She cannot charm thee, Death.
Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall—Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,As she went singing softly up the stair—No voice can charm thee, Death.
Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,That made sweet music of the winter wind?Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—Idly they gaze upon her empty place,Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face—She is with thee, O Death.
EDWARD FITZGERALD.
LOVE AND DEATHLOVE AND DEATHDeath comes in,Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,Would bar the way."From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts.
LOVE AND DEATHDeath comes in,Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,Would bar the way."From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts.
LOVE AND DEATH
Death comes in,Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,Would bar the way."
From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts.
SONNET.(SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear,And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes;He stands upon the threshold, quick to closeThe gate of happiness ere should appearDeath's dreaded presence—ay, but Death draws near,And large and gray the towering outline grows,Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knowsFull well, too well, alas! that Death is here.Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in,Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,Would bar the way—poor Love, whose wings beginTo droop, half-torn as are the roses deadAlready at his feet—but Death must win,And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread!LADY LINDSAY.
SONNET.
(SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)
Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear,And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes;He stands upon the threshold, quick to closeThe gate of happiness ere should appearDeath's dreaded presence—ay, but Death draws near,And large and gray the towering outline grows,Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knowsFull well, too well, alas! that Death is here.Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in,Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,Would bar the way—poor Love, whose wings beginTo droop, half-torn as are the roses deadAlready at his feet—but Death must win,And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread!
LADY LINDSAY.
JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR.The bier descends, the spotless roses too,The father's tribute in his saddest hour:O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,—The fair young girl and flower.Give them not back unto a world again,Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,—Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,—That fair young girl and flower.Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now,Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower;They both have perished in their morning glow,—The fair young girl and flower.But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale,Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower,And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail,O fair young girl and flower!From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE,VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND.
JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR.
The bier descends, the spotless roses too,The father's tribute in his saddest hour:O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,—The fair young girl and flower.
Give them not back unto a world again,Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,—Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,—That fair young girl and flower.
Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now,Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower;They both have perished in their morning glow,—The fair young girl and flower.
But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale,Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower,And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail,O fair young girl and flower!
From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE,VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND.
THE DEATH-BED.We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came, dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.THOMAS HOOD.
THE DEATH-BED.
We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
THOMAS HOOD.