Second Evening

A path of trembling gold, from where I stand,Across the limpid lake, to darkling woods,Upon the far off strand,Where evening’s glory broods,Until it changes into rose,A livid pink, suffusing all,The mighty water’s deep repose;And as the fiery ballDrops into clouds on the horizon’s rim,The hue, most delicate, takes on a crimson glow,In which the shadows of the shore grow dim,And slowly all things into darkness flow;Anon the moon appears and clothes the sceneAnd floating mist-veil into languid sheen.

A sea of fire in which a skyOf lavender and blue and redTogether with the clouds of changing dyeReflected are—divinely wed;And we, who rove about, are ledBy an illusion, such as seldom seen:A strange receding of the deep,As if we sat above a waterfall,O’er which our skiff full soon must leapInto immensity, bright, hyaline,Where brooding spirits beck and call.A glorious view is heaven in the depthOf tranquil seas, but moreIts virtues, mirrored in a human heart;And thou, who hast its kindnesses so kept,That changing vistas or receding shoreCan not extinguish life’s immortal partIn the abiding love divine, as clearAs all this evening glory in a glassy mere,Art more than all what nature can express,Whose word can cheer, whose gentle hand can bless.Illusions!—much is but illusions:Fear, and all the ghosts that troop with it.The good alone, in all its sweet effusion,Is real as the sun, by which the world is lit;The cataract of death, the dread abyss—Does not exist, for all the light is His.

A glorious view is heaven in the depthOf tranquil seas, but moreIts virtues, mirrored in a human heart;And thou, who hast its kindnesses so kept,That changing vistas or receding shoreCan not extinguish life’s immortal partIn the abiding love divine, as clearAs all this evening glory in a glassy mere,Art more than all what nature can express,Whose word can cheer, whose gentle hand can bless.

Illusions!—much is but illusions:Fear, and all the ghosts that troop with it.The good alone, in all its sweet effusion,Is real as the sun, by which the world is lit;The cataract of death, the dread abyss—Does not exist, for all the light is His.

To-night the rising storm-clouds hideThe sun’s departure from our gaze;A heavy mist begins to glideAcross the water’s ashen face;A host of swallows, circling, flyLike cavalcades upon a plain;A myriad of insects die,Uncounted lives, like drops of rainLost in the sea, lost in the All,The life, the death, the Oversoul.And little children laugh and playUpon the beach, and on the pier,In them the closing of the day,With gathering storm, awakes no fear,For in their souls the light remains,That oped the water-lily’s breast,And woke the warbler’s glad refrain,And all the heart of nature blest;What matters though the clouds obscureIts finished course one single eve,If we, like children, can allureEven clouds and mist to pleasure give.

The glitt’ring wavelets blind my sight,And neath the hand I needs must scanThe dazzling shimmer of the light,Which like Seraphic highways spanThe breeze-swept, glad expanse;Methinks I see the Naiads danceTo music of the swaying reedsAnd rushes, where the narrows jut,Adorned with many-colored weeds,From Neptune’s gardens freshly cut.Amid the glimmer one discernsA boat wherein a youth doth stand,Like Hiawatha’s passing, turnIts prow with dreamy ease from land,The well nigh naked youth to meIs like a god of Grecian mould,Whose perfect form and symmetryIs like Apollo’s of old;He speaks to fellows in the deep,Whose heads move ’mid the curling gleams,Alas, that death should ever reapAmong such scenes of pleasant dreams!But nature always clamors forWhat she hath lent to life a while,And though we borrow more and more,And all her powers do beguile,Yet comes the hour on land or sea,She asks for all with usury.The boy lifts up his hands and dives,A pleasant plunge that has no dread,But I recall some precious lives,Which thus were reckoned ’mongst the dead,And in my heart, at end of day,A prayer for the lads I say.

Amid the glimmer one discernsA boat wherein a youth doth stand,Like Hiawatha’s passing, turnIts prow with dreamy ease from land,The well nigh naked youth to meIs like a god of Grecian mould,Whose perfect form and symmetryIs like Apollo’s of old;He speaks to fellows in the deep,Whose heads move ’mid the curling gleams,Alas, that death should ever reapAmong such scenes of pleasant dreams!

But nature always clamors forWhat she hath lent to life a while,And though we borrow more and more,And all her powers do beguile,Yet comes the hour on land or sea,She asks for all with usury.

The boy lifts up his hands and dives,A pleasant plunge that has no dread,But I recall some precious lives,Which thus were reckoned ’mongst the dead,And in my heart, at end of day,A prayer for the lads I say.

Song of the West-wind o’er the waves,Song of the billows, as the laveThe shoreline with a mystic moan,Song of the rushes in the shallow,Song of the aspen tree and sallow,—Ever as the undertone.Song of cicadas and the cricketFrom ragged grasses and the thicket,Song of the whirring dragon-fly,That goes to sea, but for to die,Song of the warblers, flitting nigh,Song of the loon’s weird, distant cry.Song of a horn on yonder hill,That echoes in the far away,The tone is soft as of a rill,—“The end of a perfect day”—As sinks the sun, and I depart,With all this music in my heart.

Song of the West-wind o’er the waves,Song of the billows, as the laveThe shoreline with a mystic moan,Song of the rushes in the shallow,Song of the aspen tree and sallow,—Ever as the undertone.

Song of cicadas and the cricketFrom ragged grasses and the thicket,Song of the whirring dragon-fly,That goes to sea, but for to die,Song of the warblers, flitting nigh,Song of the loon’s weird, distant cry.

Song of a horn on yonder hill,That echoes in the far away,The tone is soft as of a rill,—“The end of a perfect day”—As sinks the sun, and I depart,With all this music in my heart.

A dull, pink evening sky,A white ridge shadow-streaked below,The tall, dark trees near by,—In the deep snow.Two horses, one is white,As white as is the new-fall’n snow,The other black as darkest night,—Along the highway go.One, emblem of the parting day,The other, of approaching night,And o’er the hill the rosy rayOf this one hour’s delight.

A dull, pink evening sky,A white ridge shadow-streaked below,The tall, dark trees near by,—In the deep snow.

Two horses, one is white,As white as is the new-fall’n snow,The other black as darkest night,—Along the highway go.

One, emblem of the parting day,The other, of approaching night,And o’er the hill the rosy rayOf this one hour’s delight.

O, I love the month of April, when the southwind gently blows,Calling nature from its slumber, from cold winter’s long repose,Till the meadow its awakening by a tint of verdure shows,And the willow with bright saffron in the evening sunshine glows;When the meadow-lark is standing on the fence-post, with its throatLifted up to merry lovesongs which across the prairies float;When the robin on the house-lawn proudly stands in his red coat,Then a-sudden makes departure with a shrill and happy note;—When the air is full of meaning, clothed in life’s sweet mystery,Touching all things with its magic, even with love’s ecstasy,And you see it and you feel it, it is upon land and sea,It is nature’s Easter dawning after drear Gethsemane.And the children’s faces brighten, and their laughter has a ringWhich no winter-sport could give them, and no lamplight play could bring;Even the aged in whose bosom life’s enchantments seldom sing,Take a pleasure in the message of this happy month of spring.Jocund April, lovely April, of all months my choice thou art,Since in thee there is a solace for all nature’s weary heart,And in thee there is a promise that we all shall have a partIn the hope which man professes through his worship and his art.

When the meadow-lark is standing on the fence-post, with its throatLifted up to merry lovesongs which across the prairies float;When the robin on the house-lawn proudly stands in his red coat,Then a-sudden makes departure with a shrill and happy note;—

When the air is full of meaning, clothed in life’s sweet mystery,Touching all things with its magic, even with love’s ecstasy,And you see it and you feel it, it is upon land and sea,It is nature’s Easter dawning after drear Gethsemane.

And the children’s faces brighten, and their laughter has a ringWhich no winter-sport could give them, and no lamplight play could bring;Even the aged in whose bosom life’s enchantments seldom sing,Take a pleasure in the message of this happy month of spring.

Jocund April, lovely April, of all months my choice thou art,Since in thee there is a solace for all nature’s weary heart,And in thee there is a promise that we all shall have a partIn the hope which man professes through his worship and his art.

I’m a part of the wind and the curling wave,Of the budding trees and the tender blade,A part of the life that has burst its grave,Of crocus and buttercup studding the glade,Of the goose-berry bush and the shadow it throws,Of the moss on the rocks and the slender ferns,Of the burly weed that earliest grows,And all that quickens and upward yearns.I’m a part of the light, and the golden flashOf the flicker’s wing o’er the glittering pond,Of the sable crow in the lofty ash,A-calling his mate in the trees beyond;Of the dragon-fly’s gossamer wing and flight;Of the insect just risen from winter’s sleep;Of things that find in the sun delight,Whether they blossom, or fly, or creep.A part of the risen life and the allEternal Spirit, anew each spring,Wherefore I follow its kindly call,To hear the carol His angels sing,—What saith it? O, you must hear it alone,In the paths of the woods on an April day,And feel, as I do, you are truly oneWith nature—to fathom the glorious lay.

I’m a part of the light, and the golden flashOf the flicker’s wing o’er the glittering pond,Of the sable crow in the lofty ash,A-calling his mate in the trees beyond;Of the dragon-fly’s gossamer wing and flight;Of the insect just risen from winter’s sleep;Of things that find in the sun delight,Whether they blossom, or fly, or creep.

A part of the risen life and the allEternal Spirit, anew each spring,Wherefore I follow its kindly call,To hear the carol His angels sing,—What saith it? O, you must hear it alone,In the paths of the woods on an April day,And feel, as I do, you are truly oneWith nature—to fathom the glorious lay.

The clouds are hanging dark and low,The budding trees are still quite bare,And from the North the cold winds blow,Of spring we almost might despair.But from the branches, ashen gray,Outside my window, comes a song,A warbling Chipping Sparrow’s lay,To cold and dimness nonchalant.His music has a thrilling joy,It warms the soul, allures a smile,Its brooding doubts he does destroy,And makes it happy like a child.And now a sudden, cheering gleamFalls on him from a rift of blue,I see him in a golden dream,—I know that song alone is true.His crimson tuft a poet’s crown,His tawny breast a badge of love,And that clear sunray coming down,Our Father’s watchful eye above.

The clouds are hanging dark and low,The budding trees are still quite bare,And from the North the cold winds blow,Of spring we almost might despair.

But from the branches, ashen gray,Outside my window, comes a song,A warbling Chipping Sparrow’s lay,To cold and dimness nonchalant.

His music has a thrilling joy,It warms the soul, allures a smile,Its brooding doubts he does destroy,And makes it happy like a child.

And now a sudden, cheering gleamFalls on him from a rift of blue,I see him in a golden dream,—I know that song alone is true.

His crimson tuft a poet’s crown,His tawny breast a badge of love,And that clear sunray coming down,Our Father’s watchful eye above.

When the fragrance of the purple and lavender lilac-bloomMeets the sweet distilled aroma from the plum and apple-trees,And the dainty scent of violets amid the garden-gloom,Where’s the music of the hum and drone of pollen-painted bees,Then my soul takes up its harp, which long upon the willows hung,And attunes it to the gladness that is floating in the air,For it is in lilac-blossom-time that everything grows young,And the heart of man is lighter, and has little less of care.In the lilac-blossom-time it seems, the brown thrush blithest sings,And the wood-dove cooes the deepest from a breast brimful with love,And the Oriole’s glad music clearest ’mongst the branches rings,To its mate that sits abrooding on the nest upon the bough;And the Whip-poor-will is calling from the woodlands dark, at eve,With a zest which makes the farmer feel that even the night hath song,And in the cool of day he thinks, it is quite good to live,“Since after toil I here can rest the lilac-trees among.”In the lilac-blossom-time, methinks, are children happiest,Since with that blossoms’ coming a great liberty draws nigh,The days of school are over, and they feel supremely blestIn the days mid nature’s glories, ’neath the blue and open sky,Or to lie beneath the lilacs with a story-book in hand,Reading perfume into fancies, Puck and fairies twixt each line,Till the heart is with them dancing in a happy wonderland,While the shadows of the after-noon with lilac hues combine.In the lilac-blossom-time the lovers often fondly meet,And drink the blossom’s odor, a true potency for dreams,And oftest when the evening-dew makes it a tenfold sweet,A-trembling like a tear of joy within the clear moonbeam,The youth in his new happiness a prince of kingdoms is,The maiden is a being fair, as from some other clime,And heaven itself is upon earth in that pure, binding kiss,There in her father’s garden in the lilac-blossom-time.

In the lilac-blossom-time it seems, the brown thrush blithest sings,And the wood-dove cooes the deepest from a breast brimful with love,And the Oriole’s glad music clearest ’mongst the branches rings,To its mate that sits abrooding on the nest upon the bough;And the Whip-poor-will is calling from the woodlands dark, at eve,With a zest which makes the farmer feel that even the night hath song,And in the cool of day he thinks, it is quite good to live,“Since after toil I here can rest the lilac-trees among.”

In the lilac-blossom-time, methinks, are children happiest,Since with that blossoms’ coming a great liberty draws nigh,The days of school are over, and they feel supremely blestIn the days mid nature’s glories, ’neath the blue and open sky,Or to lie beneath the lilacs with a story-book in hand,Reading perfume into fancies, Puck and fairies twixt each line,Till the heart is with them dancing in a happy wonderland,While the shadows of the after-noon with lilac hues combine.

In the lilac-blossom-time the lovers often fondly meet,And drink the blossom’s odor, a true potency for dreams,And oftest when the evening-dew makes it a tenfold sweet,A-trembling like a tear of joy within the clear moonbeam,The youth in his new happiness a prince of kingdoms is,The maiden is a being fair, as from some other clime,And heaven itself is upon earth in that pure, binding kiss,There in her father’s garden in the lilac-blossom-time.

I met a runnel amid the meads,In the evening, in the evening,And it did ramble ’mongst rush and reeds,In the evening, in the evening,And I did linger to hear its song,As it did carelessly wind along,In the evening, in the evening.What sang the runnel upon its way?In the evening, in the evening;I listened long to its happy lay,In the evening, in the evening;But all my musing seemed but in vain,And all its music awoke but pain,In the evening, in the evening.The blooming thornapple on its bank,Also listened, also listened,And flags and buttercups, dewy dank,Also listened, also listened;And thrushes nestling in alder-trees,Did hush their babes with its melodies,And they listened, and they listened.I asked the violets on its side,In the evening, in the evening,—If they its song would to me confide,In the evening, in the evening;And like some children of guileless soulThey said: “Its lay is the song of all,In the evening, in the evening.”“The ceaseless longing to reach the sea,In the evening, in the evening;The song of life and eternity,In the evening, in the evening;A lay of love in the early morn,A lay of hope to the lone and lorn,—In the evening, in the evening.”

What sang the runnel upon its way?In the evening, in the evening;I listened long to its happy lay,In the evening, in the evening;But all my musing seemed but in vain,And all its music awoke but pain,In the evening, in the evening.

The blooming thornapple on its bank,Also listened, also listened,And flags and buttercups, dewy dank,Also listened, also listened;And thrushes nestling in alder-trees,Did hush their babes with its melodies,And they listened, and they listened.

I asked the violets on its side,In the evening, in the evening,—If they its song would to me confide,In the evening, in the evening;And like some children of guileless soulThey said: “Its lay is the song of all,In the evening, in the evening.”

“The ceaseless longing to reach the sea,In the evening, in the evening;The song of life and eternity,In the evening, in the evening;A lay of love in the early morn,A lay of hope to the lone and lorn,—In the evening, in the evening.”

She pored o’er the open pageOf the Gospel, according to John,Where the Ruler did Christ engageAt hours of the silent night,And sought for his soul that light,Which God sent forth through His Son.But she could not read a word,A child of four summers she,Not ever, even once, had she heardThat story of second birth,Nor asked, like the wise of the earth,“O, Lord, how can these things be?”Her face had the glory of heaven,The look of an angel her eye,I said: “And to her it is givenTo know, for her soul is oneWith the soul of this page of John,And the wisdom that comes from on high.”

She pored o’er the open pageOf the Gospel, according to John,Where the Ruler did Christ engageAt hours of the silent night,And sought for his soul that light,Which God sent forth through His Son.

But she could not read a word,A child of four summers she,Not ever, even once, had she heardThat story of second birth,Nor asked, like the wise of the earth,“O, Lord, how can these things be?”

Her face had the glory of heaven,The look of an angel her eye,I said: “And to her it is givenTo know, for her soul is oneWith the soul of this page of John,And the wisdom that comes from on high.”

Five little candles on her birthday cake,Five little candles brightly burning,We gaze on them, while memories awakeOf happy moments, nevermore returning.Five little years of childhood happiness,Five little years, when oft we played together,How often did her love and joy us bless,When days seemed dark, and stormy was theweather.The tiny lights are dying one by one,As one by one the years their flight have taken,I shed a tear for that which thus is gone,And kiss the child for whom the cake was baken.

Five little candles on her birthday cake,Five little candles brightly burning,We gaze on them, while memories awakeOf happy moments, nevermore returning.

Five little years of childhood happiness,Five little years, when oft we played together,How often did her love and joy us bless,When days seemed dark, and stormy was theweather.

The tiny lights are dying one by one,As one by one the years their flight have taken,I shed a tear for that which thus is gone,And kiss the child for whom the cake was baken.

Five little goldfish in a vaseMy simple study-room do grace,And oft when tired of reading books,I turn to them my weary looks,And pleasure find in their quaint ways,Reminding me of ancient lays.Amid the deep, on sparkling sands,A tow’ring Gothic castle stands,Its gates and windows open wide,Through which the lustrous carplings glide,Like sea-nymphs in the days of old,Like mermaids in an age of gold.They hide beneath the dark green weed,And fondly on its frondlets feed,It seems an island near the shore,Where Lorelei did sing of yore,And gold and green most softly blend,As then—ere romance had an end.O, days of legendary lore,Of fairy-folk and nymphs galore!When tired of this prosaic age,And weary of the modern page,I find my golden fish suggestThe dreams with which your life was blest.

Five little goldfish in a vaseMy simple study-room do grace,And oft when tired of reading books,I turn to them my weary looks,And pleasure find in their quaint ways,Reminding me of ancient lays.

Amid the deep, on sparkling sands,A tow’ring Gothic castle stands,Its gates and windows open wide,Through which the lustrous carplings glide,Like sea-nymphs in the days of old,Like mermaids in an age of gold.

They hide beneath the dark green weed,And fondly on its frondlets feed,It seems an island near the shore,Where Lorelei did sing of yore,And gold and green most softly blend,As then—ere romance had an end.

O, days of legendary lore,Of fairy-folk and nymphs galore!When tired of this prosaic age,And weary of the modern page,I find my golden fish suggestThe dreams with which your life was blest.

Sometimes, when in uphappy mood,I on my limitations brood,And think how narrow the confines,In which the soul almost repines,I turn again—just to beholdMy finny friends of burnished gold.How little is their rounded sphere,Though rivers wide are rushing near!How little chance themselves to be,In freedom’s realm, the sunny sea!I wonder not that mournful gape,And rolling glance they seem to ape.Yet, all the pity I bestowIs tearless, since in heart I know,It would be fatal for my fishTo leave the boun’dry of their dish,For they would be an easy preyTo larger ones in stream or bay.And then this moral comes to me,While craving larger liberty;It might be death the bounds to break,Which fate and duty round me make,So be content and get the bestOf what, perhaps, is but a jest.

Sometimes, when in uphappy mood,I on my limitations brood,And think how narrow the confines,In which the soul almost repines,I turn again—just to beholdMy finny friends of burnished gold.

How little is their rounded sphere,Though rivers wide are rushing near!How little chance themselves to be,In freedom’s realm, the sunny sea!I wonder not that mournful gape,And rolling glance they seem to ape.

Yet, all the pity I bestowIs tearless, since in heart I know,It would be fatal for my fishTo leave the boun’dry of their dish,For they would be an easy preyTo larger ones in stream or bay.

And then this moral comes to me,While craving larger liberty;It might be death the bounds to break,Which fate and duty round me make,So be content and get the bestOf what, perhaps, is but a jest.

There lived in the land of Ole BullA peasant-fiddler of old,Whose soul with music was often more fullThan his violin ever told.He knew not the art of clefs and notes,Such seemed but some mystic runes,But he heard the music that richly floatsIn nature’s unwritten tunes.He played for the dances at many a farm,Led many a bridal train,And everywhere did he naively charmThe mirth-loving maid and swain;But sometimes he played in a lonely place,When no one, perchance, was near,And then there was sadness in his face,In his eyes a furtive tear.For the strains which he heard he could never play,Though trying it o’er and o’er,Forgotten they were from day to day,And wandered his way no more;Sometimes in anger he flung the thing,Which would not obey his soul,Then took it again with its broken string,Like a mother her child from his fall.On a Christmas eve he had listened longTo the tones in the snowy air—The bells that sent forth their joyous song,Re-echoing here and thereIn mountain hollow or forest deep,Or far o’er the frozen fjord,A thousand voices woke from their sleep,To join in the heavenly chord.In the house the Christmas feast was spread,And he ate and drank as he should,There was meat and pudding and raisin bread,And the Yule-tide brew was good;They feasted well on that holy eve,And did not forget a pray’r,And the fiddler felt it was good to live,For banished he had all care.In his sleep that night he seemed to seeHis room full of fairy-folk,They danced about with a wondrous gleeTo the tunes their fiddler awoke—Such tunes as he never had heard before,So soft, so clear, and gay,Like silver ripples against a shore,In the morn of a summer’s day.He saw the player, his strings and bow,Each touch of his finger tips,From which such gladness did overflow,With pleasure of lovers’ lips;He asked the elfin to teach him one,Ah, one from his repertoire,Which he gladly did, and when it was done,Another, just for encore.He taught him three, and he taught him four,Yea, six, while the fairies danced,Till a tankard of beer fell to the floor,At which the elfin glanced,And saw a cross on its side engraved,Then rose and run with a cry,The fairies following, as morning wavedHis rosy plumes in the sky.The peasant awoke from his fairy dream,Sought his fiddle, began to play,And strange enough, as it now may seem,Remembered tunes in the elfin way,He played them all till the day shone bright,He played them all till the church bells rang,To call to mass among candle lights,To hear the story which angels sang.But neither mass, nor the homilyCould fix his mind on the solemn things;An absent look in his face one might see,And his fingers moved as on fiddle-strings;His wife did see it and almost wept,And prayed that he for sweet heaven’s sakeMight be from fairies and devils kept,Both when asleep, or when awake.That Christmas season, for three weeks long,He played for dances, yea, every night,His melodies were both sweet and strong,And gave the people such great delight,They said they never before had heardSuch music come from a violin,And wondereed much of what things had stirredThe fiddler’s heart, or where he had been.But this he kept to himself alone,For often since he the fairies saw,List to their music when brightly shoneThe moon on greensward or glitt’ring snow,And more and more did he learn their art,Yea, some did whisper, he was possest,But he had won every woman’s heart,When he was old, and was laid to rest.

He played for the dances at many a farm,Led many a bridal train,And everywhere did he naively charmThe mirth-loving maid and swain;But sometimes he played in a lonely place,When no one, perchance, was near,And then there was sadness in his face,In his eyes a furtive tear.

For the strains which he heard he could never play,Though trying it o’er and o’er,Forgotten they were from day to day,And wandered his way no more;Sometimes in anger he flung the thing,Which would not obey his soul,Then took it again with its broken string,Like a mother her child from his fall.

On a Christmas eve he had listened longTo the tones in the snowy air—The bells that sent forth their joyous song,Re-echoing here and thereIn mountain hollow or forest deep,Or far o’er the frozen fjord,A thousand voices woke from their sleep,To join in the heavenly chord.

In the house the Christmas feast was spread,And he ate and drank as he should,There was meat and pudding and raisin bread,And the Yule-tide brew was good;They feasted well on that holy eve,And did not forget a pray’r,And the fiddler felt it was good to live,For banished he had all care.

In his sleep that night he seemed to seeHis room full of fairy-folk,They danced about with a wondrous gleeTo the tunes their fiddler awoke—Such tunes as he never had heard before,So soft, so clear, and gay,Like silver ripples against a shore,In the morn of a summer’s day.

He saw the player, his strings and bow,Each touch of his finger tips,From which such gladness did overflow,With pleasure of lovers’ lips;He asked the elfin to teach him one,Ah, one from his repertoire,Which he gladly did, and when it was done,Another, just for encore.

He taught him three, and he taught him four,Yea, six, while the fairies danced,Till a tankard of beer fell to the floor,At which the elfin glanced,And saw a cross on its side engraved,Then rose and run with a cry,The fairies following, as morning wavedHis rosy plumes in the sky.

The peasant awoke from his fairy dream,Sought his fiddle, began to play,And strange enough, as it now may seem,Remembered tunes in the elfin way,He played them all till the day shone bright,He played them all till the church bells rang,To call to mass among candle lights,To hear the story which angels sang.

But neither mass, nor the homilyCould fix his mind on the solemn things;An absent look in his face one might see,And his fingers moved as on fiddle-strings;His wife did see it and almost wept,And prayed that he for sweet heaven’s sakeMight be from fairies and devils kept,Both when asleep, or when awake.

That Christmas season, for three weeks long,He played for dances, yea, every night,His melodies were both sweet and strong,And gave the people such great delight,They said they never before had heardSuch music come from a violin,And wondereed much of what things had stirredThe fiddler’s heart, or where he had been.

But this he kept to himself alone,For often since he the fairies saw,List to their music when brightly shoneThe moon on greensward or glitt’ring snow,And more and more did he learn their art,Yea, some did whisper, he was possest,But he had won every woman’s heart,When he was old, and was laid to rest.

Kitty is playing on the side of the hill,All in the new-mown grass,Hunting a butterfly; O, don’t you killThat beautiful thing, alas!She caught it and wounded its wings!“How cruel of kitty to play in this way;”Your friend on top of the hill,If she were alive, now surely would say,Alas, that her voice should be still!That prattled of beautiful things.In her grave on the hill the little one lies;Her kitten at play in the hay;And looking thereon a mother’s heart cries,With grief she is pining away,Like the butterfly’s sunder-torn wings.

Kitty is playing on the side of the hill,All in the new-mown grass,Hunting a butterfly; O, don’t you killThat beautiful thing, alas!She caught it and wounded its wings!

“How cruel of kitty to play in this way;”Your friend on top of the hill,If she were alive, now surely would say,Alas, that her voice should be still!That prattled of beautiful things.

In her grave on the hill the little one lies;Her kitten at play in the hay;And looking thereon a mother’s heart cries,With grief she is pining away,Like the butterfly’s sunder-torn wings.

Were I an artist, I would paint thee thus:—Tall, lithe and slender, like a Grecian youthIn flowing garb, whose lines enhance the form,A face whose soul is innocence and truth,And eyes of dreamy love, that blesses usWith gladness, like the sunlight after storm.Were I a master of sweet music, IWould turn the rhythm of thy motion, andThy voice and laughter into melody,A symphony, fit for a royal band,With joy of glitt’ring waves and zephyr’s sighWith love’s entrancement and pure ecstasy.But I, alas, have nothing but a rhyme,In which to clothe the pleasure of an hour,—An hour amid the fields and on the stream;I picked for thee the rarest, sweetest flower,A wild rose, mingling odor with the thyme,Since that seems truest of a poet’s dream.

Were I a master of sweet music, IWould turn the rhythm of thy motion, andThy voice and laughter into melody,A symphony, fit for a royal band,With joy of glitt’ring waves and zephyr’s sighWith love’s entrancement and pure ecstasy.

But I, alas, have nothing but a rhyme,In which to clothe the pleasure of an hour,—An hour amid the fields and on the stream;I picked for thee the rarest, sweetest flower,A wild rose, mingling odor with the thyme,Since that seems truest of a poet’s dream.

Farewell, dear lass, it grieves me muchThat thou must leave us here alone,Thou gav’st our summer months a touchOf happiness, as seldom known,Thou gavest such a sunny cheer,That every day seemed like a play,And now, when autumn’s winds blow drear,Thou needs must go so far away!The leaves lie yellow on the lawn,The blackbirds gather into flocks,The thrush and lark have long since gone,The crows sit cawing on the rocks,The heavy clouds soar wild and blackAcross the meadows, sear with frost,I stand alone beneath their wrack,And feel that summer’s joy is lost.But I shall ne’er forget thy smile,And ever in my heart shall ringThe laughter which did e’er beguileEach brooding care to take its wing,Thy winsomeness which woke my soulFrom lethargy’s dun drearinessShall leave a glamour over all,And even winter’s darkness bless.So fare thee well, my brown-eyed lass,May heaven keep thee pure and sweet!May ne’er a shadow o’er thee passOf evil’s harm or dark deceit!And mayst thou from the Southern climeReturn when April’s breezes blow,When minstrel hosts perceive ’tis timeTo lift their wings and northward go.

The leaves lie yellow on the lawn,The blackbirds gather into flocks,The thrush and lark have long since gone,The crows sit cawing on the rocks,The heavy clouds soar wild and blackAcross the meadows, sear with frost,I stand alone beneath their wrack,And feel that summer’s joy is lost.

But I shall ne’er forget thy smile,And ever in my heart shall ringThe laughter which did e’er beguileEach brooding care to take its wing,Thy winsomeness which woke my soulFrom lethargy’s dun drearinessShall leave a glamour over all,And even winter’s darkness bless.

So fare thee well, my brown-eyed lass,May heaven keep thee pure and sweet!May ne’er a shadow o’er thee passOf evil’s harm or dark deceit!And mayst thou from the Southern climeReturn when April’s breezes blow,When minstrel hosts perceive ’tis timeTo lift their wings and northward go.

It is good to be all alone,In the dark of the night, aye, the starry night,When those you love truest are from you gone,In the far away, beyond sound and sight;When the wind is singing its sad, strange songIn gloomy tree-tops, a-tow’ring high,And whispers the names for whom you long,And the love for which you sigh.It is good to be all alone with one’s soul,—The soul which so seldom has chance to speak;It is good to be freed from the narrow and small,To rise from the vale to the mountain peak,To be guided by stargleams into a sphere,Where the world does not reach with its clamour and cry,And there in the silence pause, till you hearYour innermost self and the God that is nigh.

It is good to be all alone with one’s soul,—The soul which so seldom has chance to speak;It is good to be freed from the narrow and small,To rise from the vale to the mountain peak,To be guided by stargleams into a sphere,Where the world does not reach with its clamour and cry,And there in the silence pause, till you hearYour innermost self and the God that is nigh.

An old hymnbook, owned by my great-grandmother, and bearing the following inscription:

Cenfebam Hafniae d. 9 Sept. Anno 1684,

is a collection of hymns and religious songs, written by Dorothe Engelbrets Datter, a poetess of considerable distinction in Norway and Denmark in the 17th century.

I faintly can remember stillA scene from childhood years,A picture dim which always willBe treasured in my heart untilBeyond the change of good and ill,It glorified appears.I saw through an half-open doorAn aged woman’s face,Amid the sunlight on the floor,Uplifted and it seemed adoreA heavenly vision, or imploreFor mercy and for grace.An open book was in her hand,From which she read and sang,I was too young to understand,And yet I thought it was most grand,A music from a better landWhich through her singing rang.This is the book, or part thereof,An aged, thumbworn tome,Quaint hymns of penitence and love,By one whom heaven did endowWith glory fit for Sapho’s brow,Far in her northern home.I look upon each yellow page,Each stain and finger-mark,And see in them my heritage,—My Great Grandmother’s heritage,Which did her pious soul engage,In times remote and dark.

I faintly can remember stillA scene from childhood years,A picture dim which always willBe treasured in my heart untilBeyond the change of good and ill,It glorified appears.

I saw through an half-open doorAn aged woman’s face,Amid the sunlight on the floor,Uplifted and it seemed adoreA heavenly vision, or imploreFor mercy and for grace.

An open book was in her hand,From which she read and sang,I was too young to understand,And yet I thought it was most grand,A music from a better landWhich through her singing rang.

This is the book, or part thereof,An aged, thumbworn tome,Quaint hymns of penitence and love,By one whom heaven did endowWith glory fit for Sapho’s brow,Far in her northern home.

I look upon each yellow page,Each stain and finger-mark,And see in them my heritage,—My Great Grandmother’s heritage,Which did her pious soul engage,In times remote and dark.

I wandered down a dusty road,And spent myself to sheer fatigue,Until I fell beneath a loadOf misery and man’s intrigue,When all at once I saw a stringOf lustrous pearls, close by the way,It seemed such strange a hap and thing,That I believed my sense astray.But as I dared to touch the gems,And as I felt their soft delight,And saw the coloring, which hemsThe robe of dawn o’er snowcapped height,Play in their orbs, I felt a thrillOf pleasure surging through my soul,And then a peace, so rare and still,Upon my restless heart to fall.At length I rose to journey on,But with a new-born strength and zest,The burden gone, I saw the sun,I felt that life is heaven-blest,The string of pearls I treasured most,And guarded it with fondest care,Lest such a fount of joy be lost,Lest doubt again should me ensnare.I travelled long, at last I cameInto a place of Palaces,Such as in heaven have highest fame,But which the earthbound covet less;The saints of old did know them well,And gave their all that they might winAdmittance to the humblest cell,And God’s forgiveness for their sin.Each pearl became within my handA key wherewith the doors to ope,And angel guides did ready standTo point to each sincerest hope;And dazzling glory filled the halls,To archéd roof the music rose,And master’s art adorned the walls,And o’er it all hung sweet repose.The first and nearest door, I tried,Was one a singer, long ago,Found when distressed with pain he criedFor healing streams to him to flow,Then sang his praise alone to Him,“Who healeth all thy sicknesses,”And there I found a truth, now dim,That God with health the sick can bless.Another palace-door a pearlSwung open widely to my gaze,And like the waves that gently curlUpon the sunlit water’s face,There came in waves of harmonyA thousand voices in this place,All promises of things to be,And of His daily help of grace.As the orchestral melodyBy variations is enhanced,So did his words: “Come unto me,”Lead jubilant; I stood entranced,—“Come unto me, I’ll give you rest,My yoke is easy, burden light,”—Ah, here I found all that my questHad sought in weariness and night.Another pearl did ope the gateTo throne-rooms of the Sovereign’s pow’r,Where not a shadow of dark FateHad part in any dial’s hour;But truth and righteousness and loveDid govern life and destiny,The Sovereign’s will, supreme aboveThe ways of man, did all decree.And in this hour of awful gloom,When faith is wrecked, and hope is low,The glory from this Palace-roomMakes all the mountain-peaks aglow;And shadows flee from vale and plain,And struggling armies see a gleam,Commensurate with grief and pain,—The truth of what seemed but a dream.My rosary has many beads,I need an endless life to learn,To what exalted things each leads,For which my soul doth truly yearn,—And when the innermost I gain,There hangs a cross which lights the wayTo Palace-portals where I fainWould be this moment, and for aye.

But as I dared to touch the gems,And as I felt their soft delight,And saw the coloring, which hemsThe robe of dawn o’er snowcapped height,Play in their orbs, I felt a thrillOf pleasure surging through my soul,And then a peace, so rare and still,Upon my restless heart to fall.

At length I rose to journey on,But with a new-born strength and zest,The burden gone, I saw the sun,I felt that life is heaven-blest,The string of pearls I treasured most,And guarded it with fondest care,Lest such a fount of joy be lost,Lest doubt again should me ensnare.

I travelled long, at last I cameInto a place of Palaces,Such as in heaven have highest fame,But which the earthbound covet less;The saints of old did know them well,And gave their all that they might winAdmittance to the humblest cell,And God’s forgiveness for their sin.

Each pearl became within my handA key wherewith the doors to ope,And angel guides did ready standTo point to each sincerest hope;And dazzling glory filled the halls,To archéd roof the music rose,And master’s art adorned the walls,And o’er it all hung sweet repose.

The first and nearest door, I tried,Was one a singer, long ago,Found when distressed with pain he criedFor healing streams to him to flow,Then sang his praise alone to Him,“Who healeth all thy sicknesses,”And there I found a truth, now dim,That God with health the sick can bless.

Another palace-door a pearlSwung open widely to my gaze,And like the waves that gently curlUpon the sunlit water’s face,There came in waves of harmonyA thousand voices in this place,All promises of things to be,And of His daily help of grace.

As the orchestral melodyBy variations is enhanced,So did his words: “Come unto me,”Lead jubilant; I stood entranced,—“Come unto me, I’ll give you rest,My yoke is easy, burden light,”—Ah, here I found all that my questHad sought in weariness and night.

Another pearl did ope the gateTo throne-rooms of the Sovereign’s pow’r,Where not a shadow of dark FateHad part in any dial’s hour;But truth and righteousness and loveDid govern life and destiny,The Sovereign’s will, supreme aboveThe ways of man, did all decree.

And in this hour of awful gloom,When faith is wrecked, and hope is low,The glory from this Palace-roomMakes all the mountain-peaks aglow;And shadows flee from vale and plain,And struggling armies see a gleam,Commensurate with grief and pain,—The truth of what seemed but a dream.

My rosary has many beads,I need an endless life to learn,To what exalted things each leads,For which my soul doth truly yearn,—And when the innermost I gain,There hangs a cross which lights the wayTo Palace-portals where I fainWould be this moment, and for aye.

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