TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Footnotes have been placed at the end of their respective poem.

IN THE MORNING.

IN THE MORNING.

BY

WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

Den Abend lang währet das Weinen,

Aber des Morgens die Freude.

Luther’s Version.

Hear what the Morning says, and believe that.

Emerson.

NEW YORK:

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND CO.
38 West Twenty-Third Street.

1890.

Copyright, 1890,
By Willis Boyd Allen.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.

To my Mother.

CONTENTS.

AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE.

Two sorrie Thynges there be,—

Ay, three:

A Neste from which ye Fledglings have been taken,

A Lamb forsaken,

A Petal from ye Wilde Rose rudely shaken.

Of gladde Thynges there be more,—

Ay, four:

A Larke above ye olde Neste blithely singing,

A Wilde Rose clinging

In safety to ye Rock, a Shepherde bringing

A Lamb, found, in his arms,—and Chrystemesse

Bells a-ringing.

IN THE MORNING.

VITA NUOVA.

A desert, treeless, boundless,

The low sun round and red,

Air stifling, moveless, soundless—

And I alone with my dead.

Her head lay on my shoulder,

The crimson light ebbed fast;

Her face grew paler, colder—

The face of my own dead Past.

Then darkness, black and frightful,

Dropped from the eastern sky,

With never a star, but a night-full

Of horrors creeping by.

I saw how fiercely glistened

Their mad eyes, two by two,—

They screamed, and as I listened

They laughed like a demon crew.

See how that huge hyena

Grows bolder than the rest—

Slinks—snarls—in the arena,

For the corpse upon my breast!

I laughed like the brutes around me,

I snarled on my stony bed,

I severed the ties that bound me

And gnashed upon the dead.

The tawny-sided creatures,

Red claw and dripping fang,

The hideous, grinning features,

The awful mirth that rang,—

All vanished. Starless, boundless,

The night stretched o’er my head.

In the gray dawn, soulless, soundless,

I sat alone with my dead.

Then rustling forms drew nearer.

By the faint approaching day

The frightful things grew clearer,—

Great, unclean birds of prey

And carrion beasts, that waited

Until, on the booty rare,

Their hunger foul should be sated

With my poor Past, lying there.

Oh, I, too, sullen-hearted,

No word of anguish said;

Till bird and beast departed

I waited—dumb—by the dead.

The white east flickered with fire,

A lark flew singing by,

The glad light mounted higher,

Up-spread o’er all the sky.

My burden, fair and human,

Still rested on my hands,

When lo! a gracious Woman,

Swift walking o’er the sands,

Until she stood before me,

Breathed words of hope and cheer;

Her radiant eyes were o’er me,

Her presence warm and near,

And at her voice—oh, wonder!—

The dead herself awoke;

The birds no longer shunned her,

She smiled, and moved, and spoke,

Then, “Future” named, to guide me

She softly sprang away;

The Woman stayed beside me—

Sun rose—it was full day.

NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND.

A poet sat in his oaken chair,

The pen in his eager hand,

Awaiting the voice that should declare

His Lord’s divine command.

The sad winds sobbed against the pane,

The tempest’s tramp he heard

As it scourged the night with a hissing rain—

But the Poet wrote never a word.

Then came a burst of martial mirth,

And mighty cannon roared

Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth—

’Twas not the voice of the Lord.

In the Poet’s heart a memory rose

Of love’s first passionate thrill

That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows—

But the pen was idle, still;

When lo, a timid voice at the door,

And a child, with sweet delight,

Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er—

The poem was written that night.

DIAPASON.

On the crags of a far-off mountain-top

At earliest dawn a snowflake fell;

The North Wind stooped and cried to her, “Stop!

There is room in my icy halls to dwell!”

The snowflake gleamed like a crystal clear,

Then wept herself to a single tear,

Paused, trembled, and slowly began to glide

Adown the slopes of the mountain-side.

Desolate ledges, frost-riven and bare,

A tiny rivulet bore on their breast;

Cloud-gray mosses and lichens fair

Mutely besought her to slumber and rest.

The rivulet shone in the morning sun,

And touching them tenderly, one by one,

With dewy lips, like the mountain mist,

Each waiting face as she passed she kissed.

Among the shadows of pine and fir

A stream danced merrily on her way;

A thrush from his hermitage sang to her:

“Why dost thou haste? Sweet messenger, stay!”

The noontide shadows were cool and deep,

The pathway stony, the hillside steep,

The bird still chanted with all his art—

But the stream ran on, with his song in her heart.

Through broadening meadow and corn-land bright,

Past smoke-palled city and flowery lea,

A river rolled on, in the fading light,

Majestic, serene, as she neared the sea.

The sins and uncleanness of many she bore

To the outstretched arms of the waiting shore,

Till moonlight followed the sunset glow

And her crimson waves were as white as snow.

On the lonely ledges of Appledore

I listen again to the ocean’s song,

And lo! in its music I hear once more

The North Wind’s clarion, loud and long.

In that solemn refrain that never shall end

The murmurs of swaying fir-trees blend,

The brooklet’s merry ripple and rush,

The evening hymn of the hermit thrush,

The undertone of the mountain pine,—

The deep sweet voice of a love divine.

CHAMOUNIX.

Within Thy holy temple have I strayed

E’en as a weary child, who from the heat

And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought

In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy aisle,

And trembling, awestruck, croucheth in his rags

Where high upreared a mighty pillar stands.

Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence

Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth

Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head;

Deep rolls the organ peal of thunder down

The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float

Around the great white altar set on high.

So lift my heart, O God, and purify

My thought, that when I walk once more

Amid the busy, anxious, struggling throng,

One cup of water from these springs of life,

One ray of sunlight from these golden days,

One jewel from the mountain’s spotless brow,

As tokens of Thy beauty, I may bear

To little ones who toil, and long for rest.

IN THE MORNING.

’Twas morn,

And day was born.

Bright in the west the stars still burned,

But ever, as the great earth turned,

The eastern mountain-tops grew dark

Against the rosy heaven—and hark!

A single note from flute-toned thrush

Drops downward through the twilight hush;

Half praise, half prayer, I heard the song:

“Oh, sweet, sweet,

Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

The sun

Touched one by one

The firs along the distant crest,—

A silent host, with lance at rest;

Flashed all the world with jewels rare,

Quivered with joy the maiden-hair

Beside the brook that downward sprang

And rippling o’er its mosses, sang

With silvery laugh the same glad song:

“Oh, sweet, sweet,

Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

When lo!

Swift, to and fro,

A sombre shadow crossed its path,

Deep thunders rolled in awful wrath,

The thrush beneath the fir-trees crept,

The maiden-hair bowed low and wept;

The heavens were black, the earth was gray

The hills all blanched in the spectral day,—

The night-wind rose, and wailed this song:

“Oh, long, long,

Oh, joy is fleeting, life so long!”

Behold,

A shaft of gold

Shot through the wrack of cloud and storm,

The heart of heaven beat quick and warm;

From bird and stream, with myriad tongue,

The glad day carolled, laughed, and sung.

’Twas morning still! Her tear-drops bright

The maiden-hair raised to the light;

I heard, half prayer, half praise, the song:

“Oh, sweet, sweet,

Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

MARIGOLD.

Marigold, marigold, wi’ thy wee cup o’ gold,

What is it mak’s thee sae bonnie an’ gay?

Sunshine has drappit, an’ filled up my cup o’ gold

Fu’ to the brim wi’ the licht o’ the day.

Marigold, marigold, surely ye canna hold

A’ the sweet sunshine ’at draps frae the sky!

Nay, I’ve a muckle o’ licht ’at I winna hold,

Saved up for you an’ for ithers to try.

Marigold, marigold, stan’in’ there a’ sae bold,

What’s in thy een, ’at mak’s ’em sae bright?

I keep ’em wide open, stan’in’ here a’ sae bold,

Luikin’ at heaven frae mornin’ to nicht.

Marigold, marigold, bairnie wi’ cup o’ gold,

What’s i’ thy hert, ’at mak’s thee sae strang?

Trust i’ the One ’at gave me my cup o’ gold

Lattin’ Him love me, a’ the day lang.

“SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!”

Eighteen years ago the sunshine

Laughed to find a baby face;

Laughed to see the blue eyes sober,

In that golden, glad October,

Softly kissed the wisps of hair,

Softly kissed, and lingered there,

Like an answer to a prayer,

Like a whispered benediction,

Token bright of heavenly grace.

Standing on life’s sunlit threshold,

Gazing forth with eyes of blue

On the great round world before her,

On the kind skies brooding o’er her,—

From the baby hair the light

Never has departed quite;

Still it lingers, pure and bright.

Yes, the little maid is waiting,

With a purpose grand and true;

Waiting for whate’er the Father

Calls His child to do and bear;

Waiting, as a thirsty flower

Waits the morning dew and shower.

Summers come and summers go,

Sparrows flutter to and fro,

Autumn breezes murmur low;

“Seventeen, eighteen, Maidie’s waiting,

With the sunshine in her hair!”

TO M——, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

WITH A CHESS-BOARD.

Your turn to move again, dear,

I’ the gude auld game ca’d Life;

It’s a warstle o’ joy an’ pain, dear,

A mixin’ o’ lauchter an’ strife.

An’ I fain wad be yer knight, dear,

To serve ye the livelong day;

Ready in armor to fight, dear,

To live or to dee, as ye say.

Near at han’ i’ the gloamin’ I’d bide, dear,

I’ saddle at gray o’ dawn—

Na, na, I’m no worthy to ride, dear,

Lat me be the White Queen’s pawn!

“YOURS TRULY.”

“Yours truly,” she signs the note; ah, me!

How little she dreams what that would be

To him who, trembling, reads the line,—

What if, indeed, she were truly mine!

What visions those two dear words can bring

To the lonely heart that is hungering

For a single touch of her dainty hand,

One swift, shy glance he could understand,

And know that the formal greeting sent

But half concealed what the writer meant,—

That she gave, throughout the eternities,

Her own sweet self, to be truly his!

There, there!—that fire, how it smokes—what, tears?

I’ll answer her letter—

“Dear Friend, I’ve fears

Your kind invitation I can’t accept; still

I’ll come if it’s possible.

Yours truly, Will.”

A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER.

The morning of Sabbath; a city at rest,

But waking serenely and donning its best,

For the warm March sun already is high.

Above, the arch of a white-blue sky;

Brown earth, with a touch of green, below;

Elm-boughs, uptost with a lift superb;

The melting ice and grimy snow

Playing meadow from curb to curb,

With small mud-rills in place of brooks,

And a sewer for sea!

Ah, hold, my friend,

I grant how childish-foolish it looks,

But perhaps they’ve faith for the very end,—

For streams and sewers, greatest and least,

Find ocean at last, in the misty East.

The good people all are off to the churches,

While I, left here in the idlest of lurches,

Must seek a preacher to preach me a sermon,

Ordained with open-air dews of Hermon;

A discourse conservative, grave, edifying,

And—come, sir, no laughing! I really am trying

To find, if I can, the road steep and narrow;

Ah, here he comes, flying, a straw in his bill!

I’ll beg him take pulpit; now hear, if you will,

A sermon preached by a sparrow.

“My text”—hear the bird!—“I take

From the street,”—that’s better,—“and make

Application as follows:

Down there where my comrades are basking,

There’s food to be had for the asking,—

Understand me,—no shirking,

Our asking means working,—

Each swallows

The meal that’s laid on his plate,

Content with enough. There’s my mate,

Her feathers a-fluff in the sun.

That brownest, prettiest one—

Your pardon! I ought to be preaching.

This, sir, is the gist of my teaching:

We sparrows take things as they come,

From four A. M. until six,

We work (using straw without bricks);

We stop now and then for a crumb

Thrown down by a child; full of cheer,

We twitter throughout the whole year,

Investing in no loans of trouble

Where the borrower always pays double.”

But your text was the Street, my good bird.

This sounds like the Bible!—

“I’ve heard

That life was the same, sir, in each;

And, though you want me to preach,

You’ll find that men, fowls, and book,

If you look,

Are all connected together,—

In short, are birds of a feather;

And from a genuine sermon

You’ll learn, sir,—this I’m firm on,—

The same Hand guides and governs all

Which holds us sparrows when we fall.”

No more. Before I could even remind him

Of lack of an adequate exhortation,

Proper pauses, and peroration,

He was off, his straw streaming far behind him.

His advice—well, certainly not very new,

Yet perhaps worth trying, I think—don’t you?

IN SOMNO VERITAS.

I dreamed that I sat in my chamber

And watched the dancing light

Of the blaze upon my hearthstone,

And the red brands, glowing bright.

I listened to the rustle

Of the flames that rose and fell,

And I dreamed I heard a whisper,

A voice I knew full well.

The room no more was lonely,

A Presence sweet was there,

A girlish figure, standing,

Beside my own arm-chair.

I dreamed I spoke, and trembling

Lest she should prove to be

The creature of a vision,

I bade her sit by me.

Her grave brown eyes she lifted,

Her dear hand placed in mine,—

The air was sweet with incense

Of odorous birch and pine,—

And as we watched together

Those eager, dancing flames,

We talked of days forgotten,

And spoke our childish names.

I dreamed that heaven seemed nearer,

The skies a lovelier blue,

Then—was it still a vision?—

I dreamed my dream came true!

THALATTA.

Far over the billows unresting forever

She flits, my white bird of the sea,

Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never

A wing-beat nearer to me.

With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her

She timidly gazes below;

Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover,

And little recks she of his woe.

One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters,

One white plume floats downward to me;

Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters—

Night—darkness—alone with the sea.

UNKNOWN.

There’s a star a-light in the gloaming,

A gleam in the skies above;

There’s a flower at rest on her bosom,—

On the heart of her I love.

What says the star of the twilight?

What is the song of the flower?

A cloud has covered the star-beam;

The blossom lived but an hour.

Nay, ’tis the infinite heaven,

The depth beyond, that speak;

’Tis the heart that throbs ’neath the blossom,

Not the lip nor the fair white cheek.

The voice of the heavens is tender,

Its whisper is fond and low;

But the voice of the heart that is throbbing—

Its message I cannot know.

MY CROSS.

Only a tiny cross;

She plucked it from a mountain fir,

And wreathing it in soft, gray moss,

Gave it in memory of her,—

Yet—’tis a cross!

Only a soft, gray cross;

But, half-concealed, full many a thorn

Lay waiting there, beneath the moss,

To pierce the bosom where ’tis worn,

This wee, sweet cross.

Only a thorny cross,

Unconscious of the pain it gives;

Lifeless the fir, faded the moss,

Yet, while the hand that plucked them lives,

It is my cross.

A VALENTINE.

If but the furry catkin small

Could speak with gentle voice

And bid the sad, Rejoice!

A pussy-willow should be all

My valentine.

If but the golden daffodil,

With many a cheerful word,

Could tell what it hath heard

By meadow, wood, or murmuring rill,

It should be mine.

If but the valley-lilies pure

Could whisper in thine ear

A message thou wouldst hear,

Of One whose promises are sure,

Whose love divine,

Such flowers my valentine should be.

Yet sought I none of those,—

Only one crimson rose

To bear its Maker’s heart to thee,—

Lo, it is thine!

WHITE PINK.

The maiden left a timid kiss

Upon the mossy stone;

Her lover true, the maiden knew,

Would seek and find his own.

The lover never came again,

Nor guessed the woe he wrought;

Day after day neglected lay

The maiden’s kiss, unsought.

At length, upspringing from the moss

Through kindly sun and shower,

Its petals fair unfolded there

This gentle, snow-white flower.

APRILLE.

Aprille, alacke!

With sunnie laugh her snow-white cloke flung backe,

And gailie cast aside;

Then cryed,

With little wilfulle gustes of raine,

Because she could not have her cloke againe.

MAY.

Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass

Heaven like dew on the waking earth lies:

Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets;

Best of it all I find in your eyes.

AUGUST.

August, the month of virgins, is at hand.

Shrill-voiced, the locust pipes a-field;

With flash of burnished shield

Hovers the dragon-fly athwart the stream;

Like sea-bird slumbering in mid-day dream

Floats one white cloud above the drowsy land.

August, the month of virgins, is at hand.

Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy,—

Scarce heeds the softly murmurous tide,

Fair sky, nor aught beside;

Gazing afar, half troubled, half content,

Awaits with folded hands a message sent

Across the gleaming, restless, longing sea,—

Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy.

CARLO’S CHRISTMAS.

May I come to your side, dear Mistress?

I am only a dog, you see,

And the Christmas joy and gladness

Perhaps are not meant for me.

Yet I think the Master would let me,

If I only begged to eat

The crumbs that fell from His table,

And to lie at His blessèd feet.

I have heard the wonderful story

Of the sleeping flocks by night,

Of Bethlehem and the angels

And the one Star, shining bright;

And I’ve longed, when I heard the story,

A shepherd-dog to be,

For then it might seem that Christmas

Was partly meant for me.

But I only look up at the Master

With a life that is veiled and dumb,

Content to share with the sparrow

His love, and the falling crumb.

May I lie at your feet, dear Mistress?

I am only a dog, you see,

But if I may serve you and love you,

Why, that is Christmas for me!

THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW.

In her palace porch a Princess—

The sun was red and low—

At her feet a subject kneeling—

Sweet, far-off bells were pealing—

He rose and turned to go.

“I give you my love!” quoth the Princess

To the subject, bending low.

Ah, Goldenhair, what hast thou given!—

The sun is round and red—

As thou standest there in the portal,

A Princess’ love, to a mortal!—

The bells toll for the dead—

A kiss from the lips of the Princess,

But never a word she said.

Still radiant stood the Princess—

The bells no longer tolled—

At her feet the subject kneeling—

The far-off chimes were pealing

Their sweet notes as of old—

“I give you my love!” quoth the Princess;

And the sun was a crown of gold.

TWO VISIONS.

A vision of Morn,—the dew’s on the grass,

The ocean’s aflame, and a sweet fisher-lass

On its bosom’s unrest is afloat;

The sunlight is fair on her shy, upturned face,

As she dips the bright oars with the daintiest grace,

And the prow of her snowy-white boat

Its way urges softly through each foaming crest,

Like sea-bird, wings fluttering, closing to rest;

In her eyes shines the light of the glad day, new-born,—

The pure, gentle Spirit of Morn.

A Vision of Night,—the silvery stars

Alight in the East, ere its golden bars

Have imprisoned the slumberous sun;

The sea hoarsely breathing, the wind all astir,

The sparrow crouched low in the boughs of the fir,

But she, the Beautiful One,

Is awake, oh, awake, with her glorious eyes

Star-lighted and deep as the shadowy skies,

O’er the mist of her draperies, fleecy and white,

The radiant Spirit of Night.

MY CREED.

What is my creed, you ask, dear?

I look in your grave brown eyes

And believe—in your womanly sweetness,

Your purity, clear as the skies.

I’ve faith—in your true, brave heart, dear,

Your life, with its joys and tears;

And far beyond storm-mist and sunshine,

Beyond weary days and long years,

I hope—in a Love that is waiting

With infinite tenderness there

To comfort us both, you and me, dear,

For the burden He gives us to bear.

AGAIN?

Side by side, from their misty home,

Fell two bright drops of rain;

The storm-wind hurled them far apart,

Never to meet again.

Hand in hand stood two dear friends,

Hearts wrung with sudden pain;

The storm-wind hurled them far apart,—

Never to meet again?

PANSY.

Little flower with golden heart,

Strange, sweet mystery thou art.

Who can tell the thoughts that lie

In the depths of thy dark eye!

Dost thou dream of other lands,

Waving palm-groves, burning sands,

Days of languor, twilights tender,

Glorious nights of Orient splendor?

Shy, sweet type of lovers’ bliss,

Art thou an immortal kiss

By some fair sultana breathed,

To all faithful love bequeathed

By the tiny-sandalled bride,

Velvet-lipped, and starry-eyed?

GOLDEN-ROD.

O’er the dusty roadside bending

With its wondrous weight of gold,

Can it be the rod enchanted

Midas used in days of old?

Hush! perchance it is a princess

In the sunlight nodding there,

Spell-bound by the wicked fairy,—

Sleepy little Golden-Hair!

Nay, it is Belshazzar’s banquet,

Where the drowsy monarch sups

With his swarm of courtiers, drinking

From the sacred, golden cups.

See, I pluck his tiny kingdom—

Long ago it was decreed—

And divide it, dear, between us,

You the Persian, I the Mede.

TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.

WITH A ROSE.

Margaret, pearl of dainty pearls,

Fairest of dimpled daisies,

My rose its velvet sail unfurls

To bear thee love and praises.

It drifts from port, no longer mine—

Bring back, wee boat, my Valentine!

TO A VERY SMALL PINE.

What song is in thy heart,

Thou puny tree?

Weak pinelet that thou art,—

Trembling at every shock,

Thy feebleness doth mock

Thy high degree.

When rage o’er sea and land

The tempests wild,

How canst thou e’er withstand

Their might, or baffle them

With that frail, quivering stem,

Poor forest child?

Nay, wherefore scoff at thy

Dimensions small?

For, folded close, I spy

A tiny bud, scarce seen

Within its cradle green;

And after all,

In ages yet to come

Thy stately form,

No longer dwarfed and dumb,

But chanting to the breeze

Sublime, sweet melodies,

Shall breast the storm!

Beneath thine outstretched arms

Shall children rest;

While, safe from all alarms,

Within thy shadows deep

Wild birds their tryst shall keep

And weave their nest.

May such a lot be his

Who tends thee now!

With heavenly harmonies

Serene amid his foes,

Outstretching as he grows

In root and bough.

MOSSES.

Children of lowly birth,

Pitifully weak;

Humblest creatures of the wood,

To your peaceful brotherhood

Sweet the promise that was given

Like the dew from heaven:

“Blessed are the meek,

They shall inherit the earth.”

Thus are the words fulfilled:

Over all the earth

Mosses find a home secure.

On the desolate mountain crest,

Avalanche-ploughed and tempest-tilled,

The quiet mosses rest;

On shadowy banks of streamlets pure,

Kissed by the cataract’s shifting spray,

For the bird’s small foot a soft highway;

For the weary and sore distressed

In hopeless quest

Of a fabulous golden fleece,

Little sermons of peace.

Blessed children of lowly birth—

Thus they inherit the earth.

THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.

Down the rocky slopes and passes

Of the everlasting hills

Murmur low the crystal waters

Of a thousand tiny rills;

Bearing from a lofty glacier

To the valley, far below,

Health and strength for every creature,—

’Tis for them “He giveth snow.”

On thy streamlet’s brink the wild deer

Prints with timid foot the moss;

To thy side the sparrow nestles,—

Mountain of the Holy Cross!

Pure and white amid the heavens

God hath set His glorious sign:

Symbol of a world’s deliverance,

Promise of a life divine.

CHRISTMAS SNOW.

What so merry as snow?

Gleefully robing the grave old town

In garb fantastic of ermine and down;

Whispering at the window pane,

Then spreading its wee, white wings again

Till, alighting at last with noiseless feet,

On tiptoe in the muffled street

It dances to and fro.

What so pure as snow?

Flakes like the thoughts of a little child,

Undefiling and undefiled;

Wonderful, starry mysteries

Falling softly out of the skies,

Decking with white the bare, brown earth

In memory of the holy birth

At Bethlehem, long ago.

THE “CREATION.”

Winter is past. The changing, softened sky,

The robin’s cheery note, the sea-bird’s cry,

The willow pussies peeping from their nest;

The modest sparrow, with his dappled breast,

Flitting beneath the lilacs by the wall;

The budding tree, the tender grass, with all

Its tiny hands uplifted to the sun,

Who reaches down and clasps them, one by one;

The mayflower sleeping on her snowy bed,

And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!”

Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully

As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!”

The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath,

And leaping swiftly down its rocky path,

Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool,

Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool;

The floating clouds, the fragrant earth, the sea,

With its low whispers of eternity,—

All join in one grand harmony of praise

To Him, Creator, Lord, Ancient of Days.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

Far away there sleeps a valley,

Cradled by the mighty hills,

Lulled to rest by sweetest music,—

Whispering winds and laughing rills.

Naught it knows of stormy passion,

Pestilence, or war’s alarms;

O’er it graze the peaceful cloud-flocks,

And the everlasting arms

Of the mountains, underneath it,

Fold it closely to their breast,

While at nightfall, on its bosom,

Golden moonbeams softly rest.

Seasons come and seasons go,—

Summer heats and winter’s snow,

Spring’s surprises, autumn’s peace,

Indian-summer’s golden fleece,

Purple-bordered, crimson-clasped,

By a hand already grasped

That hath costlier treasures brought

Than the wandering Argonaut.

A solemn hush is in the air.

Happy voices die away;

Dark-robed fir-trees murmur, Pray!—

Pray for Summer, young and fair.

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Dead! the weeping autumn wind

Shrouded her in fallen leaves;

Dead! amid her golden sheaves,—

Pray—ye that are left behind!

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Pray ye, pray! for Summer lies

Dead, upon the icy ground;

Heap for her a snow-white mound,

While the winter wind replies:

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Sweetly, through the low, sad murmur

Of the fir-trees’ requiem,

Flows a song of hope and gladness,

Strong, triumphant over them.

Summer is not dead, but sleepeth!

Soon the maiden shall arise,

And the world again be gladdened

With the sunshine of her eyes.

Then the valley, too, shall waken

From the pale trance of her night;

Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead,

Radiant in the morning light.

Years may come and go, but ever

Shall the valley rest among

Mountain mists and golden moonbeams;

While the hills, with myriad tongue,

Lullabys shall croon above it,

Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime,

Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander,

Storms chant harmonies sublime.

And for those who love the valley

Peace and rest are waiting there,

With the seasons onward moving,

Each more gladsome, each more fair.

DOLLIE’S SPRING.

Deep within a mountain forest

Breezes soft are whispering

Through the dark-robed firs and hemlocks,

Over Dollie’s Spring.

Swiftly glides the tiny streamlet,

While its laughing waters sing

Sweetest song in all the woodland,

“I—am—Dollie’s—Spring!”

In the dim wood’s noontide shadow

Nod the ferns, and glistening

With a thousand diamond dew-drops,

Bend o’er Dollie’s Spring.

Shyly on its mossy border

Blue-eyed Dollie, lingering,

Views the sweet face in the crystal

Depths of Dollie’s Spring.

Years shall come and go, and surely

To the little maiden bring

Trials sore and joys uncounted,

While, by Dollie’s Spring,

Still the firs shall lift their crosses

Heavenward, softly murmuring

Prayers for her, where’er she wander,—

Far from Dollie’s Spring.

THE THIRD DAY.

LINES SENT WITH A FOSSIL FROND.

Many thousand years ago

God looked down and bade me grow;

Why it was, I never knew—

Now I see it was for you!

THE SEVENTH DAY.

SENT WITH A CLUSTER OF MAIDEN-HAIR FERNS.

Doubtless you are much surprised

That we are not fossilized,

Geologic, or antique,—

Only little ferns and meek.

Yet we grew at His command,

Touched by that same loving Hand

Which the day from night divided,

Planets on their courses guided,

Set on high the firmament,

Alps from Alps asunder rent,

All the earth with life invested;

And He made us while He—“rested.”

FERN LIFE.

I. Its Home.

Within a shadowy ravine

Far hidden from the sun,

A fern its wee, soft fronds of green

Unfolded, one by one.

From morn till eve no twittering flock

Nor insect hovered nigh:

Its cradle was the lichened rock,

The storm its lullaby.

By night above the dark abyss

The stars their vigils kept,

And white-winged mists stooped low to kiss

The baby, while it slept.

II. At School.

Weeks passed away; the tiny fern

Frond after frond unfurled,

And waited patiently to learn

Its mission in the world.

By fir-trees draped in mosses gray

The willing fern was taught,

And once each day a single ray

Its sunny greeting brought.

III. Asleep.

Her cradle songs the North Wind sung

And whispered far and wide,

Until a thousand harebells swung

Along the mountain side.

She sung of far-off twilight land,

Moss-muffled forests dim,

And, to her mountain organ grand,

The aged pine-trees’ hymn.

IV. A Cradle-Song of the Night Wind.

The pines have gathered upon the hill

To watch for the old-new moon;

I hear their murmuring—“Hush, be still!

’Tis coming—coming soon!”

The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife

Who broods below on her nest:

“Of all the world and of all my life

’Tis you I love the best!”

But the baby moon is wide awake,

And its eyes are shining bright;

The pines in their arms this moon must take

And rock him to sleep to-night.

V. The Chime.

Softly swinging to and fro,

Harebells tinkle, sweet and low!

All the world is fast asleep,

Birds and folks and woolly sheep;

Far above us towers the mountain;

Far below, an unseen fountain

From its rocky cradle deep,