Pray
whativer
wor ta doin'?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v28 - Songs, Hymns, Lyrics
Upon the vine,
Rich clinging clusters of the ripening grape
Hang silent in the sun,
But in each one
Beats with full throb the quickening purple wine,
Whose pulse shall round the perfect fruit to shape.
Too dreamy even to dream,
I hear the murmuring bee and gliding stream;
The singing silence of the afternoon,
Lulling my yielding senses till they swoon
Into still deeper rest:
While soul released from sense,
Passionate and intense,
With quick exultant quiver in its wings,
Prophetic longing for diviner things,
Escapes the unthinking breast;
## p. 16510 (#210) ##########################################
16510
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist,
But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed
By burning stars; delirious foretaste
Of joys the soul — too eager in its haste
To grasp ere won by the diviner right
Of birth through death — is far too weak to bear.
Bathed in earth's lesser light,
Slipping down slowly through the shining air,
Once more it steals into the dreaming breast,
Praying again to be its patient guest.
And as my senses wake,
The beautiful glad soul again to take,
The twilight falls.
A lonely wood-thrush calls
The day away.
«Where hast thou been to-day,
O soul of mine ? » I wondering question her.
She will not answer while the light winds stir
And rustle near to hear what she may say.
Thou needst not linger, day!
My soul and I
Would hold high converse of diviner things.
Unfold thy wings;
Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze,
And gliding down the slowly darkening ways,
Vanish away!
ALICE WELLINGTON Rollins.
INDIAN SUMMER
T"
HESE are the days when birds come back,-
A very few, a bird or two, -
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue-and-gold mistake.
Oh! fraud that almost cheats the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief;
## p. 16511 (#211) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16511
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days!
Oh, last communion in the haze!
Permit a child to join -
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine.
EMILY DICKINSON,
NOVEMBER IN THE SOUTH
THIS
his livelong day I listen to the fall
Of hickory-nuts and acorns to the ground,
The croak of rain-crows and the blue-jay's call,
The woodman's axe that hews with muffled sound.
.
And like a spendthrift in a threadbare coat
That still retains a dash of crimson hue,
An old woodpecker chatters forth a note
About the better summer days he knew.
Across the road a ruined cabin stands,
With ragweeds and with thistles at its door,
While withered cypress-vines hang tattered strands
About its falling roof and rotting floor.
In yonder forest nook no sound is heard,
Save when the walnuts patter on the earth,
Or when by winds the hectic leaves are stirred
To dance like witches in their maniac mirth.
Down in the orchard hang the golden pears,
Half honeycombed by yellowhammer beaks ;
Near by, a dwarfed and twisted apple bears
Its fruit, brown-red as Amazonian cheeks.
The lonesome landscape seems as if it yearned
Like our own aching hearts, when first we knew
The one love of our life was not returned,
Or first we found an old-time friend untrue.
## p. 16512 (#212) ##########################################
16512
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
At last the night comes, and the broad white moon
Is welcomed by the owl with frenzied glee;
The fat opossum, like a satyr, soon
Blinks at its light from yon persimmon-tree.
The raccoon starts to hear long-dreaded sounds
Amid his scattered spoils of ripened corn,
The cry of negroes and the yelp of hounds,
The wild rude pealing of a hunter's horn.
At last a gray mist covers all the land
Until we seem to wander in a cloud,
Far, far away upon some elfin strand
Where sorrow drapes us in a mildewed shroud.
No voice is heard in field or forest nigh
To break the desolation of the spell,
Save one sad mocking-bird in boughs near by,
Who sings like Tasso in his madman's cell;
While one magnolia blossom, ghostly white,
Like high-born Leonora, lingering there,
Haughty and splendid in the lonesome night,
Is pale with passion in her dumb despair.
WALTER MALONE.
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
'T
WAS the night before Christmas, when all through the
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse: [house
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,–
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;
## p. 16513 (#213) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16513
When what to my wondering eyes should api ear
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
«Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all! »
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had fung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump,- a right jolly old elf, -
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spake not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night! ”
CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE.
XXVIII-1033
## p. 16514 (#214) ##########################################
16514
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE FROST
THE
HE Frost looked forth, one still, clear night,
And he said, “Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy. as they! ”
Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed
With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could reach its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over the pane like a fairy crept:
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,
There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these
All pictured in silver sheen!
(
But he did one thing that was hardly fair:
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,-
“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit,” said he;
« This costly pitcher I'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall (tchick! ) to tell them I'm drinking. ”
HANNAH FRANCES GOULD.
## p. 16515 (#215) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16515
1
THE ROOT'S DREAM
F
ROM the dark earth cool and fragrant,
A gnarled unlovely root
Sent forth in the rippling sunshine
A slender gold-green shoot.
The shoot in the languid breezes
Was soon by a pale bloom bent;
A sense of its frail white beauty
The sun to the black root sent.
1
The root was thrilled by a vision,
A vision of peace supreme ;-
The fragile star of a blossom
Was the black root's dainty dream.
1
R. K. MUNKITTRICK.
#
WILD HONEY
3
W***
HERE hints of racy sap and gum
Out of the old dark forest come;
Where birds their beaks like hammers wield,
And pith is pierced, and bark is peeled;
Where the green walnut's outer rind
Gives precious bitterness to the wind;-
There lurks the sweet creative power,
As lurks the honey in the flower.
In winter's bud that bursts in spring,
In nut of autumn's ripening,
In acrid bulb beneath the mold,
Sleeps the elixir, strong and old,
E
That Rosicrucians sought in vain,-
Life that renews itself again!
What bottled perfume is so good
As fragrance of split tulip-wood ?
What fabled drink of god or Muse
Was rich as purple mulberry-juice ?
## p. 16516 (#216) ##########################################
16516
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And what school-polished gem of thought
Is like the rune from Nature caught ?
He is a poet strong and true
Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew;
And like a brown bee works and sings
With morning freshness on his wings,
And a gold burden on his thighs, -
The pollen-dust of centuries!
MAURICE THOMPSON.
THE WAKING OF THE LARK
O
BONNIE bird that in the brake, exultant, does prepare thee -
As poets do whose thoughts are true — for wings that will
upbear thee,
Oh, tell me, tell me, bonnie bird,
Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred ?
Or canst thou sing of naught but spring among the golden meadows?
Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his song to sorrow;
And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the morrow:
But thou art not a prophet, thou,
If naught but joy can touch thee now;
If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish.
Oh, I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, though poor and slighted,
The songs we love are those we hear when love is unrequited.
But thou art still the slave of dawn,
And canst not sing till night be gone,
Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine and quiver.
Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splendor,
And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that should attend her:
The moon, so sad and silver pale,
Is mistress of the nightingale;
And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the darkness.
For queen and king thou wilt not spare one note of thine outpouring;
And thou'rt as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet flooring :
The daisy, with its hood undone,
The grass, the sunlight, and the sun
These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee for thy singing.
## p. 16517 (#217) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16517
Oh, hush! Oh, hush! how wild a gush of rapture in the distance -
A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's assistance;
A sound that wells from happy throats,
A flood of song where beauty foats,
And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem to cross a river.
This is the advent of the lark,– the priest in gray apparel, -
Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless summer carol;
This is the prelude to the lay
The birds did sing in Cæsar's day,
And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's creation.
O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love elated,
Oh, sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be consecrated;
Till from the gateways of the morn,
The sun, with all his light unshorn,
His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the lofty heavens!
ERIC MACKAY.
TO THE LARK
(T'R EHEDYDD)
S
ENTINEL of the morning light!
Reveler of the spring!
How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,
Thy boundless journeying:
Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone,
A hermit chorister before God's throne !
Oh! wilt thou climb yon heavens for me,
Yon rampart's starry height,
Thou interlude of melody
'Twixt darkness and the light,
And seek with heaven's first dawn upon thy crest.
My lady-love, the moonbeam of the west ?
No woodland caroler art thou;
Far from the archer's eye,
Thy course is o'er the mountain's brow,
Thy music in the sky:
Then fearless float thy path of cloud along,
Thou earthly denizen of angel song.
DAFYDD AP GWILYM.
(Welsh, Fourteenth Century. )
## p. 16518 (#218) ##########################################
16518
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
MEADOW-LARKS
S)
WEET, sweet, sweet! Oh happy that I am!
(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing ! )
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm,
O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the
spring!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue,
That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain's
crest!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?
The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain ?
Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!
Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain,
The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!
Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oworld so full of bliss, –
For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
INA D. COOLBRITH.
MORNING SONG
T"
He lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings:
He takes this window for the east;
And to implore your light, he sings.
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The plowman from the sun his season takes,
But still the lover wonders what they are
Who look for day before his mistress wakes. ·
Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn,
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.
## p. 16519 (#219) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16519
THE O’LINCON FAMILY
A
FLOCK of merry singing-birds was sporting in the grove;
Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love:
There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle,-
A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle, -
Crying, Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bobolincon,
Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups!
I know the saucy chap, I see his shining cap
Bobbing in the clover there,- see, see, see! ”
Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree,
Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery;
Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curvetting in the air,
And merrily he turns about, and warns him to beware!
« 'Tis you that would a-wooing go, down among the rushes O!
But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,— wait a week, and ere you
marry,
Be sure of a house wherein to tarry!
Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait! »
Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow:
Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow!
Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly;
They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle, and
wheel about,-
With a
Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!
Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing,
That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover!
Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow me! »
Oh what a happy life they lead, over the hill and in the mead!
Now they gambol o'er the clearing - off again, and then appearing;
How they sing, and how they play! see, they fly away, away!
Poised aloft on quivering wing, now they soar, and now they sing:
“We inust all be merry and moving; we must all be happy and
loving;
For when the midsummer has come, and the grain has ripened its
ear,
The haymakers scatter our young, and we mourn for the rest of the
year.
Then, Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, haste, haste away! )
WILSON FLAGG.
## p. 16520 (#220) ##########################################
16520
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
TO THE WOOD-ROBIN
THE
He wooing air is jubilant with song,
And blossoms swell
As leaps thy liquid melody along
The dusky dell,
Where Silence, late supreme, foregoes her wonted spell.
Ah, whence, in sylvan solitudes remote,
Hast learned the lore
That breeds delight in every echoing note
The woodlands o'er;
As when, through slanting sun, descends the quickening
shower?
Thy hermitage is peopled with the dreams
That gladden sleep:
Here Fancy dallies with delirious themes
Mid shadows deep,
Till eyes unused to tears, with wild emotions weep.
We rise, alas, to find our visions fled!
But thine remain.
Night weaves of golden harmonies the thread,
And fills thy brain
With joys that overflow in Love's awakening strain.
Yet thou, from mortal influence apart,
Seek'st naught of praise;
The empty plaudits of the emptier heart
Taint not thy lays:
Thy Maker's smile alone thy tuneful bosom sways.
Teach me, thou warbling eremite, to sing
Thy rhapsody:
Nor borne on vain ambition's vaunting wing,
But led of thee,
To rise from earthly dreams to hymn Eternity.
JOHN B. TABB.
## p. 16521 (#221) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16521
THE THRUSH'S SONG
(FROM THE GAELIC)
D
EAR, dear, dear,
In the rocky glen,
Far away, far away, far away,
The haunts of men:
There shall we dwell in love
With the lark and the dove,
Cuckoo and corn-rail;
Feast on the bearded snail,
Worm and gilded fly;
Drink of the crystal rill
Winding adown the hill
Never to dry.
With glee, with glee, with glee,
Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up here;
Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily,
Sing to the loved one whose nest is near.
Qui, qui, queen, quip,
Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi;
Too-tee, too-tee, chin-choo,
Chirri, chirri, chooce,
Quin, qui, qui!
W. MACGILLIVRAY.
THE SONG OF THE THRUSH
I
WAS on the margin of a plain,
Under a wide-spreading tree,
Hearing the song
Of the wild birds;
Listening to the language
Of the thrush cock,
Who from the wood of the valley
Composed a verse;
From the wood of the steep
He sang exquisitely.
Speckled was his breast
Amongst the green leaves,
As upon branches
Of a thousand blossoms
## p. 16522 (#222) ##########################################
16522
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
1
On the bank of a brook,
All heard
With the dawn the song,
Like a silver bell;
Performing a sacrifice
Until the hour of forenoon;
Upon the green altar
Ministering Bardism.
From the branches of the hazel
Of green broad leaves
He sings an ode
To God the Creator:
With a carol of love
From the green glade
To all in the hollow
Of the glen who love him;
Balm of the heart
To those who love.
I had from his beak
The voice of inspiration,
A song of metres
That gratified me;
Glad was I made
By his minstrelsy.
Then respectfully
Uttered I an address
From the stream of the valley
To the bird:
I requested urgently
His undertaking a message
To the fair one
Where dwells my affection.
Gone is the bard of the leaves
From the small twigs
To the second Lunet,
The sun of the maidens!
To the streams of the plain
St. Mary prosper him,
To bring to me,
Under the green woods
The hue of the snow of one night,
Without delay.
Rhys Goch AP RHICCART (Welsh).
## p. 16523 (#223) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16523
THE SERVICE OF SONG
SOM
OME keep the Sabbath going to church:
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister
And an orchard for a dome.
Some keep the Sabbath in surplice:
I just wear my wings;
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.
God preaches, a noted clergyman,
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I'm going all along !
EMILY DICKINSON.
EARLY SPRING
O
TREES, all a-throb and a-quiver
With the stirring pulse of the spring,
Your tops so misty against the blue,
With the buds where the green not yet looks through,
I know the beauty the days will bring,
But your cloudy tops are a wonderful thing!
Like the first faint streak of the dawning,
Which tells that the day is nigh;
Like the first dear kiss of the maiden,
So absolute, though so shy;
Like the joy divine of the mother
Before her child she sees —
So faint, so dear, and so blessed
Are your misty tops, 0 trees!
I can feel the delicate pulses
That stir in each restless fold
Of leaflets and bunches of blossoms
The life that never grows old:
Yet wait, ah wait, though they woo you —
The sun, the rain-drops, the breeze;
Break not too soon into verdure,
O misty, beautiful trees!
ANNA CALLENDER BRACKETT.
## p. 16524 (#224) ##########################################
16524
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
TO A DAISY
AM!
h! I'm feared thou's come too sooin,
Little daisy !
Pray whativer wor ta doin'?
Are ta crazy ?
Winter winds are blowin' yet:
Tha'll be starved, mi little pet!
Did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee,
An' deceive thee?
Niver let appearance charm thee:
Yes, believe me,
Smiles tha'lt find are oft but snares
Laid to catch thee unawares.
An' yet, I think it looks a shame
To talk such stuff;
I've lost heart, an' thou'lt do t' same,
Ay, sooin enough!
An', if thou’rt happy as tha art,
Trustin' must be twisest part.
Come! I'll pile some bits o' stoan
Round thi dwellin';
They may cheer thee when I've goan, -
Theer's no tellin':
An' when spring's mild day draws near,
I'll release thee, niver fear!
An' if then thi pretty face
Greets me smilin',
I may come an' sit by th' place,
Time beguilin';
Glad to think I'd paar to be
Of some use, if but to thee!
JOHN HARTLEY.
BACCHUS
ISTEN to the tawny thief,
Hid behind the waxen leaf,
Growling at his fairy host, -
Bidding her with angry boast
L
## p. 16525 (#225) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16525
Fill his cup with wine distilled
From the dew the dawn has spilled :
Stored away in golden casks
Is the precious draught he asks.
Who — who makes this mimic din
In this mimic meadow inn,
Sings in such a drowsy note,
Wears a golden-belted coat;
Loiters in the dainty room
Of this tavern of perfume;
Dares to linger at the cup
Till the yellow sun is up?
1
1
Bacchus 'tis, come back again
To the busy haunts of men;
Garlanded and gayly dressed,
Bands of gold about his breast;
Straying from his paradise,
Having pinions angel-wise. -
'Tis the honey-bee, who goes
Reveling within a rose!
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.
SPRING
From (Summer's Last Will and Testament)
S"
PRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king:
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing –
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.
The palm and may make country-houses gay;
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day;
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay -
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet;
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;
In every street these tunes our ears do greet -
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.
Spring, the sweet Spring.
THOMAS NASH.
## p. 16526 (#226) ##########################################
16526
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE APPLE-TREE
From Poems) by Julia C. R. Dorr. Copyright 1874, 1885, 1892, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
G
RACEFUL and lithe and tall,
It stands by the garden wall,
In the flush of its pink-white bloom
Elate with its own perfume,
Tossing its young bright head
In the first glad joy of May,
While its singing leaves sing back
To the bird on the dancing spray.
“I'm alive! I'm abloom ! » it cries
To the winds and the laughing skies.
Ho! for the gay young apple-tree
That stands by the garden wall!
Sturdy and broad and tall,
Over the garden wall
It spreads its branches wide –
A bower on either side.
For the bending boughs hang low;
And with shouts and gay turmoil
The children gather like bees
To garner the golden spoil;
While the smiling mother sings,
Rejoice for the gift it brings!
Ho! for the laden apple-tree
That stands by our garden wall! »
The strong swift years fly past,
Each swifter than the last;
And the tree by the garden wall
Sees joy and grief befall.
Still from the spreading boughs
Some golden apples swing;
But the children come no more
For the autumn harvesting.
The tangled grass lies deep
Where the long path used to creep:
Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree
That leans over the crumbling wall!
New generations pass,
Like shadows on the grass.
## p. 16527 (#227) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16527
What is there that remains
For all their toil and pains ?
A little hollow place
Where once a hearthstone lay;
An empty, silent space
Whence life hath gone away;
Tall brambles where the lilacs grew,
Some fennel, and a clump of rue,
And this one gnarled old apple-tree
Where once was the garden wall!
JULIA C. R. DORR.
THE HOUSE OF THE TREES
O"
PE your doors and take me in,
Spirit of the wood;
Wash me clean of dust and din,
Clothe me in your mood.
Take me from the noisy light
To the sunless peace,
Where at midday standeth Night,
Signing Toil's release.
All your dusky twilight stores
To my senses give;
Take me in and lock the doors,
Show me how to live.
Lift your leafy roof for me,
Part your yielding walls;
Let me wander lingeringly
Through your scented halls.
Ope your doors and take me in,
Spirit of the wood;
Take me- make me next of kin
To your leafy brood.
ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
## p. 16528 (#228) ##########################################
16528
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
IN GREEN OLD GARDENS
IN
N GREEN old gardens hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife,
Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he dies,
Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day;
Where the high red walls, which are growing gray
With their lichen and moss embroideries,
Seem sadly and sternl to shut out Life,
Because it is often as sad as they;
Where even the bee has time to glide
(Gathering gayly his honeyed store)
Right to the heart of the old-world flowers,
China-asters and purple stocks,
Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks,
Laburnums raining their golden showers,
Columbines prim of the folded core,
And lupins, and larkspurs, and "London pride”;
Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds,
Grown tame in the silence that reigns around,
Broken only, now and then,
By shy woodpecker or noisy jay,
By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay;
But where never the purposeless laughter of men,
Or the seething city's murmurous sound,
Will float up under the river-weeds;
Here may I live what life I please,
Married and buried out of sight,-
Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,-
Hidden away amongst scenes like these,
Under the fans of the chestnut-trees;
Living my child-life over again,
With the further hope of a fuller delight,
Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.
In green old gardens hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife, -
Here have I leisure to breathe and move,
And to do my work in a nobler way;
To sing my songs, and to say my say;
## p. 16529 (#229) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16529
To dream my dreams, and to love my love;
To hold my faith, and to live my life,
Making the most of its shadowy day.
« VIOLET FANE” (Lady Currie).
A BENEDICTINE GARDEN
Thr
HROUGH all the wind-blown aisles of May
Faint bells of perfume swing and fall.
Within this apple-petaled wall
(A gray east flecked with rosy day)
The pink Laburnum lays her cheek
In married, matchless, lovely bliss,
Against her golden mate, to seek
His airy kiss.
Tulips, in faded splendor drest,
Brood o'er their beds, a slumbrous gloom;
Dame Peony, red and ripe with bloom,
Swells the silk housing of her breast;
The Lilac, drunk to ecstasy,
Breaks her full flagons on the air,
And drenches home the reeling bee
Who found her fair.
O cowlèd legion of the Cross,
What solemn pleasantry is thine,
Vowing to seek the life divine
Through abnegation and through loss!
Men but make monuments of sin
Who walk the earth's ambitious round;
Thou hast the richer realm within
This garden ground.
No woman's voice hath sweeter note
Than chanting of this plumèd choir;
No jewel ever wore the fire
Hung on the dewdrop's quivering throat.
A ruddier pomp and pageantry
Than world's delight o'erfleets thy sod;
And choosing this, thou hast in fee
The peace of God.
ALICE BROWN.
XXVIII-1034
## p. 16530 (#230) ##########################################
16530
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE BLACKBERRY FARM
NT
ATURE gives with freèst hands
Richest gifts to poorest lands.
When the lord has sown his last,
And his field's to desert passed,
She begins to claim her own,
And instead of harvest flown-
Sunburnt sheaves and golden ears —
Sends her hardier pioneers:
Barbarous brambles, outlawed seeds;
The first families of weeds
Fearing neither sun nor wind,
With the flowers of their kind
(Outcasts of the garden-bound),
Colonize the expended ground,
Using (none her right gainsay)
Confiscations of decay:
Thus she clothes the barren place,
Old disgrace, with newer grace.
)
Title-deeds, which cover lands
Ruled and reaped by buried hands,
She — disowning owners old,
Scorning their “to have and hold”.
Takes herself: the moldering fence
Hides with her munificence;
O'er the crumbled gate-post twines
Her proprietary vines;
On the doorstep of the house
Writes in moss Anonymous,”
And, that beast and bird may see,
« This is Public Property;"
To the bramble makes the sun
Bearer of profusion;
Blossom-odors breathe in June
Promise of her later boon,
And in August's brazen heat
Grows the prophecy complete ;-
Lo, her largess glistens bright,
Blackness diamonded with light!
C
Then, behold, she welcomes all
To her annual festival:
## p. 16531 (#231) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16531
Mine the fruit, but yours as well,”
Speaks the Mother Miracle;
«Rich and poor are welcome; come,
Make to-day millennium
In my garden of the sun:
Black and white to me are one.
This my freehold use content,-
Here no landlord rides for rent;
I proclaim my jubilee,
In my Black Republic, free.
Come,” she beckons; “enter, through
Gates of gossamer, doors of dew
(Lit with summer's tropic fire),
My Liberia of the brier. »
JOHN JAMES PIATT.
FROM A POEM ON THOREAU
I
F I could find that little poem,
With the daintiest sort of proem,
Which the poet squirrel made
On a leaf that would not fade,
And slyly hid, one darksome night,
By the wicked glow-worm's light!
It was all about Thoreau-
How the squirrels loved him so;
Since, whenever he went walking,
He would stop to hear them talking,-
Often smiling when they chattered,
Or their brown nuts downward pattered:
Nay, could I but find that bird
Who told me once that she had heard
Robins, wrens, and others tell
How he knew their language well,
And how he turned, a thousand times,
Birdic into English rhymes!
H. A. BLOOD.
## p. 16532 (#232) ##########################################
16532
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE SOUTH
N
IGHT; and beneath star-blazoned summer skies
Behold the spirit of the musky South,-
A creole, with still-burning, languid eyes,
Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth:
Swathed in spun gauze is she,
From fibres of her own anana tree.
Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease,
By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed:
'Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto-trees,
Like to the golden oriole's hanging nest,
Her airy hammock swings,
And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.
How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreath
Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair:
Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death,
Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air,
While movelessly she lies
With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.
Full well knows she how wide and fair extend
Her groves bright-flowered, her tangled everglades,
Majestic streams that indolently wend
Through lush savanna or dense forest shades,
Where the brown buzzard flies
To broad bayous 'neath hazy-golden skies.
Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp,
With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom;
Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp,
Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom
Where from stale waters dead
Oft looms the great-jawed alligator's head.
Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,
Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods,
Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees;
And ever midst those verdant solitudes
The soldier's wooden cross,
O'ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.
Was hers a dream of empire ? was it sin ?
And is it well that all was borne in vain ?
## p. 16533 (#233) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16533
She knows no more than one who slow doth win,
After fierce fever, conscious life again,
Too tired, too weak, too sad,
By the new light to be or stirred or glad.
From rich sea-islands fringing her green shore,
From broad plantations where swart freemen bend
Bronzed backs in willing labor, from her store
Of golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascend
Life-currents of pure health:
Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.
Yet now how listless and how still she lies,
Like some half-savage, dusky Indian queen,
Rocked in her hammock 'neath her native skies,
With the pathetic, passive, broken mien
Of one who, sorely proved,
Great-souled, hath suffered much and much hath loved!
But look! along the wide-branched dewy glade
Glimmers the dawn: the light palmetto-trees
And cypresses reissue from the shade,
And she hath wakened. Through clear air she sees
The pledge, the brightening ray,
And leaps from dreams to hail the coming day.
EMMA LAZARUS.
RESPITE
ING, lark, far up the sky!
Sing, throstle, for love's sake!
Sing, sing, as if no heart might ever break!
S'S
!
Softly, O summer sigh
Of winds, let patter down
The blossom-rain, as if no storms had blown!
Smile, flowers, along the way, —
Your dainty presence stirs
Such blessed thoughts, ye little comforters.
O earth, for one kind day
Let me be glad again,-
Forgetting grief that is, and that has been.
INA D. COOLBRITH.
## p. 16534 (#234) ##########################################
16534
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
WHEN THE WORLD IS BURNING
W"
HEN the world is burning,
Fired within, yet turning
Round with face unscathed;
Ere fierce flames, uprushing,
O'er all lands leap, crushing,
Till earth fall, fire-swathed, -
Up amidst the meadows,
Gently through the shadows,
Gentle flames will glide,
Small and blue and golden.
Though by bard beholden
When in calm dreams folden,
Calm his dreams will bide.
Where the dance is sweeping,
Through the greensward peeping,
Shall the soft lights start;
Laughing maids, unstaying,
Deeming it trick-playing,
High their robes upswaying,
O'er the lights shall dart;
And the woodland haunter
Shall not cease to saunter,
When far down some glade
Of the great world's burning,
One soft flame upturning
Seems, to his discerning,
Crocus in the shade.
EBENEZER JONES.
THE TRYST OF THE NIGHT
O'
UT of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and the day
are mingled,
The voice of the Night rose cold and calm — it called through
the shadow-swept air;
Through all the valleys and lone hillsides it pierced, it thrilled, it
tingled
It summoned me forth to the wild sea-shore, to meet with its
mystery there.
## p. 16535 (#235) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16535
Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeating
Of gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of
light-
In burning glory it came and went, - I heard, I saw it beating,
Pulse by pulse, from star to star,— the passionate heart of Night!
Out of the thud of the rustling sea - the panting, yearning, throbbing
Waves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of
spray -
The wail of the Night came fitful-faint, — I heard her stified sobbing;
The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray.
There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great
tides roared, assembling –
Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that
shall be;
There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a rapturous
trembling -
One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and the stars,
and sea.
MARY C. GIllINGTON BYRON.
2
THE GOLDEN SUNSET
THE
He golden sea its mirror spreads
Beneath the golden skies,
And but a narrow strip between
Our earth and shadow lies.
The cloud-like cliffs, the cliff-like clouds,
Dissolved in glory float,
And midway of the radiant floods
Hangs silently the boat.
The sea is but another sky,
The sky a sea as well;
And which is earth, and which the heavens,
The eye can scarcely tell.
So when for me life's latest hour
Soft passes to its end,
May glory born of earth and heaven
The earth and heaven blend;
## p. 16536 (#236) ##########################################
16536
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Flooded with light the spirit float,
With silent rapture glow,
Till where earth ends and heaven begins,
The soul can scarcely know.
SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.
1
THE FLIGHT OF THE CROWS
THE
The autumn afternoon is dying o'er
The quiet western valley where I lie
Beneath the maples on the river shore,
Where tinted leaves, blue waters, and fair sky
Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by
To seek their evening haven in the breast
And calm embrace of silence, while they sing
Te Deums to the night, invoking rest
For busy chirping voice and tired wing -
And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping-cradles swing.
In forest arms the night will soonest creep,
Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,
Where Nature's children curl themselves to sleep,
And all is still at last, save where alone
A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.
Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day;
Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend
With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away
With rivers where their sweeping waters wend
Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.
O'er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,
Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led
Their aerial career unseen, unknown,
Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone ?
The flapping of their pinions in the air
Dies in the hush of distance, while they light
Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,
That stand with giant strength and peerless height,
To shelter fairy, bird, and beast throughout the closing night.
## p. 16537 (#237) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16537
Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,
Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!
Would that my soul could see, and seeing, rise
To unrestricted life where ebb and flow
Of Nature's pulse would constitute a wider life below!
Could I but live just here in Freedom's arms,
A kingly life without a sovereign's care!
Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,
And all is cradled in repose, save where
Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.
E. PAULINE JOHNSON (“Tekahionwake”).
THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
HE
ELL's gates swing open wide!
Hell's furious chiefs forth ride!
The deep doth redden
With flags of armies marching through the night,
As kings shall lead their legions to the fight
At Armageddon.
1
1
2
Peers and princes mark I,
Captains and chiliarchi;
Thou burning angel of the Pit, Abaddon!
Charioteers from Hades, land of gloom,
Gigantic thrones, and heathen troopers, whom
The thunder of the far-off fight doth madden.
Lo! Night's barbaric khans,
Lo! the waste Gulf's wild clans,
Gallop across the skies with fiery bridles!
Lo! flaming sultanas, infernal czars,
In deep-ranked squadrons gird the glowing cars
Of Lucifer and Ammon, towering idols.
See yonder red platoons!
See! see the swift dragoons,
Whirling aloft their sabres to the zenith!
See the tall regiments whose spears incline,
Beyond the circle of that steadfast sign
Which to the streams of ocean never leaneth. *
1
Whose yonder dragon-crest?
Whose that red-shielded breast ?
* Iliad, sviii. 489.
## p. 16538 (#238) ##########################################
16538
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Chieftain Satanas! Emperor of the Furnace!
What bright centurions, what blazing earls,
In mail of hell's hot ores and burnished pearls,
Alarm the kingdoms with their gleaming harness?
All shades and spectral hosts,
All forms and gloomy ghosts,
All frowning phantoms from the Gulf's dim gorges,
Follow the kings in wavering multitude;
While savage giants of the night's old brood
In pagan mirth toss high their crackling torches.
Monarchs, on guarded thrones,
Ruling earth's southern zones,
Mark ye the wrathful archers of Gehenna;
How gleam, affrighted lords of Europe's crowns,
Their blood-red arrows o'er your bastioned towns,
Moscow, and purple Rome, and cannon-girt Vienna?
Go bid your prophets watch the troubled skies!
«Why through the vault cleave those infernal glances ?
Why, ye pale wizards, do those portents rise,
Rockets and fiery shafts and lurid lances ? »
Still o'er the silent Pole
Numberless armies roll,
Columns all plumed and cohorts of artillery;
Still girdled nobles cross the snowy fields
In flashing chariots, and their crimson shields
Kindle afar thy icy peaks, Cordillera!
On, lords of dark despair !
Prince of the powers of air,
Bear your broad banners through the constellations!
Wave, all ye Stygian hordes,
Through the black sky your swords;
Startle with warlike signs the watching nations.
March, ye mailed multitudes, across the deep;
Far shine the battlements on Heaven's steep.
Dare ye again, fierce thrones and scarlet powers,
Assail with hell's wild host those crystal towers ?
Tempt ye again the angels' shining blades,
Ithuriel's spear, and Michael's circling truncheon,-
The seraph-cavalier, whose winged brigades
Drove you in dreadful rout down to the night's vast dungeon ?
GUY HUMPHREY MCMASTER.
## p. 16539 (#239) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16539
THE TORNADO
WHOSE
HOSE eye has marked his gendering ? On his
throne
He dwells apart in roofless caves of air,
Born of the stagnant, blown of the glassy heat
O'er the still mere Sargasso. When the world
Has fallen voluptuous, and the isles are grown
So bold they cry, God sees not! - as a rare
Sun-flashing iceberg towers on high, and fleet
As air-ships rise, by upward currents whirled,
Even so the bane of lustful islanders
Wings him aloft. And scarce a pinion stirs.
There gathering hues, he stoopeth down again -
Down from the vault. Locks of the gold-tipped cloud
Fly o'er his head; his eyes, St. Elmo flames;
His mouth, a surf on a red coral reef.
Embroidered is his cloak of dark-blue stain
With lightning jags. Upon his pathway crowd
Dull Shudder, wan-faced Quaking, Ghastly-Dreams.
And after these, in order near their chief,
Start, Tremor, Faint-Heart, Panic, and Affray,
Horror with blanching eyes, and limp Dismay,
1
Unroll a gray-green carpet him before
Swathed in thick foam: thereon adventuring, bark
Need never hope to live; that yeasty pile
Bears her no longer; to the mast-head plunged
She writhes and groans, careens, and is no more.
Now, prickt by fear, the man-devourer shark,
Gale-breasting gull, and whale that dreams no guile
Till the sharp steel quite to the life has lunged,
Before his pitiless, onward-hurling form
Hurry toward land for shelter from the storm.
In vain. Tornado and his pursuivants,
Whirlwind of giant bulk, and Water-Spout, -
The grewsome, tortuous devil-fish of rain,
O'ertake them on the shoals and leave them dead.
Doomsday has come. Now men in speechless trance
Glower unmoved upon the hideous rout,
Or shrieking, fly to holes, or yet complain
One moment to that lordly face of dread
## p. 16540 (#240) ##########################################
16540
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Before he quits the mountain of his wave,
And strews for all impartially their grave.
And as in court-yard corners on the wind
Sweep the loose straws, houses and stately trees
Whirl in a vortex. His unswerving tread
Winnows the island as a thresher's floor.
His eyes are fixed; he looks not once behind,
But at his back fall silence and the breeze.
Scarce is he come, the lovely wraith is sped.
Ashamed, the lightning shuts its purple door,
And heaven still knows the robes of gold and dun,
While placid Ruin gently greets the sun.
CHARLES DE KAY.
1
THE RIVER CHARLES
ESIDE thee, river, I
B Through vista Long of years, and drink my fill
Of beauty and of light, a steady rill
Of never-failing good, whate'er my state, -
How speechless seem these lips, my soul how dull,
Never to say, nor half to say, how dear
The washing of thy ripples, nor the full
And silent flow which speaks not to the ear!
