You marvelled if the dead could hear Our steps, that pa.s.sed at will Their low green houses in the elm- Crowned churchyard on the hill.

And I, whom your sweet childhood's trust, Esteemed as most profound, Thought that they heard, as in a dream, The shadow of a sound.

We drew the long, rank gra.s.s away From tombstones mossy grown, To read the verses crude and quaint, And make the words our own.

One tottering marble, willow-spread, I well remember yet, With only this engraved thereon, "By Joseph to Jeanette."

It held us wondering oft, as we Peeped through the pickets old: There was some mystery, we knew, Some history untold.

Well, better far those simple words, Where weeping phrase is not, Than burdened tablet, and the rest Forgetting and forgot.

And Lily Minden, do you lie In some forgotten grave, Where only strangers' feet pa.s.s o'er Your temple's architrave?

Or, by some hearthstone, have you learned The worst and best of life, And found sweet greetings in the name Of mother and of wife?

I cannot tell: I know you but As bee the clover bloom, That sips content, and straightway builds Its mansion and its tomb.

So took I in child-innocence, So build the House of Life, And in low tone to thee alone, As dead or maid or wife,

I sing this song, borne all along A s.p.a.ce of wasted breath; And build me on from room to room Unto the House of Death,

Where portals swing forever in To weary pilgrim guest, And hearts that here were inly dear Shall find a Room of Rest.

JEAN

Three times round has the sun gone, Jean, Since on your lips I pressed Mute farewells; if that pain was keen Fair were you in your nest.

Smiling, sweetheart, I left you there; You had no word to say; One last touch to your brow and hair, Then I went on my way.

Time it was when the leaves were grown Your rose-colour, my queen; Ere the birds to the south had flown, While yet the gra.s.s was green.

Eyes demure, do you ever yearn, Bird-wise to summer lands?

Is it to meet your look I turn, Saying, "She understands,"

Saying, "She waits in her quiet place Patient till I shall come, The old sweet grace in her dreaming face That made a Heav'n her home"?

No! She is there 'neath Northern skies, And no word does she send; But near to my heart her image lies, And shall lie there to the end.

Come what will I am not bereft Of the memory of that time, When in her hands my heart I left There, in a colder clime.

And to my eyes no face is fair, For one face comes between; And if a song has a low sweet air, Through it there whispers, "Jean."

Better for me the world would say, If I had broke the charm, Set in the circle she one day Made by her round white arm.

Never a king in days of eld Gathered about his throat Such a circlet; no queen e'er held Necklace so clear of mote.

It sufficeth the charm was set; And if it chance that one Still remembers, though one forget, Then is the worst thing done--

Done, and I still can say "Let be; I have no word of blame; Though her heart is no more for me, Mine shall be still the same."

I have my life to live and she-- Well, if it be so--so; She may welcome or banish me And if I go, I go.

Friend, I pray you repress those tears, Comfort from this derive: I am a score--and more-of years And Jean is only five.

A MEMORY

From buckwheat fields the summer sun Drew honeyed breezes over The lanes where happy children run With bare feet in the clover.

The schoolhouse stood with pines about Upon the hill, and ever A creek, where hid the speckled trout, Ran past it to the river.

And rosy faces gathered there, With rustic good around them; With breath of balm blown everywhere, Pure, ere the world had found them.

Behind sweet purple ambuscades Of lilacs, laws were broken; And here a desk with knives was frayed, There pa.s.sed forbidden token.

One slipped a b.u.t.ternut between His pearly teeth; a maiden Dove-eyed, caressed her cheek; 'twas e'en With maple sugar laden--

A flock that caught at wiles, because The shepherd's hand that drove them, Reached little toward wise human laws, And less to G.o.d above them.

With eyebrows bent and surly look He only saw before him, The rule, the lesson, and the book, Not nature brooding o'er him.

One day through drone of locusts fell The wood-bird's fitful tapping, And in his chair at "dinner-spell,"

The teacher grim sat napping.

An urchin creeping in beholds The tyrant slumber-smitten, And in his pocket's ample folds He thrusts the school-yard kitten.

At length the master waked, and clanged His bell with anger fitting; His sleep had made it double-fanged, And crossed like needles knitting.

Slow to their seats the children file, And wait "Prepare for cla.s.ses,"

A score of lads across the aisle From twice a score of la.s.ses.

But two within the throng betray A mirth suppressed; the sinner, And Rafe Ridall, the chief at play, At books the easy winner:

The wildest boy in all the school, In mischief first and ever, His daily seat the penance-stool, Disgraced for weeks together.

Just sound of bone and strong of heart, Staunch friend and n.o.ble foeman; In life to play the kingly part, True both to man and woman.

Joe's secret now he holds; a deed With just enough of danger, To win his--ah, what's that? 'Tis freed, The pocket-prisoned stranger!