Since last we met this sunny day How bright the hours have flown!

Youth, Love, and Hope, with fadeless light, Around our way have shone; And if a shadow from the past Has floated o'er the dream, 'T was softened, like a violet cloud Reflected in a stream.

Yet if an hour of bitter grief, Should e'er thy spirit claim, May it the trying ordeal pa.s.s, As gold the fiery flame; And may the years that bind our hearts In love that cannot die, Still draw us hourly nearer G.o.d, And nearer to the sky.

THE POET'S LESSON.

"He who would write heroic poems, must make his whole life a heroic poem."--MILTON.

There came a voice from the realm of thought, And my spirit bowed to hear,-- A voice with majestic sadness fraught, By the grace of G.o.d most clear.

A mighty tone from the solemn Past, Outliving the Poet-lyre, Borne down on the rush of Time's fitful blast.

Like the cloven tongues of fire.

Wouldst thou fashion the song, O! Poet-heart, For a mission high and free?

The drama of Life, in its every part, Must a living poem be.

Wouldst thou speed the knight to the battle-field, In a proven suit of mail?

On the world's highway, with Faith's broad shield, The peril go forth to hail.

For the n.o.ble soul, there is n.o.ble strife, And the sons of earth attain, Through the wild turmoil and storm of Life, To discipline, through pain.

Think not that Poesy liveth alone, In the flow of measured rhyme; The n.o.ble deed with a mightier tone Shall sound through latest time.

Then poems two, at each upward flight, In glorious measure fill; Be the Poem in words, one of beauty and might, But the Life one, loftier still.

MADELINE.

A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.

Where the waters of the Mohawk Through a quiet valley glide, From the brown church to her dwelling She that morning pa.s.sed a bride.

In the mild light of October Beautiful the forest stood, As the temple on Mount Zion When G.o.d filled its solitude.

Very quietly the red leaves, On the languid zephyr's breath, Fluttered to the mossy hillocks Where their sisters slept in death: And the white mist of the Autumn Hung o'er mountain-top and dale, Soft and filmy, as the foldings Of the pa.s.sing bridal veil.

From the field of Saratoga At the last night's eventide, Rode the groom,--a gallant soldier Flushed with victory and pride, Seeking, as a priceless guerdon From the dark-eyed Madeline, Leave to lead her to the altar When the morrow's sun should shine.

All the children of the village, Decked with garland's white and red, All the young men and the maidens, Had been forth to see her wed; And the aged people, seated In the doorways 'neath the vine, Thought of their own youth and blessed her, As she left the house divine.

Pale she was, but very lovely, With a brow so calm and fair, When she pa.s.sed, the benediction Seemed still falling on the air.

Strangers whispered they had never Seen who could with her compare, And the maidens looked with envy On her wealth of raven hair.

In the glen beside the river In the shadow of the wood, With wide-open doors for welcome Gamble-roofed the cottage stood; Where the festal board was waiting, For the bridal guests prepared, Laden with a feast, the humblest In the little village shared.

Every hour was winged with gladness While the sun went down the west, Till the chiming of the church-bell Told to all the hour for rest: Then the merry guests departed, Some a camp's rude couch to bide, Some to bright homes,--each invoking Blessings on the gentle bride.

Tranquilly the morning sunbeam Over field and hamlet stole, Wove a glory round each red leaf, Then effaced the Frost-king's scroll: Eyes responded to its greeting As a lake's still waters shine, Young hearts bounded,--and a gay group Sought the home of Madeline.

Bird-like voices 'neath the cas.e.m.e.nt Chanted in the hazy air, A sweet orison for wakening,-- Half thanksgiving and half prayer.

But no white hand drew the curtain From the vine-clad panes before, No light form, with buoyant footstep, Hastened to fling wide the door.

Moments numbered hours in pa.s.sing 'Mid that silence, till a fear Of some unseen ill crept slowly Through the trembling minstrels near, Then with many a dark foreboding, They, the threshold hastened o'er, Paused not where a stain of crimson Curdled on the oaken floor;

But sought out the bridal chamber.

G.o.d in Heaven! could it be Madeline who knelt before them In that trance of agony?

Cold, inanimate beside her, By the ruthless Cow-boys slain In the night-time whilst defenceless, He she loved so well was lain;

O'er her bridal dress were scattered, Stains of fearful, fearful dye, And the soul's light beamed no longer From her tearless, vacant eye.

Round her slight form hung the tresses Braided oft with pride and care, Silvered by that night of madness With its anguish and despair.

She lived on to see the roses Of another summer wane, But the light of reason never Shone in her sweet eyes again.

Once where blue and sparkling waters Through a quiet valley run, Fertilizing field and garden, Wandered I at set of sun;

Twilight as a silver shadow O'er the softened landscape lay, When amid a straggling village Paused I in my rambling way.

Plain and brown the church before me In the little graveyard stood, And the laborer's axe resounded Faintly, from the neighboring wood.

Through the low, half-open wicket Deeply worn, a pathway led: Silently I paced its windings Till I stood among the dead.

Pa.s.sing by the grave memorials Of departed worth and fame, Long I paused before a record That no pomp of words could claim:

Simple was the slab and lowly, Shaded by a fragrant vine, And the single name recorded, Plainly writ, was "Madeline."

But beneath it through the cl.u.s.ters Of the jessamine I read, "_Spes_," engraved in bolder letters,-- This was all the marble said.

THE DEFORMED ARTIST.

The twilight o'er Italia's sky Had spread a shadowy veil, And one by one the solemn stars Looked forth, serene and pale; As quietly the waning light Through a high cas.e.m.e.nt stole, And fell on one with silver hair, Who shrived a pa.s.sing soul.

No costly pomp or luxury Relieved that chamber's gloom, But glowing forms, by limner's art Created, thronged the room: And as the low winds carried far The chime for evening prayer, The dying painter's earnest tones Fell on the languid air.

"The spectral form of Death is nigh, The thread of life is spun: Ave Maria! I have looked Upon my latest sun.

And yet 't is not with pale disease This frame is worn away; Nor yet--nor yet with length of years;-- A child but yesterday,"

"I found within my father's hall No fervent love to claim, The curse that marked me at my birth Devoted me to shame.

I saw that on my brother's brow Angelic beauty lay; The mirror gave me back a form That thrilled me with dismay."

"And soon I learned to shrink from all, The lowly and the high; To see but scorn on every lip, Contempt in every eye.

And for a time e'en Nature's smile A bitter mockery wore, For beauty stamped each living thing The wide creation o'er,"