Poems.

by Frances E. W. Harper.

MY MOTHER'S KISS.

My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss, I feel its impress now; As in the bright and happy days She pressed it on my brow.

You say it is a fancied thing Within my memory fraught; To me it has a sacred place-- The treasure house of thought.

Again, I feel her fingers glide Amid my cl.u.s.tering hair; I see the love-light in her eyes, When all my life was fair.

Again, I hear her gentle voice In warning or in love.

How precious was the faith that taught My soul of things above.

(1)

2 MY MOTHER'S KISS.

The music of her voice is stilled, Her lips are paled in death.

As precious pearls I'll clasp her words Until my latest breath.

The world has scattered round my path Honor and wealth and fame; But naught so precious as the thoughts That gather round her name.

And friends have placed upon my brow The laurels of renown; But she first taught me how to wear My manhood as a crown.

My hair is silvered o'er with age, I'm longing to depart; To clasp again my mother's hand, And be a child at heart.

To roam with her the glory-land Where saints and angels greet; To cast our crowns with songs of love At our Redeemer's feet.

A GRAIN OF SAND. 3

A GRAIN OF SAND.

Do you see this grain of sand Lying loosely in my hand?

Do you know to me it brought Just a simple loving thought?

When one gazes night by night On the glorious stars of light, Oh how little seems the span Measured round the life of man.

Oh! how fleeting are his years With their smiles and their tears; Can it be that G.o.d does care For such atoms as we are?

Then outspake this grain of sand "I was fashioned by His hand In the star lit realms of s.p.a.ce I was made to have a place.

"Should the ocean flood the world, Were its mountains 'gainst me hurled All the force they could employ Wouldn't a single grain destroy; And if I, a thing so light, Have a place within His sight; You are linked unto his throne Cannot live nor die alone.

4 THE CROCUSES.

In the everlasting arms Mid life's dangers and alarms Let calm trust your spirit fill; Know He's G.o.d, and then be still."

Trustingly I raised my head Hearing what the atom said; Knowing man is greater far Than the brightest sun or star.

THE CROCUSES.

They heard the South wind sighing A murmur of the rain; And they knew that Earth was longing To see them all again.

While the snow-drops still were sleeping Beneath the silent sod; They felt their new life pulsing Within the dark, cold clod.

Not a daffodil nor daisy Had dared to raise its head; Not a fairhaired dandelion Peeped timid from its bed;

THE CROCUSES. 5

Though a tremor of the winter Did shivering through them run; Yet they lifted up their foreheads To greet the vernal sun.

And the sunbeams gave them welcome.

As did the morning air And scattered o'er their simple robes Rich tints of beauty rare.

Soon a host of lovely flowers From vales and woodland burst; But in all that fair procession The crocuses were first.

First to weave for Earth a chaplet To crown her dear old head; And to beautify the pathway Where winter still did tread.

And their loved and white haired mother Smiled sweetly 'neath the touch, When she knew her faithful children Were loving her so much.

6 THE PRESENT AGE.

THE PRESENT AGE.

Say not the age is hard and cold-- I think it brave and grand; When men of diverse sects and creeds Are clasping hand in hand.

The Pa.r.s.ee from his sacred fires Beside the Christian kneels; And clearer light to Islam's eyes The word of Christ reveals.

The Brahmin from his distant home Brings thoughts of ancient lore; The Bhuddist breaking bonds of caste Divides mankind no more.

The meek-eyed sons of far Cathay Are welcome round the board; Not greed, nor malice drives away These children of our Lord.

And Judah from whose trusted hands Came oracles divine; Now sits with those around whose hearts The light of G.o.d doth shine.

THE PRESENT AGE. 7

j.a.pan unbars her long sealed gates From islands far away; Her sons are lifting up their eyes To greet the coming day.

The Indian child from forests wild Has learned to read and pray; The tomahawk and scalping knife From him have pa.s.sed away.

From centuries of servile toil The Negro finds release, And builds the fanes of prayer and praise Unto the G.o.d of Peace.