Poems.

by Marietta Holley.

PREFACE.

All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme. Imagining ideal scenes, ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak the words I fancied they would say.

The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits, if they have any, I leave with the public--which has always been so kind to me--to discover.

And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks. But thinking it must be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and will cruise along so close to the sh.o.r.e and not try to sail out in the deep waters.

And so I bid the dear little wanderer (dear to me), G.o.d-speed, and bon voyage.

Marietta Holley.

New York, June, 1887.

WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?

It is not the lark's clear tone Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry, Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night-- Not these alone Make the sweet sounds of summer; But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight-- These help to make the summer.

Not roses redly blown, Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads, Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare-- Not these alone Make the sweet sights of summer But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds And slender gra.s.ses, springing up everywhere-- These help to make the summer.

One heaven bends above; The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest; O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low, Is the same love, it is all G.o.d's summer; Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best, So hum little bee, and low green gra.s.ses grow, You help to make the summer.

THE BROTHERS.

High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand, From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their va.s.sals--ruled the land.

For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell, Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.

The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer To G.o.d alone; loved much, read much His holy word, And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see their Lord.

For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone, And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone, And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze, And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.

And from the love of G.o.d that smiles on us from bright lipped flowers, And from the smile of G.o.d that falls in sunlight's golden showers, That thrills earth's slumbering heart so, where its warm rays fall That it laughs out in beauty, turned he as from tempters all.

From bird-song running morn's sweet-scented chalice o'er with cheer, The child's light laughter, lifting lowliest souls heaven near, From tears and glad smiles, linked light and gloom of the golden day, He counting these temptations all, austerely turned away.

And thus he lived alone, unblest, and died unblest, alone, Save for a brother monk, who held the carved cross of stone In his cold, rigid clasp, the while his dying eyes did wear A look of mortal striving, mortal agony, and prayer.

Though at the very last, as his stiff fingers dropped the cross, A gleam as from some distant city swept his face across, The clay lips settled into calm--thus did the monk attest, A look of one who through much peril enters into rest.

Not thus did he, the younger brother, seek the Master's face; But in earth's lowly places did he strive his steps to trace, Wherever want and grief besought with clamorous complaint, There he beheld his Lord--naked, athirst, and faint.

And when his hand was wet with tears, wrung with a grateful grasp, He lightly felt upon his palm the Elder Brother's clasp; And when above the loathsome couch of woe and want bent he, A low voice thrilled his soul, "So have ye done it unto Me."

Despised he not the mystic ties of blood, yet did he claim The broader, wider brotherhood, with every race and name; To his own kin he kind and loyal was in truth, yet still, His mother and his brethren were all who did G.o.d's will

All little ones were dear to him, for light from Paradise Seemed falling on him through their pure and innocent eyes; The very flowers that fringed cool streams, and gemmed the dewy sod, To his rapt vision seemed like the visible smiles of G.o.d.

The deep's full heart that throbs unceasing against the silent ships, The waves together murmuring with weird, mysterious lips To hear their untranslated psalm, drew down his anointed ear, And listening, lo! he heard G.o.d's voice, to Him was he so near.

The happy hum of bees to him made summer silence sweet, Not lightly did he view the very gra.s.s beneath his feet, It paved His presence-chamber, where he walked a happy guest, Ah! slight the veil between, in very truth his life was blest.

And when on a still twilight pa.s.sed he to the summer land, Those whom he had befriended, weeping, clinging to his hand, The west gleamed with a sudden glory, and from out the glow Trembled the semblance of a crown, and rested on his brow.

And with wide, eager eyes he smiled, and stretched his hands abroad, As if his dearest friend were welcoming him to his abode; Eternal silence sealed that wondrous smile as he cried-- "Thy face! Thy face, dear Lord!" and, saying this, he died.

But legends tell that on his grave fell such a strange, pure light, That wine-red roses planted thereupon would spring up white, Holding such mystic healing in their cool snow bloom, that lain On aching brows or sorrowful hearts, they would ease their pain.

A RICH MAN'S REVERIE.

The years go by, but they little seem Like those within our dream; The years that stood in such luring guise, Beckoning us into Paradise, To jailers turn as time goes by Guarding that fair land, By-and-By, Where we thought to blissfully rest, The sound of whose forests' balmy leaves Swaying to dream winds strangely sweet, We heard in our bed 'neath the cottage eaves, Whose towers we saw in the western skies When with eager eyes and tremulous lip, We watched the silent, silver ship Of the crescent moon, sailing out and away O'er the land we would reach some day, some day.

But years have flown, and our weary feet Have never reached that Isle of the Blest; But care we have felt, and an aching breast, A lifelong struggle, grief, unrest, That had no part in our boyish plans; And yet I have gold, and houses, and lands, And ladened vessels a white-winged fleet, That fly at my bidding across the sea; And hats are doffed by willing hands As I tread the village street; But wealth and fame are not to me What I thought that they would be.

I turn from it all to wander back With Memory down the dusty track Of the years that lie between, To the farm-house old and brown, Shaded with poplars dusky green, I pause at its gate, not a bearded man, But a boy with earnest eyes.

I stand at the gate and look around At the fresh, fair world that before me lies.

The misty mountain-top aglow With love of the sun, and the pleasant ground Asleep at its feet, with sunny dreams Of milk-white flowers in its heart, and clear The tall church-spire in the distance gleams Pointing up to the tranquil sky's Blue roof that seems so near.

And up from the woods the morning breeze Comes freighted with all the rich perfume That from myriad spicy cups distils, Loitering along o'er the locust-trees.

Scattering down the plum-trees' bloom In flakes of crimson snow-- Down on the gold of the daffodils That border the path below.

And the silver thread of the rivulet Tangled and knotted with fern and sedge.

And the mill-pond like a diamond set In the streamlet's emerald edge; And over the stream on the gradual hill, Its headstones glimmering palely white, Is the graveyard quiet and still.

I wade through its gra.s.ses rank and deep, Past slanting marbles mossy and dim, Carven with lines from some old hymn, To one where my mother used to lean On Sunday noons and weep.

That tall white shape I looked upon With a mysterious dread, Linking unto the senseless stone The image of the dead-- The father I never had seen; I remember on dark nights of storm, When our parlor was bright and warm, I would turn away from its glowing light, And look far out in the churchyard dim, And with infinite pity think of him Shut out alone in the dismal night.

And the ruined mill by the waterfall, I see again its crumbling wall, And I hear the water's song.

It all comes back to me-- Its song comes back to me, Floating out like a spirit's call The drowsy air along; Blending forever with my name Wonderful prophecies, dreamy talk, Of future paths when I should walk Crowned with manhood, and honor, and fame.

I shut my eyes and the rich perfume Of the tropical lily fills the room From its censer of frosted snow; But it seems to float to me through the night From those apple-blossoms red and white That starred the orchard's fragrant gloom; Those old boughs hanging low, Where my sister's swing swayed to and fro Through the scented aisles of the air; While her merry voice and her laugh rung out Like a bird's, to answer my brother's shout, As he shook the boughs o'er her curly head, Till the blossoms fell in a rosy rain On her neck and her shining hair.

Oh, little Belle!

Oh, little sister, I loved so well; It seems to me almost as if she died In that lost time so gay and fair, And was buried in childhood's sunny plain; And she who walks the street to-day, Or in gilded carriage sweeps through the town Staring her humbler sisters down, With her jewels gleaming like lucent flame, Proud of her grandeur and fine array, Is only a stranger, who bears her name.

And the little boy who played with me, Hunting birds'-nests in sheltered nooks, Trudging at nightfall after the cows, Exploring the barn-loft, fording the brooks, Ending, in school-time, puzzled brows Over the same small lesson books; Who knelt by my side in the twilight dim, Praying "the Lord our souls to keep,"

Then on the same pillow fell asleep, Hushed by our mother's evening hymn; Whose heart and mine kept such perfect time, Such loving cadence, such tender rhyme, Blent in child grief, and perfected in glee-- We meet on the street and we clasp the hand, And our names on charitable papers stand Side by side, and we go and bow Our two gray heads with prayer and vow, In the same grand church, and hasty word Of anger, has never our bosoms stirred.