THE MESSENGER.

Is his form hidden by some cliff or crag, Or does he loiter on the shelving sh.o.r.e?

We know not, though we know he waits for us, Somewhere upon the road that lies before.

And when he bids us we must follow him, Must leave our half-drawn nets, our houses, lands, And those we love the most, and best, ah they In vain will cling to us with pleading hands!

He will not wait for us to gird our robes, And be they white as saints, or soiled and dim, We can but gather them around our form, And take his icy hand and follow him.

Oh! will our palm cling to another palm Loath, loath to loose our hold of love's warm grasp.

Or shall we free our hand from the hand of grief, And reach it gladly out to meet his clasp?

Sometimes I marvel when we two shall meet, When I shall hear that stealthy step, and see The unseen form that haunteth mortal dreams, The stern-browed face, the eyes of mystery.

Shall I be waiting for some wished-for wealth, Impatient, by the sh.o.r.e of a purple sea?

But when the vessel's keel grates on the sand, Will HE lean down its side and call to me?

Shall I in thymy pastures cool and sweet See the lark soaring through the rosy air?

Ah, then, will his dark face look down on me, 'Neath the white splendor of the morning star.

Shall I be resting from the noonday blaze, In the rich summer of a blossoming land, And idly glancing through the lotus leaves, Behold the shadow of his beckoning hand?

Or in some inland village, shaded deep, With silence brooding o'er the quiet place, Shall I look from some lattice crowned with flowers, In the calm twilight and behold his face?

Or shall I over such a lonely way, Beset with fears, my weary footsteps wend, So desolate, that I shall greet his face With joy as a desired and welcome friend?

Oh, little matters it when we shall meet, Upon the quiet sh.o.r.e, or on the sea, If he shall lead us to the golden gate, Dear Lord, if he shall lead us unto Thee.

SLEEP.

Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams.

Bring the exile to his home again, Let him catch the gleam of its low white wall; Let his wife cling to his neck and weep, And his children come at their father's call.

Give to the mother the child she lost, Laid from her heart to a clay-cold bed; Let its breath float over her tear-wet cheek, And her cold heart warm 'neath its bright young head.

Take the sinner's hand and lead him back To his sinless youth and his mother's knee; Let him kneel again 'neath her tender look, And murmur the prayer of his infancy.

Lead the aged into that wondrous clime, Home of their youth and land of their bliss; Let them forget in that beautiful world, The sin and the sorrow of this.

And gently lead my love, my own, Tenderly clasp her snow-white hand, Wrap her in garments of soft repose, And lead her into your mystic land.

Let your fairest handmaids bow at her feet, Her path o'er your loveliest roses be; And let all the flowers with their perfumed lips Whisper of me--of me.

Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams.

THE SONG OF THE SIREN.

Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea, The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before; I stand a fairy shape upon the shadow of a cliff Where the water's drowsy ripple laps the phantom of a sh.o.r.e, And, oh, so fair, so fair am I, I draw all hearts to me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

All the glory of my golden tresses gleams upon the air, How it falls about my snowy shoulders, round and bare and white; My lips are full of love as rounded grapes are full of wine, And my eyes are large and languid, and full of dewy light; Oh, I lure the idle landsmen many a league for love of me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

Sometimes they press so near that my breath is on their cheek, And their eager hands can almost touch the glowing bowl I bear, They can see the beaded froth, the ruby glitter of the wine, Then I slip from their embraces like a breath of summer air; Oh, I lightly, lightly glide away, they come no nigher me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

Sometimes I float along a-standing in a boat, Before the ships becalmed, where dusky sailors stand, And the helmsman drops his oar, and the lookout leaves his gla.s.s, So I beckon them, and lure them, with the whiteness of my hand; Oh, this the song I sing, well they listen unto me?

For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

Would you from toil and labor flee, Oh float ye out on this wonderful sea, From islands of spice the zephyrs blow, Swaying the galleys to and fro; Silken sails and a balmy breeze Shall waft you unto a perfect ease.

Fold your hands and rest, and rest, The sun sails on from the east to the west, The days will come, and the days will go, What good can man for his labor show In pa.s.sionless peace, come float with me Over the waves of this wonderful sea.

Would you forget, oh sorrowful soul, Come and drink of this golden bowl, With jewelled poppies about the rim, Drink of the wine that flushes its brim, And drown all your haunting memories there, Your woe and your weary care.

Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea, The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before; Oh, the mystic music ripples, how they break in rosy spray, But the crystal wave will mock them, they will reach it nevermore, For it glides away, I glide away, they come no nigher me, For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO.

I.

There's a tear in your eye, little Sybil, Gathering large and slow; Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil, What are you thinking of now?

Push back the velvet curtains That darken the lonely room, For shadows peer out of the crimson depths, And the statues gleam white in the gloom.

How the cannons' thunder rolls along, And shakes the lattice and wall, Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil, What if your father should fall?

The smoky clouds sweep up from the field And darken the earth and sea, "G.o.d save him! G.o.d save him!"

Wherever he may be.

II.

Oh, pretty dark-eyed bird of the South, With your face so mournful and white There is many a little Northern girl That is breathing that prayer to-night.

There's a little girl on the hills of Maine Looking out through the fading light, She looks down the winding path, and says, "He will surely come to-night!"

The table is set, the lamp is trimmed, The fire has a ruddy glow That streams like a beacon down the path, To the dusky valley below.