OPENING POEM TO A YEAR'S LIFE.

Hope first the youthful Poet leads, And he is glad to follow her; Kind is she, and to all his needs With a free hand doth minister.

But, when sweet Hope at last hath fled, Cometh her sister, Memory; She wreathes Hope's garlands round her head, And strives to seem as fair as she.

Then Hope comes back, and by the hand She leads a child most fair to see, Who with a joyous face doth stand Uniting Hope and Memory.

So brighter grew the Earth around, And bluer grew the sky above; The Poet now his guide hath found, And follows in the steps of Love.

DEDICATION TO VOLUME OF POEMS ENt.i.tLED A YEAR'S LIFE.

The gentle Una I have loved, The snowy maiden, pure and mild, Since ever by her side I roved, Through ventures strange, a wondering child, In fantasy a Red Cross Knight, Burning for her dear sake to fight.

If there be one who can, like her, Make sunshine in life's shady places, One in whose holy bosom stir As many gentle household graces-- And such I think there needs must be-- Will she accept this book from me?

THE SERENADE.

Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping, Peaceful may thy dreamings be, While around thy soul is sweeping, Dreamy-winged, our melody; Chant we, Brothers, sad and slow, Let our song be soft and low As the voice of other years, Let our hearts within us melt, To gentleness, as if we felt The dropping of our mother's tears.

Lady! now our song is bringing Back again thy childhood's hours-- Hearest thou the humbee singing Drowsily among the flowers?

Sleepily, sleepily In the noontide swayeth he, Half rested on the slender stalks That edge those well-known garden walks; Hearest thou the fitful whirring Of the humbird's viewless wings-- Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring Of childhood's half-forgotten things?

Seest thou the dear old dwelling With the woodbine round the door?

Brothers, soft! her breast is swelling With the busy thoughts of yore; Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly, House her spirit not so wildly, Lest she sleep not any more.

'Tis the pleasant summertide, Open stands the window wide-- Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking?

Who sings the best beloved tune In a clear note, rising, sinking, Like a thrush's song in June?

Whose laugh is that which rings so clear And joyous in thine eager ear?

Lower, Brothers, yet more low Weave the song in mazy twines; She heareth now the west wind blow At evening through the clump of pines; O! mournful is their tune, As of a crazed thing Who, to herself alone, Is ever murmuring, Through the night and through the day, For something that hath pa.s.sed away.

Often, Lady, hast thou listened, Often have thy blue eyes glistened, Where the summer evening breeze Moaned sadly through those lonely trees, Or with the fierce wind from the north Wrung their mournful music forth.

Ever the river floweth In an unbroken stream, Ever the west wind bloweth, Murmuring as he goeth, And mingling with her dream; Onward still the river sweepeth With a sound of long-agone; Lowly, Brothers, lo! she weepeth, She is now no more alone; Long-loved forms and long-loved faces Round about her pillow throng, Through her memory's desert places Flow the waters of our song.

Lady! if thy life be holy As when thou wert yet a child, Though our song be melancholy, It will stir no anguish wild; For the soul that hath lived well, For the soul that child-like is, There is quiet in the spell That brings back early memories.

SONG.

I.

Lift up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light outshine!

Let me adore the mysteries Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll, Attuned to an ordered soul!

II.

Open thy lips yet once again And, while my soul doth hush With awe, pour forth that holy strain Which seemeth me to gush, A fount of music, running o'er From thy deep spirit's inmost core!

III.

The melody that dwells in thee Begets in me as well A spiritual harmony, A mild and blessed spell; Far, far above earth's atmosphere I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear.

THE DEPARTED.

Not they alone are the departed, Who have laid them down to sleep In the grave narrow and lonely, Not for them only do I vigils keep, Not for them only am I heavy-hearted, Not for them only!

Many, many, there are many Who no more are with me here, As cherished, as beloved as any Whom I have seen upon the bier.

I weep to think of those old faces, To see them in their grief or mirth; I weep--for there are empty places Around my heart's once crowded hearth; The cold ground doth not cover them, The gra.s.s hath not grown over them, Yet are they gone from me on earth;-- O! how more bitter is this weeping, Than for those lost ones who are sleeping Where sun will shine and flowers blow, Where gentle winds will whisper low, And the stars have them in their keeping!

Wherefore from me who loved you so, O! wherefore did ye go?

I have shed full many a tear, I have wrestled oft in prayer-- But ye do not come again; How could anything so dear, How could anything so fair, Vanish like the summer rain?

No, no, it cannot be, But ye are still with me!

And yet, O! where art thou, Childhood, with sunny brow And floating hair?

Where art thou hiding now?

I have sought thee everywhere, All among the shrubs and flowers Of those garden-walks of ours-- Thou art not there!

When the shadow of Night's wings Hath darkened all the Earth, I listen for thy gambolings Beside the cheerful hearth-- Thou art not there!

I listen to the far-off bell, I murmur o'er the little songs Which thou didst love so well, Pleasant memories come in throngs And mine eyes are blurred with tears, But no glimpse of thee appears: Lonely am I in the Winter, lonely in the Spring, Summer and Harvest bring no trace of thee-- Oh! whither, whither art thou wandering, Thou who didst once so cleave to me?

And Love is gone;-- I have seen him come, I have seen him, too, depart, Leaving desolate his home, His bright home in my heart.

I am alone!

Cold, cold is his hearth-stone, Wide open stands the door; The frolic and the gentle one Shall I see no more, no more?

At the fount the bowl is broken, I shall drink it not again, All my longing prayers are spoken, And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain!

Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies, Whither have ye fled away?

I long for you in mournful trances, I long for you by night and day; Beautiful thoughts that once were mine, Might I but win you back once more, Might ye about my being twine And cl.u.s.ter as ye did of yore!

O! do not let me pray in vain-- How good and happy I should be, How free from every shade of pain, If ye would come again to me!

O, come again! come, come again!

Hath the sun forgot its brightness, Have the stars forgot to shine, That they bring not their wonted lightness To this weary heart of mine?

'Tis not the sun that shone on thee, Happy childhood, long ago-- Not the same stars silently Looking on the same bright snow-- Not the same that Love and I Together watched in days gone by!

No, not the same, alas for me!

Would G.o.d that those who early went To the house dark and low, For whom our mourning heads were bent, For whom our steps were slow; O, would that these alone had left us, That Fate of these alone had reft us, Would G.o.d indeed that it were so!

Many leaves too soon must wither, Many flowers too soon must die, Many bright ones wandering hither, We know not whence, we know not why, Like the leaves and like the flowers, Vanish, ere the summer hours, That brought them to us, have gone by.