THE LOST GARDEN.

There was a fair green garden sloping From the south-east side of the mountain-ledge; And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping Down through its paths, from the day's dim edge.

The bluest skies and the reddest roses Arched and varied its velvet sod; And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes The angels sing on the hills of G.o.d.

I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting With life's rare rapture and keen delight, And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting For something over the mountain-height.

I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory That turned to crimson the peaks of snow, And the winds from the west all breathed a story Of realms and regions I longed to know.

I saw on the garden's south side growing The brightest blossoms that breathe of June; I saw in the east how the sun was glowing, And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune; I heard the drip of a silver fountain, And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee But still I looked out over the mountain Where unnamed wonders awaited me.

I came at last to the western gateway, That led to the path I longed to climb; But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway, For close at my side stood gray-beard Time.

I paused, with feet that were fain to linger, Hard by that garden's golden gate, But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger; "Pa.s.s on," he said, "for the day groes late."

And now on the chill giay cliffs I wander, The heights recede which I thought to find, And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder, When I think of the garden I left behind.

Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor, I know full well it would not repay For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender That crept up over the edge o' day.

I would go back, but the ways are winding, If ways there are to that land, in sooth, For what man succeeds in ever finding A path to the garden of his lost youth?

But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten, That a rose scent dufts from far away, And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen, That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.

ART AND HEART.

Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover, It is not art, but _heart_, which wins the wide world over.

Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it, And the finest phrase falls dead if there is no feeling behind it.

Though perfect the player's touch, little, if any, he sways us, Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us.

Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure, Unless he writes from a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure.

So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goes with the saying; And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back of the praying.

It is not the artist's skill which into our soul comes stealing With a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player's feeling.

And it is not the poet's song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming, Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats under the rhyming.

And therefore I say again, though I am art's own true lover, That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RECOLLECTIONS]

MOCKERY.

Why do we grudge our sweets so to the living Who, G.o.d knows, find at best too much of gall, And then with generous, open hands kneel, giving Unto the dead our all?

Why do we pierce the warm hearts, sin or sorrow, With idle jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers, And when it cannot know, on some to-morrow, Speak of its woe through tears?

What do the dead care, for the tender token-- The love, the praise, the floral offerings?

But palpitating, living hearts are broken For want of just these things.

AS BY FIRE.

Sometimes I feel so pa.s.sionate a yearning For spiritual perfection here below, This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning, Seems my determined foe,

So actively it makes a stern resistance, So cruelly sometimes it wages war Against a wholly spiritual existence Which I am striving for.

It interrupts my soul's intense devotions; Some hope it strangles, of divinest birth, With a swift rush of violent emotions Which link me to the earth.

It is as if two mortal foes contended Within my bosom in a deadly strife, One for the loftier aims for souls intended, One for the earthly life.

And yet I know this very war within me, Which brings out all my will-power and control, This very conflict at the last shall win me The loved and longed-for goal.

The very fire which seems sometimes so cruel Is the white light that shows me my own strength.

A furnace, fed by the divinest fuel, It may become at length.

Ah! when in the immortal ranks enlisted, I sometimes wonder if we shall not find That not by deeds, but by what we've resisted, Our places are a.s.signed.

IF I SHOULD DIE.

RONDEAU.

If I should die, how kind you all would grow!

In that strange hour I would not have one foe.

There are no words too beautiful to say Of one who goes forevermore away Across that ebbing tide which has no flow.

With what new l.u.s.tre my good deeds would glow!

If faults were mine, no one would call them so, Or speak of me in aught but praise that day, If I should die.

Ah, friends! before my listening ear lies low, While I can hear and understand, bestow That gentle treatment and fond love, I pray, The l.u.s.tre of whose late though radiant way Would gild my grave with mocking light, I know, If I should die.

MeSALLIANCE.

I am troubled to-night with a curious pain; It is not of the flesh, it is not of the brain, Nor yet of a heart that is breaking: But down still deeper, and out of sight-- In the place where the soul and the body unite-- There lies the scat of the aching.

They have been lovers in days gone by; But the soul is fickle, and longs to fly From the fettering mesalliance: And she tears at the bonds which are binding her so, And pleads with the body to let her go, But he will not yield compliance.