THE glory has pa.s.sed from the goldenrod's plume, The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red, The maples like torches aflame overhead.

But what if the joy of the summer is past, And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast?

For me dull November is sweeter than May, For my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day!

Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest?

Will the needle swing back from the east or the west?

At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate; A friend may prove laggard,--love never comes late.

Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet.

Too early! Too early! She could not forget!

When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed, She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road.

I pa.s.s the low wall where the ivy entwines; I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines; I haste by the boulder that lies in the field, Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.

Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood?

Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood?

The minute draws near,--but her watch may go wrong; My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long?

Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do!

Why question? Why tremble? Are angels more true?

She would come to the lover who calls her his own Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone!

I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had pa.s.sed.

I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last.

Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road!

IN VITA MINERVA

VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,-- She will not hear thy call; She steals upon thee unawares, Or seeks thee not at all.

Soft as the moonbeams when they sought Endymion's fragrant bower, She parts the whispering leaves of thought To show her full-blown flower.

For thee her wooing hour has pa.s.sed, The singing birds have flown, And winter comes with icy blast To chill thy buds unblown.

Yet, though the woods no longer thrill As once their arches rung, Sweet echoes hover round thee still Of songs thy summer sung.

Live in thy past; await no more The rush of heaven-sent wings; Earth still has music left in store While Memory sighs and sings.

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS

FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL

TO MY OLD READERS

You know "The Teacups," that congenial set Which round the Teapot you have often met; The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,-- Knew as the shepherd of another fold Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same As when you called him by a different name.

Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill Has taught her duly every cup to fill; "Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm;" "hot as you can pour;"

"No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more."

Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays, Trying so hard to make his speech precise The captious listener finds it overnice.

Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain, Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain, Which, while its curious fancies we pursue, Oft makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too?"

Along the board our growing list extends, As one by one we count our cl.u.s.tering friends,-- The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare; In strong, dark lines our square-nibbed pen should draw The lordly presence of the MAN OF LAW; Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place, A lighter touch, his slender form to trace.

Mark the fair lady he is seated by,-- Some say he is her lover,--some deny,-- Watch them together,--time alone can show If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or no.

Where in my list of phrases shall I seek The fitting words of NUMBER FIVE to speak?

Such task demands a readier pen than mine,-- What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine?

Why should I call her gracious, winning, fair?

Why with the loveliest of her s.e.x compare?

Those varied charms have many a Muse inspired,-- At last their worn superlatives have tired; Wit, beauty, sweetness, each alluring grace, All these in honeyed verse have found their place; I need them not,--two little words I find Which hold them all in happiest form combined; No more with baffled language will I strive,-- All in one breath I utter: Number Five!

Now count our teaspoons--if you care to learn How many tinkling cups were served in turn,-- Add all together, you will find them ten,-- Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then.

Our bright DELILAH you must needs recall, The comely handmaid, youngest of us all; Need I remind you how the little maid Came at a pinch to our Professor's aid,-- Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears And eased his looks of half a score of years?

Sometimes, at table, as you well must know, The stream of talk will all at once run low, The air seems smitten with a sudden chill, The wit grows silent and the gossip still; This was our poet's chance, the hour of need, When rhymes and stories we were used to read.

One day a whisper round the teacups stole,-- "No sc.r.a.p of paper in the silver bowl!"

(Our "poet's corner" may I not expect My kindly reader still may recollect?) "What! not a line to keep our souls alive?"

Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five.

"No matter, something we must find to read,-- Find it or make it,--yes, we must indeed!

Now I remember I have seen at times Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,-- How certain secrets, long in silence sealed, In after days were guessed at or revealed.

Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,-- They all were written many a year ago; But an old story, be it false or true, Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new; Wait but three sips and I will go myself, And fetch the book of verses from its shelf."

No time was lost in finding what she sought,-- Gone but one moment,--lo! the book is brought.

"Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed That you, this evening, shall be first to read,-- Lucky for us that listen, for in fact Who reads this poem must know how to _act_."

Right well she knew that in his greener age He had a mighty hankering for the stage.

The patient audience had not long to wait; Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait; Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,-- He spread the page before him and began.

THE BANKER'S SECRET

THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast The town has heard of for a year, at least; The sparry l.u.s.tres shed their broadest blaze, Damask and silver catch and spread the rays; The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil; The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines, The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines; With one admiring look the scene survey, And turn a moment from the bright display.

Of all the joys of earthly pride or power, What gives most life, worth living, in an hour?

When Victory settles on the doubtful fight And the last foeman wheels in panting flight, No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun; Life's sovereign moment is a battle won.

But say what next? To shape a Senate's choice, By the strong magic of the master's voice; To ride the stormy tempest of debate That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state.

Third in the list, the happy lover's prize Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes.

If some would have it first instead of third, So let it be,--I answer not a word.

The fourth,--sweet readers, let the thoughtless half Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh; Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown, The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down; But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few, Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true.