STEWARDSHIP.

What can I do for Thee, Almighty G.o.d, Whose breath can wake, whose voice can calm, the sea?

Should I endeavor, with this striving brain, Which, in its striving, errs, and, erring, turns, And, fearful, flies from its appointed field-- With these weak hands, that blindly grope along The road of Truth to higher things, uplift Those fallen by the way, whom Thou didst name My brothers? I, to the sad, ancient world, Speak, in unfaltering accents, of my soul's Instinctive yearnings, loftiest ideals, And holiest hopes of the fair destiny Of all my fellow-souls, who tread the way?

When One has left a message, sweet, divine, Eternal, for the fainting world to read, Should I arise and cry, an echo faint, Of His all-satisfying tones of Love, And lisp my dreams of Truth? I am afraid!

Yet, trembling, still I dare not to be mute.

Remembering His vast Love, I can not choose But humbly say the lessons I have learned.

Teach me, O G.o.d, to feel Thy silences, And hear Thy voice aright, in wind and wave; Teach me the upward look of Faith and Hope, Which lifts, nor ever drags the spirit down; Teach me the tender touch and the warm smile Of a deep, all-embracing heart, whose light Is the sweet essence of true Charity!

THE SEA GULL.

Strong-winged soul of the lifting sea, Bird of the gale, Launch thyself from the crags, and fly Over the crested waves, nor sigh For the sheltered home, but gladly hail The sea and the open sky!

High, low, high, low, Over the foam, Gliding level with the mast, Darting close above the vast Roll of billows--then come home, And hide thee from the blast.

Once again, thy pinions free Spread to the speaking breeze!

Forward, like a mermaid light, Onward, like to a soul as white As the curling foam of the singing seas, Nor shrink from the coming night.

Rolling fog and fading light, Spread and sail!

Fold thy pinions, breast the deep, In the darkness, Spirit, sleep, Soul of the gale!

MT. VERNON.

Home of the Dead! One glance of lingering love We cast behind us, where our vessel's wake Winds, foaming, backward to Virginian hills.

Home of the Dead! Retreating from thy sh.o.r.es We breathe a final sigh, a last farewell.

The pillared mansion gleams amid the green, The sombre tomb, deserted, stands alone; While, over all, a thousand beacons burn.

The West displays a canopy of sky, Woven by angels, flung across the hills, Where sleeps the silent dust of Washington.

Bleak is the wind that leaps like blade unsheathed From out the silver scabbard of the East!

At hide and seek, among the ruffled waves, The eerie shadows play in elvish glee.

A thief, Night steals the golden glories bright Of Day. But still a flush of silken rose Colors the West, stains the broad river's breast, And casts a garland 'cross the Eastern sky.

Behold, on either sh.o.r.e, reflected green, Dim in the dying l.u.s.tre of the sun, While tips of rose, like diadems, adorn And wreathe the gracious brows of drowsy hills.

Behold and marvel! See and comprehend!

Amid this beauty lies the sacred dust Of one who was a hero and a man, While all the hills that sleep about his tomb Shine with the glory of G.o.d's holy light.

MY MOTHER.

Has she faded from my skies forevermore, Like a star that slides adown the arch of Night, Or the sunlight, swiftly paling on the sh.o.r.e Of my boundless sea of hopes, that glittered bright In the l.u.s.tre of her smile? Is she gone forevermore?

Or has she but departed for a while?

Shall I never feel her hand upon my brow?

Shall I never meet her lips in kisses sweet?

Or is it that I am denied her now, And some day shall hear the music of her feet, And, like Proserpine, will come, with the happy winds that blow, Leap the years, and find, in her, my final home?

THE CRADLE SONG.

Adown the vista of the years, I turn and look with silent soul, As though to catch a muted strain Of melody, that seems to roll In tender cadence to my ear.

But, as I wait with eyes that long The singer to behold--it fades, And silence ends the Cradle Song.

But when the shadows of the years Have lengthened slowly to the West, And once again I lay me down To sleep, upon my mother's breast, Then well I know I ne'er again Shall cry to G.o.d, "How long? How long?"

For, to my soul, her voice will sing A never-ending Cradle Song.

OUT OF THE DARK.

Out of the Dark that shrouded Thee, my Lord, Upon that day of Pa.s.sion and of Pain, There rose a cry from Thee which rent the sky, Piercing the shadows of the noontide gloom In vibrant tones that rang with agony Supreme, and, with the strength of holy grief, Divine despair, rolled upward on the wings Of Mystery unto the eternal Throne-- "Eli! Eli! Lama Sabacthani!"

Out of the dark that lies about my soul, Upon this day of sorrow and of pain, I lift mine eyes and gaze with prayerful heart Upon the tortured image of my Lord, Then lo! the sombre shadows melt away, And round my spirit glows a wonderous light, By thine own Cross and Pa.s.sion, blessed Lord, And by that mystic moment of despair, Thy world shall never know Thine awful Woe, Nor cry to G.o.d in agony supreme-- "Eli! Eli! Lama Sabacthani!"

NIOBE.

(Dedicated to the statue of Niobe, in the Uffizi Palace, Florence, Italy.)

Oh! form of perfect woe, in grief unending!

Soul-anguish, mortal pangs, in marble moulded!

Oh, sobs! by us unheard, that bosom rending!

Oh, tender form! within those arms enfolded!

With heart undaunted, has the Mother striven Against Death's vengeance, e'en within its portal; And when her soul with horror most is riven, Woman, she dares to face the wrath immortal.

So, through the ages, see those forms united In an eternal clasp. Ah, woe transcendent!

Upon that face, its beauty all unblighted, We read the Mother-love, supreme, resplendent!