At Sundown | Page 6

Conn.
She sang alone, ere womanhood had known?The gift of song which fills the air to-day?Tender and sweet, a music all her own?May fitly linger where she knelt to pray.
MILTON
Inscription on the Memorial Window in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America.
The new world honors him whose lofty plea?For England's freedom made her own more sure,?Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be?Their common freehold while both worlds endure.
THE BIRTHDAY WREATH
December 17, 1891.
Blossom and greenness, making all?The winter birthday tropical,?And the plain Quaker parlors gay,?Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall;?We saw them fade, and droop, and fall,?And laid them tenderly away.
White virgin lilies, mignonette,?Blown rose, and pink, and violet,?A breath of fragrance passing by;?Visions of beauty and decay,?Colors and shapes that could not stay,?The fairest, sweetest, first to die.
But still this rustic wreath of mine,?Of acorned oak and needled pine,?And lighter growths of forest lands,?Woven and wound with careful pains,?And tender thoughts, and prayers, remains,?As when it dropped from love's dear hands.
And not unfitly garlanded,?Is he, who, country-born and bred,?Welcomes the sylvan ring which gives?A feeling of old summer days,?The wild delight of woodland ways,?The glory of the autumn leaves.
And, if the flowery meed of song?To other bards may well belong,?Be his, who from the farm-field spoke?A word for Freedom when her need?Was not of dulcimer and reed.?This Isthmian wreath of pine and oak.
THE WIND OF MARCH.
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing?Under the sky's gray arch;?Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing?It is the wind of March.
Between the passing and the coming season,?This stormy interlude?Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason?For trustful gratitude.
Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarning?Of light and warmth to come,?The longed-for joy of Nature's Easter morning,?The earth arisen in bloom.
In the loud tumult winter's strength is breaking;?I listen to the sound,?As to a voice of resurrection, waking?To life the dead, cold ground.
Between these gusts, to the soft lapse I hearken?Of rivulets on their way;?I see these tossed and naked tree-tops darken?With the fresh leaves of May.
This roar of storm, this sky so gray and lowering?Invite the airs of Spring,?A warmer sunshine over fields of flowering,?The bluebird's song and wing.
Closely behind, the Gulf's warm breezes follow?This northern hurricane,?And, borne thereon, the bobolink and swallow?Shall visit us again.
And, in green wood-paths, in the kine-fed pasture?And by the whispering rills,?Shall flowers repeat the lesson of the Master,?Taught on his Syrian hills.
Blow, then, wild wind! thy roar shall end in singing,?Thy chill in blossoming;?Come, like Bethesda's troubling angel, bringing?The healing of the Spring.
BETWEEN THE GATES.
Between the gates of birth and death?An old and saintly pilgrim passed,?With look of one who witnesseth?The long-sought goal at last.
O thou whose reverent feet have found?The Master's footprints in thy way,?And walked thereon as holy ground,?A boon of thee I pray.
"My lack would borrow thy excess,?My feeble faith the strength of thine;?I need thy soul's white saintliness?To hide the stains of mine.
"The grace and favor else denied?May well be granted for thy sake."?So, tempted, doubting, sorely tried,?A younger pilgrim spake.
"Thy prayer, my son, transcends my gift;?No power is mine," the sage replied,?"The burden of a soul to lift?Or stain of sin to hide.
"Howe'er the outward life may seem,?For pardoning grace we all must pray;?No man his brother can redeem?Or a soul's ransom pay.
"Not always age is growth of good;?Its years have losses with their gain;?Against some evil youth withstood?Weak hands may strive in vain.
"With deeper voice than any speech?Of mortal lips from man to man,?What earth's unwisdom may not teach?The Spirit only can.
"Make thou that holy guide thine own,?And following where it leads the way,?The known shall lapse in the unknown?As twilight into day.
"The best of earth shall still remain,?And heaven's eternal years shall prove?That life and death, and joy and pain,?Are ministers of Love."
THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER.
Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines?Through yon columnar pines,?And on the deepening shadows of the lawn?Its golden lines are drawn.
Dreaming of long gone summer days like this,?Feeling the wind's soft kiss,?Grateful and glad that failing ear and sight?Have still their old delight,
I sit alone, and watch the warm, sweet day?Lapse tenderly away;?And, wistful, with a feeling of forecast,?I ask, "Is this the last?
"Will nevermore for me the seasons run?Their round, and will the sun?Of ardent summers yet to come forget?For me to rise and set?"
Thou shouldst be here, or I should be with thee?Wherever thou mayst be,?Lips mute, hands clasped, in silences of speech?Each answering unto each.
For this still hour, this sense of mystery far?Beyond the evening star,?No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll:?The soul would fain with soul
Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil?The wise-disposing Will,?And, in the evening as at morning, trust?The All-Merciful and Just.
The solemn joy that soul-communion feels?Immortal life reveals;?And human love, its prophecy and sign,?Interprets love divine.
Come then, in thought, if