Grandther Baldwins Thanksgiving with Other Ballads and Poems | Page 9

lives for me.
For when clouds and darkness are round me,
And my heart is heavy
with care,
I steal me away from the noisy crowd,
To dwell in my
castle fair.
There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my
call;
And I, with a master's air of pride,
May pace through the
vaulted hall.
And I envy not the monarchs
With cities under their sway;
For am I
not, in my own right,
A monarch as proud as they?
What matter, then, if to others
My castle a phantom may be,
Since I
feel, in the depths of my own heart,
That it is not so to me?

APPLE-BLOSSOMS.
I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,

And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.

I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For
is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I lie on a couch of downy grass,
With delicate blossoms strewn,

And I feel the throb of Nature's heart
Responsive to my own.
Oh,
the world is fair, and God is good,
That maketh life so dear;
For is
not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
The delicate blue of
the sky,
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
That
drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,

And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
The
blossoming time of the year?
SUMMER HOURS.
It is the year's high noon,
The earth sweet incense yields,
And o'er
the fresh, green fields
Bends the clear sky of June.
I leave the crowded streets,
The hum of busy life,
Its clamor and its
strife,
To breathe thy perfumed sweets.
O rare and golden hours!
The bird's melodious song,
Wavelike, is
borne along
Upon a strand of flowers.
I wander far away,
Where, through the forest trees,
Sports the cool
summer breeze,
In wild and wanton play.
A patriarchal elm
Its stately form uprears,
Which twice a hundred
years
Has ruled this woodland realm.

I sit beneath its shade,
And watch, with careless eye,
The brook that
babbles by,
And cools the leafy glade.
In truth I wonder not,
That in the ancient days
The temples of God's
praise
Were grove and leafy grot.
The noblest ever planned,
With quaint device and rare,
By man, can
ill compare
With these from God's own hand.
Pilgrim with way-worn feet,
Who, treading life's dull round,
No
true repose hast found,
Come to this green retreat.
For bird, and flower, and tree,
Green fields, and woodland wild,

Shall bear, with voices mild,
Sweet messages to thee.
JUNE.
Throw open wide your golden gates,
O poet-landed month of June,

And waft me, on your spicy breath,
The melody of birds in tune.
O fairest palace of the three,
Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,

I gaze upon your leafy courts
From out the vestibule of May.
I fain would tread your garden walks,
Or in your shady bowers
recline;
Then open wide your golden gates,
And make them mine,
and make them mine.
LITTLE CHARLIE.
A VIOLET grew by the river-side,
And gladdened all hearts with its
bloom;
While over the fields, on the scented air,
It breathed a rich
perfume.
But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,
And its portals
were opened wide;
And the heavy rain beat down the flower
That
grew by the river-side.
Not far away in a pleasant home,
There lived a little boy,
Whose

cheerful face and childish grace
Filled every heart with joy.
He
wandered one day to the river's verge,
With no one near to save;

And the heart that we loved with a boundless love
Was stilled in the
restless wave.
The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,
And we bade farewell to joy;

For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie
To the grave of the
little boy.
The birds still sing in the leafy tree
That shadows the
open door;
We heed them not, for we think of the voice
That we
shall hear no more.
We think of him at eventide,
And gaze on his vacant chair
With a
longing heart that will scarce believe
That Charlie is not there.
We
seem to hear his ringing laugh,
And his bounding step at the door;

But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,
We shall never hear
them more!
We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,
In the pleasant summer
hours;
We will speak his name in a softened voice,
And cover his
grave with flowers;
We will think of him in his heavenly home,--
In
his heavenly home so fair;
And we will trust with a hopeful trust

That we shall meet him there.
THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I.
IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,
I hear the
strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,
Who Chants, without ceasing,
that wonderful trill,
Of which the sole burden is still,
"Whip-poor-Will."
And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,
Has he been playing
truant this long summer day?
I listened a moment; more clear and
more shrill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."
But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;
I'll whip him,

don't fear, if you'll tell