Songs of Many Seasons (1862-74) | Page 2

blame;?Are not all our hearts the same?
For the rest, they take their chance,--?Some may pay a passing glance;?Others,-well, they served a turn,--?Wherefore written, would you learn?
Not for glory, not for pelf,?Not, be sure, to please myself,?Not for any meaner ends,--?Always "by request of friends."
Here's the cousin of a king,--?Would I do the civil thing??Here 's the first-born of a queen;?Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin.
Would I polish off Japan??Would I greet this famous man,?Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah?--?Figaro gi and Figaro la!
Would I just this once comply?--?So they teased and teased till I?(Be the truth at once confessed)?Wavered--yielded--did my best.
Turn my pages,--never mind?If you like not all you find;?Think not all the grains are gold?Sacramento's sand-banks hold.
Every kernel has its shell,?Every chime its harshest bell,?Every face its weariest look,?Every shelf its emptiest book,
Every field its leanest sheaf,?Every book its dullest leaf,?Every leaf its weakest line,--?Shall it not be so with mine?
Best for worst shall make amends,?Find us, keep us, leave us friends?Till, perchance, we meet again.?Benedicite.--Amen!
October 7, 1874.
IN THE QUIET DAYS
AN OLD-YEAR SONG
As through the forest, disarrayed?By chill November, late I strayed,?A lonely minstrel of the wood?Was singing to the solitude?I loved thy music, thus I said,?When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread?Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now?Thy carol on the leafless bough.?Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer?The sadness of the dying year.
When violets pranked the turf with blue?And morning filled their cups with dew,?Thy slender voice with rippling trill?The budding April bowers would fill,?Nor passed its joyous tones away?When April rounded into May:?Thy life shall hail no second dawn,--?Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.
And I remember--well-a-day!--?Thy full-blown summer roundelay,?As when behind a broidered screen?Some holy maiden sings unseen?With answering notes the woodland rung,?And every tree-top found a tongue.?How deep the shade! the groves how fair!?Sing, little bird! the woods are bare.
The summer's throbbing chant is done?And mute the choral antiphon;?The birds have left the shivering pines?To flit among the trellised vines,?Or fan the air with scented plumes?Amid the love-sick orange-blooms,?And thou art here alone,--alone,--?Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.
The snow has capped yon distant hill,?At morn the running brook was still,?From driven herds the clouds that rise?Are like the smoke of sacrifice;?Erelong the frozen sod shall mock?The ploughshare, changed to stubborn rock,?The brawling streams shall soon be dumb,--?Sing, little bird! the frosts have come.
Fast, fast the lengthening shadows creep,?The songless fowls are half asleep,?The air grows chill, the setting sun?May leave thee ere thy song is done,?The pulse that warms thy breast grow cold,?Thy secret die with thee, untold?The lingering sunset still is bright,--?Sing, little bird! 't will soon be night.
1874.
DOROTHY Q.
A FAMILY PORTRAIT
I cannot tell the story of Dorothy Q. more simply in prose than I have told it in verse, but I can add something to it. Dorothy was the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, and the niece of Josiah Quincy, junior, the young patriot and orator who died just before the American Revolution, of which he was one of the most eloquent and effective promoters. The son of the latter, Josiah Quincy, the first mayor of Boston bearing that name, lived to a great age, one of the most useful and honored citizens of his time. The canvas of the painting was so much decayed that it had to be replaced by a new one, in doing which the rapier thrust was of course filled up.
GRANDMOTHER'S mother: her age, I guess,?Thirteen summers, or something less;?Girlish bust, but womanly air;?Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;?Lips that lover has never kissed;?Taper fingers and slender wrist;?Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;?So they painted the little maid.
On her hand a parrot green?Sits unmoving and broods serene.?Hold up the canvas full in view,--?Look! there's a rent the light shines through,?Dark with a century's fringe of dust,--?That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust!?Such is the tale the lady old,?Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.
Who the painter was none may tell,--?One whose best was not over well;?Hard and dry, it must be confessed,?Flat as a rose that has long been pressed;?Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,?Dainty colors of red and white,?And in her slender shape are seen?Hint and promise of stately mien.
Look not on her with eyes of scorn,--?Dorothy Q. was a lady born!?Ay! since the galloping Normans came,?England's annals have known her name;?And still to the three-billed rebel town?Dear is that ancient name's renown,?For many a civic wreath they won,?The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.
O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.!?Strange is the gift that I owe to you;?Such a gift as never a king?Save to daughter or son might bring,--?All my tenure of heart and hand,?All my title to house and land;?Mother and sister and child and wife?And joy and sorrow and death and life!
What if a hundred years ago?Those close-shut lips had answered No,?When forth the tremulous question came?That