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at night for a last sleeping,
Say in that ear?Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping
How should I fear??And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still.
Do Thou Thy will."
I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
My soul would lie?All the night long; and when the morning splendor
Flashed o'er the sky,?I think that I could smile--could calmly say,
"It is His day."
But, if instead a hand from the blue yonder
Held out a scroll,?On which my life was, writ, and I with wonder
Beheld unroll?To a long century's end its mystic clew,
What should I do?
What COULD I do, O blessed Guide and Master,
Other than this:?Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
Nor fear to miss?The road, although so very long it be,
While led by Thee?
Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me,
Although unseen,?Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee,
Or heavens serene,?Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray,
Thy love decay.
I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth
Thy counsels wise;?Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,
No voice replies?To all my questioning thought, the time to tell,
And it is well.
Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
Thy will always,?Through a long century's ripening fruition,
Or a short day's.?Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
If thou come late.
ON THE SHORE.
The punctual tide draws up the bay,?With ripple of wave and hiss of spray,?And the great red flower of the light-house tower?Blooms on the headland far away.
Petal by petal its fiery rose?Out of the darkness buds and grows;?A dazzling shape on the dim, far cape,?A beckoning shape as it comes and goes.
A moment of bloom, and then it dies?On the windy cliff 'twixt the sea and skies.?The fog laughs low to see it go,?And the white waves watch it with cruel eyes.
Then suddenly out of the mist-cloud dun,?As touched and wooed by unseen sun,?Again into sight bursts the rose of light?And opens its petals one by one.
Ah, the storm may be wild and the sea be strong,?And man is weak and the darkness long,?But while blossoms the flower on the light-house tower?There still is place for a smile and a song.
AMONG THE LILIES.
She stood among the lilies?In sunset's brightest ray,?Among the tall June lilies,?As stately fair as they;?And I, a boyish lover then,?Looked once, and, lingering, looked again,
And life began that day.
She sat among the lilies,?My sweet, all lily-pale;?The summer lilies listened,?I whispered low my tale.?O golden anthers, breathing balm,?O hush of peace, O twilight calm,
Did you or I prevail?
She lies among the lily-snows,?Beneath the wintry sky;?All round her and about her?The buried lilies lie.?They will awake at touch of Spring,?And she, my fair and flower-like thing,
In spring-time--by and by.
NOVEMBER.
Dry leaves upon the wall,?Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,?A single frosted cluster on the grape
Still hangs--and that is all.
It hangs forgotten quite,--?Forgotten in the purple vintage-day,?Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay,
The daggers of the night.
It knew the thrill of spring;?It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons;?Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runes
Of summer's whispering.
Through balmy morns of May;?Through fragrances of June and bright July,?And August, hot and still, it hung on high
And purpled day by day.
Of fair and mantling shapes,?No braver, fairer cluster on the tree;?And what then is this thing has come to thee
Among the other grapes,
Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine,?Granted the right to grow thy mates beside,?To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied
Thy place among the wine?
Ah! we are dull and blind.?The riddle is too hard for us to guess?The why of joy or of unhappiness,
Chosen or left behind.
But everywhere a host?Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine:?Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine,
Left out to meet the frost.
EMBALMED.
This is the street and the dwelling,?Let me count the houses o'er;?Yes,--one, two, three from the corner,?And the house that I love makes four.
That is the very window?Where I used to see her head?Bent over book or needle,?With ivy garlanded.
And the very loop of the curtain,?And the very curve of the vine,?Were full of the grace and the meaning?Which was hers by some right divine.
I began to be glad at the corner,?And all the way to the door?My heart outran my footsteps,?And frolicked and danced before,
In haste for the words of welcome,?The voice, the repose and grace,?And the smile, like a benediction,?Of that beautiful, vanished face.
Now I pass the door, and I pause not,?And I look the other way;?But ever, a waft of fragrance,?Too subtle to name or stay,
Comes the thought of the gracious presence?Which made that past time sweet,?And still to those who remember,?Embalms the house and the street,
Like the breath from some vase, now empty?Of a flowery shape unseen,?Which follows the path of its lover,?To tell where a rose has been.
GINEVRA DEGLI AMIERI.
A STORY OF OLD FLORENCE.
So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile?Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,?Whispering, and