I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road: a carriage stopped: But little she dreamed, as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange ?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'T was well she died before. - Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if
he could,
Nodoubt remembering things that were,A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I'm better now; that glass was warming. —
You rascal limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink:
The sooner, the better for Roger and me!
THE speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.
I watch the slow flakes as they fall
On bank and brier and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.
The hooded beehive, small and low,
Stands like a maiden in the snow;
And the old door-slab is half hid
Under an alabaster lid.
All day it snows: the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.
The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree:
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white
As snow-flakes, on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruised part,
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.
AROUND this lovely valley rise
The purple hills of Paradise.
O, softly on yon banks of haze,
Her rosy face the Summer lays !
Becalmed along the azure sky,
The argosies of cloudland lie,
Whose shores, with many a shining rift,
Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.
Through all the long midsummer-day
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.
I seek the coolest sheltered seat,
Just where the field and forest meet, -
Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,
The ancient oaks austere and grand,
And fringy roots and pebbles fret
The ripples of the rivulet.
I watch the mowers, as they go
Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved
With even stroke their scythes they swing,
In tune their merry whetstones ring.
Behind the nimble youngsters run,
And toss the thick swaths in the sun.
The cattle graze, while, warm and still,
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,
And bright, where summer breezes break,
The green wheat crinkles like a lake.
The butterfly and humblebee
Come to the pleasant woods with me;
Quickly before me runs the quail,
Her chickens skulk behind the rail;
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,
And the woodpecker pecks and flits.
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,
The swarming insects drone and hum,
The partridge beats its throbbing drum.
The squirrel leaps among the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house.
The oriole flashes by; and, look!
Into the mirror of the brook,
Where the vain bluebird trims his coat,
Two tiny feathers fall and float.
As silently, as tenderly,
The down of peace descends on me.
O, this is peace! I have no need
Of friend to talk, of book to read:
A dear Companion here abides;
Close to my thrilling heart He hides;
The holy silence is His Voice:
I lie and listen, and rejoice.
THE WORD OF GOD TO LEYDEN CAME
THE word of God to Leyden came,
Dutch town by Zuyder-Zee;
Rise up, my children of no name,
My kings and priests to be.
There is an empire in the West,
Which I will soon unfold;
A thousand harvests in her breast,
Rocks ribbed with iron and gold.
Rise up, my children, time is ripe !
Old things are passed away.
Bishops and kings from earth I wipe:
Too long they've had their day.
A little ship have I prepared
To bear you o'er the seas;
And in your souls, my will declared,
Shall grow by slow degrees.
Beneath my throne the martyrs cry:
I hear their voice, How long?
It mingles with their praises high,
And with their victor song.
The thing they longed and waited for,
But died without the sight;
So, this shall be ! I wrong abhor,
The world I'll now set right.
Leave, then, the hammer and the loom,
You've other work to do;
For Freedom's commonwealth there 's room
And you shall build it too.
I'm tired of bishops and their pride,
I'm tired of kings as well;
Henceforth I take the people's side,
And with the people dwell.
Tear off the mitre from the priest,
And from the king, his crown;
Let all my captives be released;
Lift up, whom men cast down.
Their pastors let the people choose,
And choose their rulers too;
Whom they select, I'll not refuse,
But bless the work they do.
The Pilgrims rose, at this God's word,
And sailed the wintry seas:
With their own flesh nor blood conferred,
Nor thought of wealth or ease.
They left the towers of Leyden town,
They left the Zuyder-Zee;
BALDER'S WIFE
HER casement like a watchful eye
From the face of the wall looks down,
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry,
And with ivy leaves so brown.
Her golden head in her lily hand
Like a star in the spray o' the sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so light and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.
Like some bright honey-hearted rose
That the wild wind rudely mocks,
She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close
Hemmed in with a world of rocks. The livelong night she doth not stir,
But keeps at her casement lorn,
And the skirts of the darkness shine with her
As they shine with the light o' the morn,
And all who pass may hear her lay,
But let it be what tune it may,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.
And there, within that one-eyed tower, Lashed round with the ivy brown, She droops like some unpitied flower That the rain-fall washes down:
The damp o' the dew in her golden hair,
Her cheek like the spray o' the sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so glad and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away
To the moan of the willow water.
ALICE CARY
ONE sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream, That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.
Oh, if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think;
Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith! PHOEBE CARY
THE MASTER'S INVITATION DEAR Lord, thy table is outspread;
What other could such feast afford?
And thou art waiting at the head,
But I am all unworthy, Lord;
Yet do I hear thee say,
(Was ever love so free ?)
Come hither, son, to-day
And sit and sup with me.
O master! I am full of doubt,
My heart with sin and fear defiled;
Come thou, and cast the tempter out,
And make me as a little child;
Methinks I hear thee say,
Come thou, at once, and see
What love can take away,
And what confer on thee.
My Lord! to thee I fain would go,
Yet tarry now I know not why;
Speak, if to tell what well I know,
That none are half so vile as I.
What do I hear thee say?
Look, trembling one, and see
These tokens, which to-day
Tell what I did for thee.
Nay, Lord! I could not here forget
What thou didst for my ransom give;
The garden prayer, the bloody sweat,
All this and more, that I might live.
I hear thee sadly say,
If this remembered be,
Why linger thus to-day?
Why doubt and question me?
Oh, love to angels all unknown!
I turn from sin and self aside;
Thou hast the idol self o'erthrown,
I only see the Crucified;
I only hear thee say,
A feast is spread for thee
On this and every day,
If thou but follow me!
ANSON DAVIES FITZ RANDOLPH
As doth his heart who travels far from home
Leap up whenever he by chance doth
One from his mother-country lately come, Friend from my home - thus do I welcome thee.
Thou art so late arrived that I the tale
Of thy high lineage on thy brow can trace,
And almost feel the breath of that soft
gale
That wafted thee unto this desert place, And half can hear those ravishing sounds that flowed
From out Heaven's gate when it was oped for thee,
That thou awhile mightst leave thy bright abode
Amid these lone and desolate tracks to be A homesick, weary wanderer, and then Return unto thy native land again.
A PILGRIM am I, on my way
To seek and find the Holy Land; Scarce had I started, when there lay And marched round me a fourfold band: A smiling Joy, a weeping Woe, A Hope, a Fear, did with me go; And one may come, or one be gone; But I am never more alone.
My little Hope, she pines and droops,
And finds it hard to live on earth;
But then some pitying angel stoops
To lift her out of frost and dearth,
And bears her on before, and up,
To taste, out of our Saviour's cup,
Such cheer as here she cannot find,
While patiently I plod behind.
Thus oft I send her from below —
Poor little Hope - for change of air.
I miss her sorely; but I know
That God of her is taking care.
And when my earthly course is done,
To heaven's gate I'll see her run
To meet me mid the shining bands,
With full fruition in her hands.
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