Nevertheless all merrily We bounded onward, Youth and I, Leashed closely in a silken tether: Ah Youth, ah Youth, but I would fain It came to pass, one morn of May, All in a swoon of golden weather, That I through green leaves fluttering Saw Joy uprise on Psyche wing: Eagerly, too eagerly We followed after-Youth and I Till suddenly he slipped the tether: "Where art thou, Youth?" I cried. In vain; He never more came back again. Yet onward through the devious way In rain or shine, I recked not whether, And we met face to face together: "Whence comest thou?"-and I writhed in vain "Unloose thy cruel grasp, O Pain!" But he would not. Since, day by day And changed it into iron bands, March we united, he and I; And we have grown such friends together (Well-a-day, well-a-day !) I and this my brother Pain, I think we'll never part again. All the mysteries of the churches, All the troubles of the stateWhom child-smiles teach "God is loving," And child-coffins, "God is great: " Laborare est orare: We too at His footstool wait. Laborare est orare; Hear it, ye of spirit poor, Who sit crouching at the threshold Lo! all life this truth declares, And the whole earth rings with prayers. A SILLY SONG. "O HEART, my heart!" she said, and heard The butter-cups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendor: The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood "O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, "There's not a tree of the valley, Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss Where the drops keep ever falling,— "There's not a foolish flower i' the grass, LABOR IS PRAYER. LABORARE est orare: We, black-visaged sons of toil, From the coal-mine and the anvil And the delving of the soil From the loom, the wharf, the warehouse, And the ever-whirling mill, Out of grim and hungry silence Raise a weak voice small and shrill ;Laborare est orare: Man, dost hear us? God, He will. Or the catechism and creed. Then, good sooth, we pray indeed. We, poor women, feeble-natured, Large of heart, in wisdom small, Who the world's incessant battle Cannot understand at all, AN HONEST VALENTINE. Returned from the Dead-Letter Office. THANK ye for your kindness, Though love's famed for blindness, A plan man, Miss-) write, Honey-moon quite over, If I less should scan You with eye of lover Than of mortal man? BY THE ALMA RIVER. Seeing my fair charmer Curl hair spire on spire, By the parlor-fire; Should I come home surly House turned upside down, Servants all a-snarl, or Cleaning steps or stair: Breakfast still in parlor, Dinner-anywhere: Shall I to cold bacon Meekly fall and dine? No-or I'm mistaken Much, my Valentine. What if we should quarrel? -Bless you, all folks do: Will you take the war ill, Just for the last word,- Will you smile, shake hands, And the truth beholding, With a kiss divine Stop my rough mouth's scolding?- If, should times grow harder, Make your old gowns do, Old days ne'er regret, Hand to hand with mine, Will you, Valentine? You at sixty charming As at sweet sixteen: Let's pray, nothing loath, dear, That our funeral may Make one date serve both, dear, As our marriage-day. Then, come joy or sorrow, Thou art mine-I thine. So we'll wed to-morrow, Dearest Valentine. BY THE ALMA RIVER. toy: WILLIE, fold your little hands; Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk, Right of nations or of creed, Chance-poised victory's bloody work: Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sebastopol; Willie, all to you and me Is that spot where'er it be, Where he stands-no other word! 579 Stands-God sure the child's prayer heardBy the Alma River. Willie, listen to the bells Ringing through the town to-day. Come, we'll lay us down, my child, Sleeps upon the open sward, Willie, Willie, go to sleep, God will keep us, O my boy; ROTHESAY BAY. Fu' yellow lie the corn-rigs Alang the shores o' Clyde And I'm a puir harst-lassie That stan's the lee-lang day Shearing the corn-rigs of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. OI had ance a true-love Now, I hae nane ava; And I had ance three brithers, But I hae tint them a'. My father and my mither Sleep i' the mools this day. I sit my lane amang the rigs Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. It's a bonnie bay at morning, And bonnier at the noon, But it's bonniest when the sun draps And the great black hills, like sleepin' kings, Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom, And a wee tear blin's my e'eAnd I think o' that far Countrie What I wad like to be! But I rise content i' the morning To wark while wark I may I' the yellow harst-field of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. Nay, sometimes seems it I could even bear O live! (So endeth faint the low pathetic cry And I can stand above the daisy-bed, This cavern underneath the moaning sea; LIVING: AFTER A DEATH. "That friend of mine who lives in God." O LIVE! (Thus seems it we should say to our belovedEach held by such slight links, so oft removed ;) And I can let thee go to the world's end, All precious names, companion, love, spouse, friend, Seal up in an eternal silence gray, Heap, as one heaps up sacrificial fires: Tumultuous world again with never a moanSave that which whispers still, "My own, my own," Unto the same broad sky whose arch immense O live! And I, methinks, can let all dear rights go, And sweet, sweet hopes, that took a life to weave, Vanish like gossamers of autumn eve. IN OUR BOAT. STARS trembling o'er us and sunset before us, Come not, pale Sorrow, flee till to-morrow, As the waves cover the depths we glide over, Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us, THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MOWING. ALL shimmering in the morning shine All still 'neath the departing light, OCTOBER. Twilight, though void of stars, Save where, low westering, Venus hides From the red eye of Mars; How quiet lies the silent field With all its beauties glowing: Just stirring-like a child asleepThe night before the mowing. Sharp steel, inevitable hand, Cut keen, cut kind! Our field We know full well must be laid low Before its wealth it yield: Labor and mirth and plenty blest Its blameless death bestowing: And yet we weep, and yet we weep, The night before the mowing. OCTOBER. It is no joy to me to sit On dreamy summer eves, When silently the timid moon Kisses the sleeping leaves, And all things through the fair hushed earth Love, rest-but nothing grieves. Better I like old Autumn With his hair tossed to and fro, Firm striding o'er the stubble-fields When the equinoctials blow. When shrinkingly the sun creeps up Drops downward on the mould- Into earth's lap does throw When the spent year its carol sinks Asks no more for the pleasure-draught, And all its storms and sunshine bursts Then step by step walks Autumn, With steady eyes that show Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, While the equinoctials blow. PLIGHTED. MINE to the core of the heart, my beauty! Duty's a slave that keeps the keys, Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden, Give a few friends hand or smile, 581 But the sanctuary heart, that none dare win, Keep holiest of holiest evermore; The crowd in the aisles may watch the door, Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors, A spring shut up, a fountain sealed." Mine! God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given Something all mine on this side heaven: As this my soul which I lift to Thee: Two to the world for the world's work's sake But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one. |