My Queen.
A fair sweet blossom is born for you, A beautiful rose, my queen!
And never was flower so fair as this, Oh, never so fair, I ween!
A banner is hung in the western sky Of colors that flash ere they fade and die; And the rippling waves where the waters run Are stained with the gold of the summer sun; The world is so fair for you, my queen, The world is so fair and true; And the rose that blossoms to-day, my own, Is the love that I have for you.
The gra.s.ses that spring at your feet, my queen, Could whisper all day in your ear; But I stand dumb at your side, my own, Stilled by my love"s own fear.
Oh, what would you know of my love"s sweet will The heart speaks most when the lips are still; And the love that is filling my soul to-day Is the beautiful blossom you throw away.
But I worship you still, my queen, my queen, I worship you still, I ween; For the loveliest blossom on earth I know Is my beautiful love, my queen!
The Song of the Brook.
Oh, what would you have, you splendid sun, With your restless eyes of fire?
And why do you lean o"er the lilies pale?
What more can your heart desire?
You"ve crimsoned the rays in the heart of the rose, You"ve drunk up the dewdrops all; And down in the meadows your golden light Has gilded the daisies tall.
The thirsty flowers that grow on the hill Have given their lives to you; And what do you care, you restless sun, As you sail through your seas of blue?
Your rays are so warm, like the glances of love, The lily is mad with delight; And whispers her secret with silent joy, As she kisses my face in the night.
What more can you want, O eager sun?
I"ve given my all to you; I"ve counted my treasures and claimed them not, What more can I ever do?
But, eager sun, with your restless rays, Know this, that I love not you; For the sun that knoweth a world of loves To one can never be true.
Night.
"Tis eventide; the noisy brook is hushed Or murmurs only as a tired child, Worn out with play; the tangled weeds lie still Within the marshy hollow. Quaint and dark The willows bend above the brooklet"s tide, Reflecting shadowy images therein.
The dark-browed trees, with faces to the sky, Shut out the light that fades in crimson lines Along the western sky. And yonder shade Of purple marks the cloud, the storm-G.o.d rides In moods of angry fire.
The woods are filled With wild-wood blossoms drinking in the dew.
Their scented breath is sweeter than the maid"s Who stands at eve and drinks in love and hope From every budding flower.
All day the sun With fiery breath has held his hot, long reign; The leaves have quivered "neath his burning gaze, And all the flowers have drooped; yet now the moon, His pale young bride, awaking from her spell Of sweet day dreams, arises in the dusky East, And sweeping back the clouds that dim her crown Of stars, floods all the world with holy light.
Oh, welcome night! the flowers love their queen!
Yea, better than their king, for he is fierce And warm, and drinks the jeweled dew-drops all.
Her hand is cool and soothing! "neath its spell They sink to restful slumber.
Bless"d night!
When all he world"s asleep, and thought can fly On tireless wings from sky to sky, when, free From earthly chains, the soul immortal feels Its throbbing freedom.
Bless"d night!
When G.o.d looks down from every shining star, And breathes in every dew-gemmed flower, when faith From her rock-bound temple on the hills His everlasting glory sings! Oh, welcome night!
Thy beauty holds the spell that wakes to life All things immortal. Crowned be thou with light Eternal as the sun whose radiance wakes the day.
Sounds from the Convent.
"Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast and demure."
-- [Milton]
White-robed nun, I pray thee tell me Whatsoe"er my life shall be; Thou of G.o.d art purely chosen, Ne"er can I be like to thee.
There is sunlight in the shadow Of the lives we live below; There is starlight in the darkness Of the night of human woe.
Yet I pray thee, sweet-voiced woman, Tell me of thy life and thee; Can the soul to heaven given Yield its secrets unto me?
Nevermore the earth shall claim thee, Only lilies bloom for thee; All the world is full of beauty That thy eyes may never see.
On the hill the daisies springing, Lift their heads to greet the morn; Yet thou mayest not pluck the smallest Of these blossoms lately born.
Violets may bring no memories Unto thee of days gone by; Summer eves and joyous mornings-- In the grave these, too, must die.
Long ago, the roses drooping, Crimson blushed and died for thee; Yet to-day no more thou know"st them, They are lost in Life"s dead sea.
Oh, the world is full of beauty!
Oh, the world is full of love!
Yet the chains that bind thee earthward, Link thy soul with Heaven above.
Through the windows creeps the sunlight, Rays of gold and restless red; Covering all the world with glory, Sweetly resting on thy head.