All birds that love the English sky Throng round my path when she is by; The blackbird from a neighboring thorn With music brims the cup of morn, And in a thick, melodious rain The mavis pours her mellow strain!
But only when my Katie"s voice Makes all the listening woods rejoice I hear--with cheeks that flush and pale-- The pa.s.sion of the nightingale!
H. TIMROD.
My Love.
Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.
Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; G.o.d giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.
She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes.
She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.
Blessing she is; G.o.d made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.
She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne"er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman; one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as still As a broad river"s peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright.
And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh, and fair, and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
J.R. LOWELL.
She Came and Went.
As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred;-- I only know she came and went.
As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome"s measureless content, So my soul held that moment"s heaven;-- I only know she came and went.
As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps;-- I only know she came and went.
An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays;-- I only know she came and went.
Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And life"s last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.
J.R. LOWELL.
Her Epitaph.
The handful here, that once was Mary"s earth, Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul, That, when she died, all recognized her birth, And had their sorrow in serene control.
"Not here! not here!" to every mourner"s heart The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier; And when the tomb-door opened, with a start We heard it echoed from within,--"Not here!"
Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pa.s.s, Note in these flowers a delicater hue, Should spring come earlier to this hallowed gra.s.s, Or the bee later linger on the dew,--
Know that her spirit to her body lent Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can; That even her dust, and this her monument, Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man, Lonely through life, but looking for the day When what is mortal of himself shall sleep, When human pa.s.sion shall have pa.s.sed away, And Love no longer be a thing to weep.
T.W. PARSONS.
Apart.
At sea are tossing ships; On sh.o.r.e are dreaming sh.e.l.ls, And the waiting heart and the loving lips, Blossoms and bridal bells.
At sea are sails a-gleam; On sh.o.r.e are longing eyes, And the far horizon"s haunting dream Of ships that sail the skies.
At sea are masts that rise Like spectres from the deep; On sh.o.r.e are the ghosts of drowning cries That cross the waves of sleep.
At sea are wrecks a-strand; On sh.o.r.e are sh.e.l.ls that moan, Old anchors buried in barren sand, Sea-mist and dreams alone.
J.J. PIATT.
The Discoverer.
I have a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater than Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together!
He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.
Ay, he has travelled whither A winged pilot steered his bark Through the portals of the dark, Past h.o.a.ry Mimir"s well and tree, Across the unknown sea.
Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover!
Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover."
--With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went.
Since that time no word From the absent has been heard.
Who can tell How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound?
Would that he might return!