There is the house, with the gate red-barr'd,
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the bee-hives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed o'er-run,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings, of a year ago.
There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside Farm.
I mind me how, with a lover's care,
From my Sunday coat
I brush'd off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cool'd at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted a month had pass'd,—
Down through the beeches I look'd at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now,-the slant-wise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sun-down's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before,
The house and the trees,
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,—
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling I listen'd: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of One
Gone on the journey we all must go.
Then I said to myself-My Mary weeps
For the Dead to-day :
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away.
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sang to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on:
Stay at home, pretty bees! fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his grey hairs gone
For evermore !
Revile him not! the Tempter hath
A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall.
O! dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age
Falls back in night!
Scorn? Would the angels laugh to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark
From hope and heaven?
Let not the land once proud of him
Insult him now;
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim
Dishonour'd brow!
But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake
A long lament as for the Dead
In sadness make!
Of all we loved and honour'd nought
Save power remains,—
A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul hath fled:
When faith is lost, when honour dies,
The Man is dead.
the reverence of old days
To his dead fame:
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!
THE RIVER-PATH.
No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem:
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew,
For from us ere the day was done
The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified :
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare :
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom :
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river roll'd in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod
We gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seem'd not of moon or sun.
We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckon'd our Dear Ones gone before;
And still'd our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear.
Sudden our pathway turn'd from night:
The hills swung open to the light ;
Through their green gates the sunshine show'd,
A long slant splendour downward flow'd:
Down glade and glen and bank it roll'd ;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side.
So (pray'd we), when our feet draw near
The river dark with mortal fear,
And the night cometh chill with dew,
O Father! let thy light break through!
So let the hills of doubt divide!
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!
So let the eyes that fail on earth
On thy eternal hills look forth,
And in thy beckoning Angels know
The Dear Ones whom we loved below!
THE LENT JEWELS.
In schools of wisdom all the day was spent:
His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent,
With homeward thoughts which dwelt upon the wife
And two fair children who consoled his life.
She, meeting at the threshold, led him in,
And, with these words preventing, did begin :-
"Ever rejoicing at your wish'd return,
Yet am I most so now: for since this morn
I have been much perplex'd and sorely tried
Upon one point which you shall now decide.
Some years ago, a friend into my care
Some jewels gave,-rich precious gems they were ;
But having given them in my charge, this friend
Did afterward nor come for them, nor send,
But left them in my keeping for so long
That now it almost seems to me a wrong
That he should suddenly arrive to-day,
To take those jewels which he left away.
What think you? Shall I freely yield them back,
And with no murmuring ?—so henceforth to lack
Those gems myself, which I had learn'd to see
Almost as mine for ever, mine in fee."
"What question can be here? Your own true heart Must needs advise you of the only part:
That may be claim'd again which was but lent,
And should be yielded with no discontent;
Nor surely can we find herein a wrong,
That it was left us to enjoy so long."
"Good is the word!" she answer'd : And evermore that it is good allow!" And, rising, to an inner chamber led;
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