WHEN do I love you most, sweet books of mine? In strenuous morns when o'er your leaves I pore, Austerely bent to win austerest love,
Forgetting how the dewy meadows shine; Or afternoons when honeysuckles twine
About the seat, and to some dreamy shore Of old Romance, where lovers evermore Keep blissful hours, I follow at your sign?
Yea! ye are precious then, but most to me
Ere lamplight dawneth, when low croons the fire To whispering twilight in my little room, And eyes read not, but sitting silently
I feel your great hearts throbbing deep in quire, And hear you breathing round me in the gloom.
A NAKED house, a naked moor, A shivering pool before the door, A garden bare of flowers and fruit, And poplars at the garden foot; Such is the place that I live in, Bleak without and bare within.
Yet shall your ragged moors receive The incomparable pomp of eve, And the cold glories of the dawn Behind your shivering trees be drawn ; And when the wind from place to place Doth the unmoored cloud galleons chase, Your garden blooms and gleams again With leaping sun and glancing rain; Here shall the wizard moon ascend The heavens, in the crimson end
Of day's declining splendor; here, The army of the stars appear. The neighbor hollows, dry or wet, Spring shall with tender flowers beset; And oft the morning muser see Larks rising from the broomy lea, And every fairy wheel and thread Of cobweb dew dediamonded. When daisies go, shall winter time Silver the simple grass with rime; Autumnal frosts enchant the pool And make the cart ruts beautiful. And when snow bright the moor expands, How shall your children clap their hands! To make this earth our heritage, A cheerful and a changeful page, God's intricate and bright device Of days and seasons doth suffice.
HEART-REST.
FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE."
THE heart of man, walk it which way it will, Sequestered or frequented, smooth or rough, Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks, Or mid the clang of trumpets and the march Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt, Its hour of truce, its instant of repose, Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek The food of its affections, - still must slake Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure, And pleasant to behold.
AN old farm-house with meadows wide, And sweet with clover on each side; A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out The door with woodbine wreathed about, And wishes his one thought all day: "O, if I could but fly away
From this dull spot, the world to see, How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!"
Amid the city's constant din,
A man who round the world has been, Who, mid the tumult and the throng, Is thinking, thinking all day long: "O, could I only tread once more The field-path to the farm-house door, The old, green meadow could I see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be!"
ANNIE D. GREEN (Marian Douglas).
Bur where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Thongh patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind; As diferent good, by art or nature given To different nations makes their blessing even.
And then of this. Come, John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep" so, walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band. First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, the baby, slept, A glory 'gainst the pillow white. Softly the father stooped to lay His rough hand down in a gentle way, When dream or whisper made her stir, And huskily he said, "Not her, not her!" We stopped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so pitiful and fair; I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek A tear undried. Ere John could speak "He's but a baby, too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robbie's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. "No, for a thousand crowns, not him!" He whispered while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one- Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave, Bid us befriend him to his grave; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he;
"And so," said John, "I would not dare To send him from our bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above
And knelt by Mary, child of love.
Perhaps for her 't would better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay
Across her cheek in wilful way,
And shook his head: "Nay, love; not thee," The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad- So like his father. "No, John, no —
I cannot, will not, let him go." And so we wrote, in courteous way, We could not drive one child away; And afterward toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed, Happy in truth that not one face Was missed from its accustomed place; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting the rest to One in heaven.
WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good night and be kissed; O the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace ! O the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
And when they are gone, I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last; Of love that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past,
They are idols of hearts and of households; They are angels of God in disguise; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still gleams in their eyes;
O, these truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild; And I know now how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child?
I ask not a life for the dear ones,
All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod ;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God. My heart is the dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction; My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more; Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on its green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at morn and at even, Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended, And death says, "The school is dismissed!"
May the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good night and be kissed!
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