Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 67

The cl.u.s.tered clouds of snowy apple-blooms, Scarce shivered by a breeze, With odor faint, like flowers in feverish rooms, Fall, flake by flake, in peace.

'Tis labor's ebb; a hush of gentle joy, For man, and beast, and bird; The quavering songster ceases its employ; The aspen is not stirred.

But Nature hath no pause; she toileth still; Above the last-year leaves Thrusts the lithe germ, and o'er the terraced hill A fresher carpet weaves.

From many veins she sends her gathered streams To the huge-billowed main, Then through the air, impalpable as dreams, She calls them back again.

She shakes the dew from her ambrosial locks, She pours adown the steep The thundering waters; in her palm, she rocks The flower-throned bee to sleep.

Smile in the tempest, faint and fragile man, And tremble in the calm!

G.o.d plainest shows what great. Jehovah can, In these fair days of balm.

[Footnote 94: A native of Connecticut, but has lived for many years in the West, and latterly in Minnesota.]

=_Elijah E. Edwards,[95] 1831-._=

=_419._= "LET ME REST."

"Let me rest!"

It was the voice of one Whose life-long journey was but just begun.

With genial radiance shone his morning sun; The lark sprang up rejoicing from her nest, To warble praises in her Maker's ear; The fields were clad in flower-enamelled vest, And air of balm, and sunshine clear, Failed not to cheer That yet unweary pilgrim; but his breast Was harrowed with a strange, foreboding fear; Deeming the life to come, at best, But weariness, he murmured, "Let me rest."

"Let me rest!"

But not at morning's hour, Nor yet when clouds above my pathway lower; Let me bear up against affliction's power, Till life's red sun has sought its quiet west, Till o'er me spreads the solemn, silent night, When, having pa.s.sed the portals of the blessed, I may repose upon the Infinite, And learn aright Why He, the wise, the ever-loving, traced The path to heaven through a desert waste.

Courage, ye fainting ones! at His behest Ye pa.s.s through labor unto endless rest.

[Footnote 95: Born in Ohio; of late professor of ancient languages in Minnesota; a contributor in prose and verse to various magazines.]

=_Paul Hamilton Hayne,[96] 1831-._=

=_420._= "OCTOBER."

The pa.s.sionate summer's dead! the sky's aglow With roseate flushes of matured desire; The winds at eve are musical and low As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre, Far up among the pillared clouds of fire, Whose pomp in grand procession upward grows, With gorgeous blazonry of funereal shows, To celebrate the summer's past renown.

Ah, me! how regally the heavens look down, O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods, And harvest-fields with h.o.a.rded incense brown, And deep-toned majesty of golden floods, That lift their solemn dirges to the sky, To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.

[Footnote 96: A poet and critic of much Note; a native of South Carolina.]

=_Rosa V. Johnson Jeffrey_=[97] about =_1832-._=

=_421._= ANGEL WATCHERS.

Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep,-- And upon the winds of midnight, shining pinions round me sweep; Floating downward on the starlight, two bright infant-forms I see-- They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from heaven to visit me.

Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones' above, Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless love, And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shine, G.o.d forgive a mortal yearning still to call his angels mine.

Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seem Sweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 'mid the glories of my dream; Years will pa.s.s, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my name; But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the same.

And the bright band now around me, from their home perchance will rove, In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love; But my first-born still shall wander, from the sky in dreams to rest Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's breast.

Time may steal away the freshness, or some 'whelming grief destroy All the hopes that erst had blossomed, in my summer-time of joy; Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray, Every tie that now unites me to this life may pa.s.s away;--

But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest immortal home, Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams shall come; And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of earthly love, Angel children call me "Mother," and my soul will look above.

[Footnote 97: A native of Mississippi, but of late a resident of Kentucky; the author of several novels, and of many poetical pieces.]

=_Sarah J. Lippincott._=

From Putnam's Magazine.

=_422._= "ABSOLUTION."

The long day waned, when spent with pain, I seemed To drift on slowly toward the restful sh.o.r.e,-- So near, I breathed in balm, and caught faint gleams Of Lotus-blooms that fringe the waves of death, And breathless Palms that crown the heights of G.o.d.

Then I bethought me how dear hands would close These wistful eyes in welcome night, and fold These poor, tired hands in blameless idleness.

In tender mood I pictured forth the spot Wherein I should be laid to take my rest.

"It shall be in some paradise of graves, Where Sun and Shade do hold alternate watch; Where Willows sad trail low their tender green, And pious Elms build arches worshipful, O'ertowered by solemn Pines, in whose dark tops Enchanted storm-winds sigh through summer-nights; The stalwart exile from fair Lombardy, And slender Aspens, whose quiet, watchful leaves Give silver challenge to the pa.s.sing breeze, And softly flash and clash like fairy shields, Shall sentinel that quiet camping ground; The glow and grace of flowers will flood those mounds An ever-widening sea of billowy bloom; And not least lovely shall my grave-sod be, With Myrtles blue, and nestling Violets, And Star-flowers pale with watching--Pansies, dark, With mourning thoughts, and Lilies saintly pure; Deep-hearted Roses, sweet as buried love, And Woodbine-blossoms dripping honeyed dew Over a tablet and a sculptured name.

There little song-birds, careless of my sleep, Shall shake fine raptures from their throats, and thrill With life's triumphant joy the ear of Death; And lovely, gauzy creatures of an hour Preach immortality among the graves.

The chime of silvery waters shall be there-- A pleasant stream that winds among the flowers, But lingers not, for that it ever hears, Through leagues of wood and field and towered town, The great sea calling from his secret deeps."

'Twas here, methought or dreamed, an angel came And stood beside my couch, and bent on me A face of solemn questioning, still and stern, But pa.s.sing beautiful, and searched my soul With steady eyes, the while he seemed to say.

What hast thou done here, child, that thy poor dust Should lie embosomed in such loveliness?

Why should the gracious trees stand guard o'er thee?

Hast thou aspired, like them, through all thy life, And rest and healing with thy shadow cast?

Have deeds of thine brightened the world like flowers, And sweetened it with holiest charities?

=_Edmund Clarence Stedman,[98] 1833-._=

From "The Blameless Prince and other Poems."

=_423._= THE MOUNTAINS.