Golden Numbers Part 17

Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Gra.s.s with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue And brier-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he pa.s.sed.

Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher!

Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat; When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep: Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_All Things Wait Upon Thee_

Innocent eyes not ours And made to look on flowers, Eyes of small birds, and insects small; Morn after summer morn The sweet rose on her thorn Opens her bosom to them all.

The last and least of things, That soar on quivering wings, Or crawl among the gra.s.s blades out of sight, Have just as clear a right To their appointed portion of delight As queens or kings.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

_Providence_

Lo, the lilies of the field, How their leaves instruction yield!

Hark to Nature's lesson given By the blessed birds of heaven!

Every bush and tufted tree Warbles sweet philosophy: Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, G.o.d provideth for the morrow.

Say, with richer crimson glows The kingly mantle than the rose?

Say, have kings more wholesome fare Than we citizens of air?

Barns nor h.o.a.rded grain have we, Yet we carol merrily.

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, G.o.d provideth for the morrow.

One there lives, whose guardian eye Guides our humble destiny; One there lives, who, Lord of all, Keeps our feathers lest they fall.

Pa.s.s we blithely then the time, Fearless of the snare and lime, Free from doubt and faithless sorrow: G.o.d provideth for the morrow.

REGINALD HEBER.

INTERLEAVES

_The Inglenook_

"_With his flute of reeds a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger._"

The ancient arrowmaker is left standing lonely at the door of his wigwam, but Laughing Water and Hiawatha have gone to make a new household among the myriad homes of earth.

It matters not whether the inglenook be in wigwam or cabin, cottage or palace, if _Love Dwells Within_ be graven upon the threshold, for "where a true wife comes, there home is always around her." She is the Domina or House Lady, and under the benediction of her gaze arise sweet order, peace, and restful charm. The "gudeman," too; "his very foot has music in't when he comes up the stair," and like the fire on the hearth he diffuses warmth and comfort and good cheer. By and by a cradle swings to and fro in the sheltered corner of the fireside; baby feet have come to stray on life's untrodden brink; baby eyes whose speech make dumb the wise smile up into the mother's as she sings her lullaby:

"_The Queen has sceptre, crown, and ball, You are my sceptre, crown, and all.

And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby._"

The dog and the cat snooze peacefully on the hearth, the kettle hums, the kitchen clock ticks drowsily. The circle of love widens to take in all who are helping to make home beautiful--the farm boy, the milkmaid, and even the whinnying mare and friendly cow.

The poetry of the inglenook is simple, unpretentious, humble, but it has a tender charm of its own because it sings of a heaven far on this side of the stars:

"By men called home."

V

THE INGLENOOK

_A New Household_

O Fortunate, O happy day, When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth, Like a new star just sprung to birth, And rolled on its harmonious way Into the boundless realms of s.p.a.ce!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

_From "The Hanging of the Crane."_

_Two Heavens_

For there are two heavens, sweet, Both made of love,--one, inconceivable Ev'n by the other, so divine it is; The other, far on this side of the stars, By men called home.

LEIGH HUNT.

_A Song of Love_

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest?

Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest?

What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?

'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low-- And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?

That stirs the vexed soul with an aching--a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?

Whence the music that fills all our being--that thrills Around us, beneath, and above?

'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes-- But the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight?

That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight?