Songs Ysame Part 1

Songs Ysame.

by Annie Fellows Johnston and Albion Fellows Bacon.

PRELUDE.

_WE cannot sing of life, whose years are brief, Nor sad heart-stories tell, who know no grief, Nor write of shipwrecks on the seas of Fate, Whose ship from out the harbor sailed but late.

But we may sing of fair and sunny days, Of Love that walks in peace through quiet ways; And unto him who turns the page to see Our simple story, haply it may be As when in some mild day in early spring, One through the budding woods goes wandering; And finds, where late the snow has blown across, Beneath the leaves, a violet in the moss._ _1887._ _A. F. B._

_NOW I can sing of life, whose days are brief, For I have walked close hand in hand with grief.

And I may tell of shipwrecked hopes, since mine Sank just outside the happy harbor line.

But still my song is of those sunny days When Love was with me in those quiet ways.

And unto him who turns the page to see That day's short story, haply it may be, The joy of those old memories he feels: As one who through the wintry twilight steals, And sees, across the chilly wastes of snow, The darkened sunset's rosy afterglow._ _1892._ _A. F. J._

PART I.

SONGS YSAME

The Lighting of the Candles.

WHENCE came the ember That touched our young souls' candles first with light; In shadowy years, too distant to remember, Where childhood merges backward into night?

I know not, but the halo of those tapers Has ever since around all nature shone; And we have looked at life through golden vapors Because of that one ember touch alone.

At Early Candle-Lighting.

THOSE, who have heard the whispered breath Of Nature's secret "Shibboleth,"

And learned the pa.s.s-word to unroll The veil that hides her inmost soul, May follow; but this by-path leads Through mullein stalks and jimson-weeds.

And he who scorning treads them down Would deem but poor and common-place Those whom he'll meet in homespun gown.

But they who lovingly retrace Their steps to scenes I dream about, Will find the latch-string hanging out.

With them I claim companionship, And for them burn my tallow-dip, At early candle-lighting.

To these low hills, around which cling My fondest thoughts, I would not bring An alien eye long used to sights Among the snow-crowned Alpine heights.

An eagle does not bend its wing To low-built nests where robins sing.

Between the fence's zigzag rails, The stranger sees the road that trails Its winding way into the dark, Fern-scented woods. He does not mark The old log cabin at the end As I, or hail it as a friend, Or catch, when daylight's last rays wane, The glimmer through its narrow pane Of early candle-lighting.

As anglers sit and half in dream Dip lazy lines into the stream, And watch the swimming life below, So I watch pictures come and go.

And in the flame, Alladin-wise, See genii of the past arise.

If it be so that common things Can fledge your fancy with fast wings; If you the language can translate Of lowly life, and make it great, And can the beauty understand That dignifies a toil-worn hand, Look in this halo, and see how The homely seems transfigured now At early candle-lighting.

A fire-place where the great logs roar And shine across the puncheon floor, And through the c.h.i.n.ked walls, here and there, The snow steals, and the frosty air.

Meager and bare the furnishings, But hospitality that kings Might well dispense, trans.m.u.tes to gold, The welcome given young and old.

Plain and uncouth in speech and dress, But richly clad in kindliness, The neighbors gather, one by one, At rustic rout when day is done.

Vanish all else in this soft light,-- The past is ours again tonight; 'Tis early candle-lighting.

Oh, well-remembered scenes like these: The candy-pullings, husking-bees-- The evenings when the quilting frames Were laid aside for romping games; The singing school! The spelling match!

My hand still lingers on the latch, I fain would wider swing the door And enter with the guests once more.

Though into ashes long ago That fire faded, still the glow That warmed the hearts around it met, Immortal, burns within me yet.

Still to that cabin in the wood I turn for highest types of good At early candle-lighting.

How fast the scenes come flocking to My mind, as white sheep jostle through The gap, when pasture bars are down, And pa.s.s into the twilight brown.

Grandmother's face and snowy cap, The knitting work upon her lap, The creaking, high-backed rocking-chair; The spinning-wheel, the big loom where The shuttle carried song and thread; The valance on the high, white bed Whose folds the lavender still keep.

Oh! nowhere else such dreamless sleep On tired eyes its deep spell lays, As that which came in those old days At early candle-lighting.

A kitchen lit by one dim light, And 'round the table in affright, A group of children telling tales.

Outside, the wind--a banshee--wails.

Even the shadows, that they throw Upon the walls, to giants grow.

The hailstones 'gainst the window panes Fall with the noise of clanking chains, Till, glancing back, they almost feel Black shapes from out the corners steal, And, climbing to the loft o'erhead, The witches follow them to bed.

The low flame flickers. Snuff the wick!

For ghosts and goblins crowd so thick At early candle-lighting.

An orchard path that tramping feet For half a century have beat; Here to the fields at sun-up went The reapers. Here, on errands sent, Small bare-feet loitered, loath to go.

Here apple-boughs dropped blooming snow, Through garden borders gaily set With touch-me-nots and bouncing Bet; Here pa.s.sed at dusk the harvester With quickened step and pulse astir At sight of some one's fluttering gown, Who stood with sunbonnet pulled down And called the cows. Ah, in a glance One reads that simple, old romance At early candle-lighting.

One picture more. A winter day Just done, and supper cleared away.

The romping children quiet grow, And in the reverent silence, slow The old man turns the sacred page, Guide of his life and staff of age.

And then, the while my eyes grow dim, The mother's voice begins a hymn: "_Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer That calls me from a world of care!_"

What wonder from those cabins rude Came lives of stalwart rect.i.tude, When hearth-stones were the altars where Arose the vestal flame of prayer At early candle-lighting.

No crumbling castle walls are ours, No ruined battlements and towers.

Our history, on callow wings, Soared not in time of feudal kings; No strolling minstrel's roundelay Tells of past glory in decay, But rugged life of pioneer Has pa.s.sed away among us here; And as the ivy tendrils grow About the ancient turrets, so The influence of its st.u.r.dy truth Shall live in never-ending youth, When simple customs of its day Have, long-forgotten, pa.s.sed away With early candle-lighting.

Bob White.

JUST now, beyond the turmoil and the din Of crowded streets that city walls shut in, I heard the whistle of a quail begin: "Bob White! Bob White!"

So faintly and far away falling It seemed that a dream voice was calling "Bob White! Bob White!"

How the old sights and sounds come thronging And thrill me with a sudden longing!

Through quiet country lanes the sunset shines.