Songs Ysame Part 3

A fuller knowledge must its thirst a.s.suage.

Perhaps we would not deem those pleasures flown As bright as those which star the present age, Had not upon them long years lain The sunshine of an amber pane.

The dust of dim forgetfulness piles fast Upon the chains that thralled us yesterday.

So will it be when this day, too, is past, And in its arms we've seen it bear away The cares that brooded in the tired brain; The work that weighted down the weary hand; The high hopes that we struggled to attain; The problems that we could not understand.

Washed of its stain, bereft of any sting, Seen through the window of the Memory, Perchance, a gentler grace to it may cling Than we may now think possible to see.

For skies will gleam, though gray with rain, Like sunshine through that amber pane.

We may not stand on Patmos, and look through The star-hinged portals where the great pearls gleam.

No brush that unveiled beauty ever drew, Save one, that caught its shadow in a dream.

So lest we falter, faithless and afraid, The Merciful, remembering we are dust, Reveals not heaven for which our hearts have prayed, But by a token teaches us to trust; And day by day allows us to look through The window of the Memory, broad and vast, (Till jasper minarets rise into view) Upon the happy heaven of the past; And gives, till purer light we gain, The sunshine of that amber pane.

At a Tenement Window.

SOMETIMES my needle stops with half-drawn thread (Not often though, each moment's waste means bread, And missing st.i.tches leave the little mouths unfed).

I look down on the dingy court below: A tuft of gra.s.s is all it has to show,-- A broken pump, where thirsty children go.

Above, there shines a bit of sky, so small That it might be a pa.s.sing blue-bird's wing.

One tree leans up against the high brick wall, And there the sparrows twitter of the spring, Until they waken in my heart a cry Of hunger, that no bread can satisfy.

Always before, when Maytime took her way Across the fields, I followed close. To-day I can but dream of all her bright array.

My work drops down. Across the sill I lean, And long with bitter longing, for unseen Rain-freshened paths, where budding woods grow green.

The water trickles from the pump below Upon the stones. With eyes half shut, I hear It falling in a pool where rushes grow, And feel a cooling presence drawing near.

And now the sparrows chirp again. No, hark!-- A singing as of some far meadow lark.

It is the same old miracle applied Unto myself, that on the mountain-side The few small loaves and fishes multiplied.

Behold, how strange and sweet the mystery!

The birds, the broken pump, the gnarled tree, Have brought the fullness of the spring to me.

For in the leaves that rustle by the wall All forests find a tongue. And so that gra.s.s Can, with its struggling tuft of green, recall Wide, bloom-filled meadows where the cattle pa.s.s.

How it can be, but dimly I divine.

These crumbs, G.o.d given, make the whole loaf mine.

A Song.

"Home-keeping hearts are happiest."--LONGFELLOW.

THERE will be distant journeyings enough To reach that Land beyond the ether's sea, To satisfy the veriest roaming heart,-- Let me stay home with thee!

There will be new companionships enough In that bright spirit-life. Why should we flee So soon to alien hearts and stranger scenes?

I would stay home with thee.

The heart grows homesick, thinking of the change When these familiar things no more shall be; When e'en the thought of them, perchance, shall fade,-- Let me stay home with thee.

I would imprint upon my mind each scene, Each meadow path, and stream, and orchard-tree, Beloved since childhood, holy with our hopes, Sweet with the thoughts of thee.

And each dear household place, let me learn all By heart, where I am wont thy form to see.

Who knows what things shall pa.s.s? If I may share A hearth in heaven with thee?

Eclipse.

G.o.d keep us from the sordid mood That shrinks to self-infinitude, That sees no thing as good or grand, That answers not the hour's demand, And throws o'er Heaven's splendors furled The shadow of our little world.

In the Dark.

HERE in the dark I lie, and watch the stars That through the soft gloom shine like tear-bright eyes Behind a mourner's veil. The darkness seems Almost a vapor, palpable and dense, In which my room's familiar outlines melt, And all seems one black pall that folds me round.

Only a mirror glimmers through the dusk, And on the wall a dim, uncertain square Shows where a portrait hangs. Ah, even so Beloved faces fade into the past And naught remains except a s.p.a.ce of light To show us where they were.

How still it seems!

The busy clock, whose tell-tale talk was drowned By Day's uproarious voices, calls aloud, Undaunted by the dark, the flight of time, And through the halls its tones ring drearily.

The breeze on tiptoe seems to tread, as though It were afraid to rouse the drowsy leaves.

The long, dim street is quiet. Nothing breaks The dream of Night, asleep on Nature's breast.

Hark! Some one pa.s.ses. On the pavement stones Each stealthy step gives back a m.u.f.fled sound, Till the last foot-fall seems in distance drowned.

So Death might pa.s.s, bent on his mission dread, Adown the silent street, and none might know What hour he pa.s.sed or what he bore away.

Ah, sadder thought! So Life goes, unawares, Noiseless and swift and resolutely on, While the dumb world lies folded in the gloom, Unconscious and uncaring in its sleep.

And towards the west, the stars, all silently Like golden sands in G.o.d's great hour-gla.s.s, glide And fall into the nether crystal globe.

Felipa, Wife of Columbus.

MORE than the compa.s.s to the mariner, Wast thou, Felipa, to his dauntless soul.

Through adverse winds that threatened wreck, and nights Of rayless gloom, thou pointed ever to The North Star of his great ambition. He Who once has lost an Eden, or has gained A paradise by Eve's sweet influence, Alone can know how strong a spell lies in The witchery of a woman's beckoning hand.

And thou didst draw him, tide-like, higher still, Felipa, whispering the lessons learned From thy courageous father, till the flood Of his ambition burst all barriers And swept him onward to his longed-for goal.

Before the jewels of a Spanish queen Built fleets to waft him on his untried way, Thou gavest thy wealth of wifely sympathy To build the lofty purpose of his soul.

And now the centuries have cycled by, Till thou art all-forgotten by the throng That lauds the great Pathfinder of the deep.

It matters not in that infinitude Of s.p.a.ce, where thou dost guide thy spirit-bark To undiscovered lands, supremely fair.

If to this little planet thou couldst turn And voyage, wraithlike, to its cloud-hung rim, Thou wouldst not care for praise. And if, perchance, Some hand held out to thee a laurel bough, Thou wouldst not claim one leaf, but fondly turn To lay thy tribute, also, at his feet.

'Twixt Creek and Bay.