The Calendar and Other Verses Part 2

I.

Thou shrill-voiced cricket there In yonder corner, Thou remindest me Of joys departed, and of fair And fallen summer. O little mourner, Cease thy pensive fluting, Lest a flood of melancholy, Sad as thine, That to my heart is suiting, Encompa.s.s me--it is unholy Thus to pine For fallen joys or days departed, E'en though thou art so broken-hearted, For moments are divine.

II.

Silent art thou?--thanks to thee, O little cricket Underneath my chair; Thanks to thee--yet would I see Thy shadow less--out to yon thicket!

There let thy dull repining Drive where the winds are driven, Nor deign to bring Thy sorrows back--let such be given To those in shades reclining Who love to sing, With thee, of dear departed Summer, And hear again her sad funereal drummer, Thou little, mournful thing.

III.

One moment stay--why comest thou With doleful ditty Unbidden to my room; Wee, dusky mourner, do not go, But say--what is it claims thy pity, And sets thee telling, telling Such a solemn story So to me, As if there knelling, knelling Of some departed glory Dear to thee?

O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle, And admit life is a riddle, And Heaven holds the key.

IV.

Thou mindest not; for hark!--again Resounds thy racket Shriller than before; Singst thou this sad strain As if befitting to thy ebon jacket, With carvings curious, And a color glossy, Like old wine-- Tiny thing, be not so furious And uneedful noisy; Cease to pine For something fled--for joys or hopes departed, Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted, O mourner most divine.

IN PRAISE OF INEZ.

Sweet Inez, would that I might pledge My thoughts to thee with line on line, And prove, if tender words can prove, That all my tender thoughts are thine.

Would that my feeble pen might pluck From the green fields of poetry, Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deck Thy name so near, so dear to me.

Would that my hand might gather here From the sweet fields of tender thought, Some blossom, fragrant as the rose, Some lily, lovely as I ought.

But why should I commit a sin By wishing any flower for thee; Thou art more beautiful, I know, Than all the flowers of poetry.

What shall I then with thee compare, To make a true comparison-- The dawning day, the dying light, The rising or the setting sun?

At morn I see the early sun Appear with glory in her eye, But looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee, for thee sigh.

At noon I see that fervid orb Proclaim the sultry hour of day, But looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee, turn away.

At length I see that same bright sun Descend below the western blue, Yet looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee love thee, too.

Fade then, ye flowers of the field, And sink, ye dying beams of light, But let, O let my Inez be Forever present to my sight.

THE CRIME OF CHRISTMASTIME.

I.

Two thousand years!--two thousand years Since Mary, with a mother's fears, Brought forth for all humanities The Christian of the centuries; And now men turn from toil away To celebrate his natal day By feasting happy hours away And giving gifts with lavish hand, Throughout the length of every land;-- A n.o.ble custom n.o.bly born In Bethlehem one holy morn, But intermingling with the good, A pagan custom long has stood, As you and I and all may see-- This war against the greenwood tree, This robbing of posterity,-- Until the burden of my rhyme Is of this crime of Christmastime.

II.

The skies are white with soft moonlight; In Christian lands the lamps burn bright, In splendor gleaming from the walls Of parlors and of festive halls; Or yet, amid some snow-white choir, Sweet maidens sing the world's desire, Till, answering in low refrain, The people all repeat the strain Of "peace on earth, to men good-will,"

When sudden all the hall is still.

Then tender music, soft and low, Heavenward seems to float and flow, But--mid these glittering lights, O see The stately form of greenwood tree!

Whose graceful arms are drooping wide As grieving this fair Christmastide.

III.

The hills are white with lovely light, And everywhere the stars burn bright In splendor gleaming on the wood, Where once, in loyal familyhood, The evergreens together stood, But--now no vespers, sweet or low, In happy measures upward flow, For there--by Heaven's lights, O see The absence of the greenwood tree!

Whose n.o.ble form once waiving wide, This melancholy waste did hide.

IV.

Yet here and there a lonely tree Still sounds a mournful melody, And answering, in low refrain, The winds repeat the solemn strain, Until the hills conscious of harm, Awaken in a wild alarm, Until, with trumpets to the sky, They echo up to Heaven the cry:-- Ye Forests, rouse--shake off thy shroud, And sound a protest, long and loud; Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chide This carelessness of Christmastide-- And Man, thou prodigal of Time, Bestir thyself--and heed my rhyme, And curb this crime of Christmastime.

THE MINER.

Beyond the beams of brightening day A lonely miner, moving slow Along a darkly winding way, Is daily seen to go, Where shines no sun or cheerful ray To make those gloomy caverns gay.

For there no glorious morning light Is burning in a cloudless sky And there no banners flaming bright, Are lifted heaven-high, But that lone miner, far from sight, Treads boundless realms of boundless night.

There neither brook nor lovely lawn Allures the miner's weary eye, For, having caught one glimpse of dawn, With many an anxious sigh, Those precious lights are left in p.a.w.n To be by fainter hearts withdrawn.

Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower Dare penetrate that fearful gloom, Where, low beneath a crumbling tower, Or dark, resounding room, Yon miner, in some evil hour, A ruined prisoner may cower.

Yet, while the day is speeding on, Far from those skies that shine so clear, Far from the glory of the sun And happy birds that cheer-- Hark!--through those echoing caves, anon The hammer's merry monotone.

There, far from every happy sound Of blithesome bird or cheerful song, In yonder solitudes profound, The miner, all day long, Hears his own music echo round Those deep-voiced caverns underground.

There, in that gloom which doth affright Faint-hearted, sky-enamoured men, The miner, with his little light, Hews out a hollow den, And seems to find some keen delight Where others see but noisesome night.

Thus many a heart, along life's way, Must labor where no cheerful sun Of golden hopes or pleasures gay, Shines till the day is done, For where the deepest shadows play The purest hearts are led astray.

Yet some, unseen by careless Fate, Know naught of gloom or sorrow here.

But happily, with hearts elate, They walk a charmed sphere, And lightly laugh, or lightly prate Of lonely souls left desolate.