The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems Part 13

In you each loyal heart kept faith As strong as life, as stern as death; Though human lives like summer grain Were sown on every battle-plain; Blood of our bravest and our best, The red, red wine of life was pressed, And lost like summer rain.

In dust and smoke of carnage whirled, Before those dying eyes still swam Those coming years so grand and calm, The golden Autumns of the world!

Through frost and snow and wintry rains, Speed, silent hours!--the Nation waits, While at her feet the slave in chains, Kneels, listening for the coming fates; And round him droops in soil and dust, The bright flag of her stripes and stars: Speed, Autumn hours!--we wait in trust No tale of traitor lips can dim, Till Liberty's white hand unbars The broad gates of the glad New Year, Unfurls our banner free and clear, And ushers Peace and Freedom in!

[Footnote: President Lincoln's Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation took effect on the first day of the New Year, 1863.]

IN WAR TIME.

Into the west the day goes down, Smiling and fading into the night, Is it a cross, or is it a crown I have worn through all these hours of light!

Bending over my milk-white curds, In my dairy under the beech, Still the thought of my heart took words, And murmured itself in musical speech.

And all my pans of golden cream, Set in a silver shining row, Swam in my eyes like the shimmer and sheen Of arms and banners, and martial show.

The bee in his gold laced uniform, Drilled the ranks of clover blooms, And carried my very heart by storm, Mocking the roll of the distant drums.

But something choked my singing down, Deeper than any song expressed.-- Is it a cross, or is it a crown On my brow invisibly pressed!

Out of the east the star-watch shines, Lighting their camp-fires in the gray; I count their white tents' lengthening lines, And think of those who are far away.

Where the yellow globes of the orange grow In the southern fields-that slope to the sun,-- Oh say, have my brothers met the foe,-- Has another Shiloh been lost or won?

For when the moonlight falls across The threshold of our cottage door.

My heart is full of a sense of loss, As if they would return no more.

Last year when the April days were fair, And the harvest fields were ploughed and sown, Two stalwart boys took each his share, But now our father toils alone.

And often at our evening prayers, With an absence I can understand, I see him look at the vacant chairs, And wipe his brow with his wrinkled hand.

And therefore at the fireside nook, Kneeling sadly at night to pray, All the light of the holy book Seems to fall and point one way.

And therefore tending my milk-white curds, Still the song that my fancy hums, Catches the glitter of martial words, And sets itself to the beat of drums.

CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Break over the waiting hill-tops, White dawn of the Christmas morn!

For the angels have sung through the midnight, That the wonderful Babe is born.

And still in the slumbering valleys, The night's black tents are up, And the young moon stands on the mountains, Clear and fair as a silver cup.

Under the cottage rafters, Silent and soft and deep, On the swart low brow of the toiler, Settles the dew of sleep.

And some that watch and waken, Are dreaming of eyes whose ray Was long ago quenched and hidden Under the shroud away.

Oh, sing thy jubilant anthem Over the frozen mould, And tell that wonderful story Again, that never grows old!

For under the year's broad shadow, Along the upward way, Our footsteps often falter, And oftea wander astray.

Weary and weak and erring, In sorrow and doubt and tears, Shine through the mist and the darkness Star of a thousand years!

Awhile from the dusty marches Of life let us find release, And pitch our tents in the shadow Of the white-walled City of Peace,

Let us hear through the blessed starlight.

The angels of Bethlehem, Singing Glory to G.o.d in the highest, On earth good will to men.

White dawn of the Christmas morning, Through the snow-wreaths shining pale.

Let the joy-bells ring through the valleys, Hail to thy coming--hail!

TE DEUM LAUDAMUS

Along the floors of heaven the music rolls, Fills the vast dome, and lifts our fainting souls: Praise G.o.d! Oh praise Him all created things, Praise Him, the Lord of lords, the King of kings

Slow pulses coursing darkly underground, Leap up in leaf and blossom at the sound, Shake out glad pennons in remotest ways, And with a thousand voices utter praise.

Along the southern hills the verdure creeps, And faint green foliage clothes the craggy steeps, Where in the sunshine lie reposing herds.

Whose gladness has no need of spoken words.

In the deep woods there is a voice, which saith "The Lord is risen--there shall be no more death!

Listen, Oh Man! and thy dull ears shall hear The Easter Anthem of the awakened year."

Past isles of emerald moss the brooklet flows Melodious, and rejoicing as it goes; Past drooping ferns, and through the mazy whir Of insect wings of gold and gossamer.

Praise G.o.d!--they whisper softly each to each; Waves have a voice, and trees and stones a speech; Day unto day the chant of birds and breeze, And man alone is dumb, nor hears, nor sees.

A NOVEMBER WOOD-WALK.

Dead leaves are deep in all our forest walks; Their brightest tints not all extinguished yet, Shine redly glimmering through the dewy wet; And whereso'er thy musing foot is set, The fragrant cool-wort lifts its emerald stalks.

How kindly nature wraps secure and warm, In the fallen mantle of her summer pride, These lovely tender things that peep and hide, Whom unawares thy curious eye hath spied, For the long night of winter's frost and storm.

Still keeps the deer-berry its vivid green, Set in its glowing calyx like a gem; While hung above, a marvellous diadem Of tawny gold, the bittersweet's gray stem, Strung with its globes of murky flame is seen.

The foot sinks ankle-deep in velvet moss, The shroud of some dead giant of his race; Dun gold and green and brown thick interlace, Their tiny exquisite leaves in cunning trace, Weaving their beaded filaments across.