The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 75

EMILIA

Halfway up the Hemlock valley turnpike, In the bend of Silver Water's arm, Where the deer come trooping down at even, Drink the cowslip pool, and fear no harm, Dwells Emilia, Flower of the fields of Camlet Farm.

Sitting sewing by the western window As the too brief mountain sunshine flies, Hast thou seen a slender-shouldered figure With a chestnut braid, Minerva-wise, Round her temples, Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes?

When the freshets flood the Silver Water, When the swallow flying northward braves Sleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothills Where the windflowers' pale plantation waves-- (Fairy gardens Springing from the dead leaves in their graves),--

Falls forgotten, then, Emilia's needle; Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain, Sing the cuckoo and the English primrose, Outdoors calling with a quaint refrain; And a rainbow Seems to brighten through the gusty rain.

Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded, Fearless of the showery shifting wind; Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses, And her bright braids in a 'kerchief pinned, Younger sister Of the damsel-errant Rosalind.

While she helps to serve the harvest supper In the lantern-lighted village hall, Moonlight rises on the burning woodland, Echoes dwindle from the distant Fall.

Hark, Emilia!

In her ear the airy voices call.

Hidden papers in the dusty garret, Where her few and secret poems lie,-- Thither flies her heart to join her treasure, While she serves, with absent-musing eye, Mighty tankards Foaming cider in the gla.s.ses high.

"Would she mingle with her young companions!"

Vainly do her aunts and uncles say; Ever, from the village sports and dances, Early missed, Emilia slips away.

Whither vanished?

With what unimagined mates to play?

Did they seek her, wandering by the water, They should find her comrades shy and strange: Queens and princesses, and saints and fairies, Dimly moving in a cloud of change:-- Desdemona; Mariana of the Moated Grange.

Up this valley to the fair and market When young farmers from the southward ride, Oft they linger at a sound of chanting In the meadows by the turnpike side; Long they listen, Deep in fancies of a fairy bride.

Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876-

TO A GREEK GIRL

With breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,-- Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoe!

Where'er you pa.s.s,--where'er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow; Where'er you go,--where'er you pa.s.s, There comes a gladness on the gra.s.s; You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,-- Blithe airs that blow from down and sea; You wake in me a Pan not dead,-- Not wholly dead!--Autonoe!

How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-G.o.d; How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade With you to weave a basket-braid; To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe!

In vain,--in vain! The years divide: Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams;-- A vision, like Alcestis, brought From under-lands of Memory,-- A dream of Form in days of Thought,-- A dream,--a dream, Autonoe!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

"CHAMBER SCENE"

An Exquisite Picture In The Studio Of A Young Artist At Rome

She rose from her untroubled sleep, And put away her soft brown hair, And, in a tone as low and deep As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer-- Her snow-white hands together pressed, Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid, The folded linen on her breast, Just swelling with the charms it hid; And from her long and flowing dress Escaped a bare and slender foot, Whose shape upon the earth did press Like a new snow-flake, white and "mute"; And there, from slumber pure and warm, Like a young spirit fresh from heaven, She bowed her slight and graceful form, And humbly prayed to be forgiven.

Oh G.o.d! if souls unsoiled as these Need daily mercy from Thy throne; If she upon her bended knees, Our loveliest and our purest one,-- She, with a face so clear and bright, We deem her some stray child of light;-- If she, with those soft eyes in tears, Day after day in her first years, Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee, What far, far deeper need have we!

How hardly, if she win not heaven, Will our wild errors be forgiven!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

"AH, BE NOT FALSE"

Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor!

Be true, be good; Be wise as thou art tender; Be all that Beauty should.

Not lightly be thy citadel subdued; Not ign.o.bly, not untimely, Take praise in solemn mood; Take love sublimely.

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]

A LIFE-LESSON

There! little girl, don't cry!

They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pa.s.s by.-- There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry!

They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by.-- There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry!

They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But Heaven holds all for which you sigh.-- There! little girl, don't cry!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE MAN