The Old Soldiers Story Part 5

The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

The blessed old volume! The face bent above it-- As now I recall it--is gravely severe, Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear, And, as down his features it trickles and glistens, The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.

The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derision And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies In the dust of the past, while this newer revision Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?

Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?

Shall we hear but a t.i.the of the words He has said, When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven To hear the old Bible my grandfather read?

The old-fashioned Bible-- The dust-covered Bible-- The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

UNCOMFORTED

Lelloine! Lelloine! Don't you hear me calling?

Calling through the night for you, and calling through the day; Calling when the dawn is here, and when the dusk is falling-- Calling for my Lelloine the angels lured away!

Lelloine! I call and listen, starting from my pillow-- In the hush of midnight, Lelloine! I cry, And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping willow Trail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply.

Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses, I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own; And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses, And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here alone.

I have prayed, O Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me, I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by the hand; And O it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come near me-- That He will never see my need, nor ever understand.

Won't you listen, Lelloine?--just a little leaning O'er the walls of Paradise--lean and hear my prayer, And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning, And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there.

WHAT THEY SAID

Whispering to themselves apart, They who knew her said of her, "Dying of a broken heart-- Death her only comforter-- For the man she loved is dead-- She will follow soon!" they said.

Beautiful? Ah! brush the dust From Raphael's fairest face, And restore it, as it must First have smiled back from its place On his easel as he leant Wrapt in awe and wonderment!

Why, to kiss the very hem Of the mourning-weeds she wore, Like the winds that rustled them, I had gone the round world o'er; And to touch her hand I swear All things dareless I would dare!

But unto themselves apart, Whispering, they said of her, "Dying of a broken heart-- Death her only comforter-- For the man she loved is dead-- She will follow soon!" they said.

So I mutely turned away, Turned with sorrow and despair, Yearning still from day to day For that woman dying there, Till at last, by longing led, I returned to find her--dead?

"Dead?"--I know that word would tell Rhyming there--but in this case "Wed" rhymes equally as well In the very selfsame place-- And, in fact, the latter word Is the one she had preferred.

Yet unto themselves apart, Whisp'ring they had said of her-- "Dying of a broken heart-- Death her only comforter-- For the man she loved is dead-- She will follow soon!" they said.

AFTER THE FROST

After the frost! O the rose is dead, And the weeds lie pied in the garden-bed, And the peach tree's shade in the wan sunshine, Faint as the veins in these hands of mine, Streaks the gray of the orchard wall Where the vine rasps loose, and the last leaves fall, And the bare boughs writhe, and the winds are lost-- After the frost--the frost!

After the frost! O the weary head And the hands and the heart are quieted; And the lips we loved are locked at last, And kiss not back, though the rain falls fast And the lashes drip, and the soul makes moan, And on through the dead leaves walks alone Where the bare boughs writhe and the winds are lost-- After the frost--the frost!

CHARLES H. PHILLIPS

OBIT NOVEMBER 5TH, 1881

O friend! There is no way To bid farewell to thee!

The words that we would say Above thy grave to-day Still falter and delay And fail us utterly.

When walking with us here, The hand we loved to press Was gentle, and sincere As thy frank eyes were clear Through every smile and tear Of pleasure and distress.

In years, young; yet in thought Mature; thy spirit, free, And fired with fervor caught Of thy proud sire, who fought His way to fame, and taught Its toilsome way to thee.

So even thou hast gained The victory G.o.d-given-- Yea, as our cheeks are stained With tears, and our souls pained And mute, thou hast attained Thy high reward in Heaven!

WHEN IT RAINS

When it rains, and with the rain Never bird has heart to sing, And across the window-pane Is no sunlight glimmering; When the pitiless refrain Brings a tremor to the lips, Our tears are like the rain As it drips, drips, drips-- Like the sad, unceasing rain as it drips.

When the light of heaven's blue Is blurred and blotted quite, And the dreary day to you Is but a long twilight; When it seems that ne'er again Shall the sun break its eclipse, Our tears are like the rain As it drips, drips, drips-- Like the endless, friendless rain as it drips.

When it rains! weary heart, O be of better cheer!

The leaden clouds will part, And the morrow will be clear; Take up your load again, With a prayer upon your lips, Thanking Heaven for the rain As it drips, drips, drips-- With the golden bow of promise as it drips.

AN a.s.sa.s.sIN

Cat-like he creeps along where ways are dim, From covert unto covert's secrecy; His shadow in the moonlight shrinks from him And crouches warily.

He hugs strange envies to his breast, and nurses Wild hatreds, till the murderous hand he grips Falls, quivering with the tension of the curses He launches from his lips.

Drenched in his victim's blood he holds high revel; He mocks at justice, and in all men's eyes Insults his G.o.d--and no one but the devil Is sorry when he dies.