The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 13

While lone winds chant a funeral stave, And pallid church-yard daisies wave About his new unsodded grave.

The skies are solemn with their throng Of choiring stars--and deep and strong The river moans an undersong.

Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river, Oh golden planets, pausing never!

His lips have lost your song forever!

His lips, that done with pleadings vain-- And human sighing, born of pain-- Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain.

The ages tragic Rhythm of change Clashing on projects new and strange-- The tireless nations forward range--

Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest Wherein he lieth--being blest, With chill hands cross'd on silent breast.

Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint Drifts down the deathly shadows faint, Why weep ye for this risen saint?

His life's pale ashes, under foot That cling about the daisies' root Will bear at last most glorious fruit!

'Tis but the casket hid away Neath roof of stone and burial clay; The jewel shines in endless day!

And thus I gather for my tears Sweet hope from faith in after years; And far across the glimmering spheres

Height over height the heavens expand-- I see him in G.o.d's Eden land, With palms of vict'ry in his hand;

O'er brows of solemn breadth profound, With fadeless wreaths of glory wound, He stands a seraph, robed and crowned.

Aye! in a vision, see I now; Christ's symbol written on his brow-- Found worthy unto death art thou!

And ever in this heart of mine, So won to glorious peace, divine This vision of our lost shall shine;

Not with pale forehead in eclipse With close-sealed lids and silent lips, But grand in Life's Apocalypse!

For very truly hath been said-- For the pale living--not the dead-- Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed!

MISSIVE TO ----.

Purple shafts of sunset fire Glory-crown the pa.s.sionate sea, Throbbing with a fierce desire For the blue immensity.

Floods of pale and scarlet flame Sweep the bases of the hills, With a blushing unto shame Thro' their rosy bridal-thrills.

Slowly to the gorgeous West Twilight paces from the East, Like a dark, unbidden guest Going to a marriage feast.

Dian--palaced in the blue-- O'er the eve-star, newly born, Shakes a sweet baptismal dew From her pearly drinking-horn.

Not the Ocean's fiery soul Throbbing up thro' all his deeps-- Not the sunset tides that roll Gloriously against the steeps

Of the hills, that to the stars Lift their regal wedded brows, Glittering, through the golden bars Clasping close their nuptial snows.

Not the palace lights of Hesper In the Queendom of the Moon, Win me from that lovely vesper-- The last one of our last June.

Oh the golden-tressed minutes!

Oh the silver-footed hours!

Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets, In a woodland full of flowers!

When my wild heart beat so lightly It forgot its mortal shroud; And an Angel trembled brightly In the fold of every cloud.

Wo! That storms of sorrow-strife Hold the pitying light apart, And the golden waves of life Beat against a breaking heart.

Saddest fate that e'er has been Woven in the loom of years, Our sworn faith has come between, Heavy with the wine of tears.

Broken vow and slighted trust-- Hope's white garments soiled and torn-- Pa.s.sion trampled in the dust By the iron heel of scorn.

Thou art dead, to me, as those Folded safe from mortal strife; Dead! as tho' the grave-mould froze The red rivers of thy life!

Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love!

With my grief co-heir sublime!

Storms and sorrows ever prove True inheritors of Time.

Hush! An Angel holds my heart From its breaking--tho' I stand, From the happy world apart, On a broad and barren sand.

I will love thee tho' I die!

Love thee, with my ancient faith!

For immortal voices cry: Love is mightier than Death!

CHICK-A-DEE'S SONG.

Sweet, sweet, sweet!

High up in the budding vine I've woven and hidden a dainty retreat For this little brown darling of mine!

Along the garden borders, Out of the rich dark mold, The daffodils and jonquils Are pushing their heads of gold; And high in her bower-chamber The little brown mother sits, While to and fro, as the west winds blow, Her pretty shadow flits.

Weet, weet, weet!

Safe in the branching vine, Pillowed on woven gra.s.ses sweet, Our pearly treasures shine; And all day long in the sunlight, By vernal breezes fanned, The daffodil and the jonquil Their jeweled discs expand; And two and fro, as the west winds blow, In the airy house a-swing, The feeble life in the pearly eggs She warms with brooding wing!

Sweet, sweet, sweet!

Under a flowery spray Downy heads and little pink feet Are cunningly tucked away!

Along the shining furrows, The rows of sprouting corn Flash in the sun, and the orchards Are blushing red as morn; And the time o' the year for toil is here, And idle song and play With the jonquils, and the daffodils, Must wait for another May.

LATER POEMS.

TO MY SISTER.