MY CLOCK.

1895

In the silence of the night,
If I waken with affright
From a dream that's full of terror and annoy,
There's a sound that fills my heart
With a melody of art
Full of beauty, full of pleasure, full of joy.

'Tis the steady "tick, tick, tock,"
Of my sturdy little clock,
As it sits across the room upon a shelf,
And it says: "Don't be afraid,
For I've closely by you staid
While you were off in the land of dreams your self.

"With a steady 'tick, tick, tick,'
I am never tired or sick,
And I count the minutes over as they fly.
I'm the truest friend you've got,
And share your ev'ry lot,
And I'm ready to stand by you till you die."

It's a common sort of clock,
But I like its lusty "tock,"
And it fills my soul with courage by its song
In the storm or cold or rain
I hear its bright refrain
As it faithfully pursues its path along.

For it tells me to be true
To each thing I have to do,
And no matter if the world applaud or scorn;
That full soon must pass the night
And the sweet and precious light
Be unfolded with the coming of the morn.

— Hamilton Jay in Florida Times-Union.

MY SWEETHEART.

1895

My dear little sweetheart, fond and true,
Thinking of laddie so far away,
For laddie is all this world to you—
Your dream by night and your hope by day.
What though your swain be of humble birth;
The love in your heart his praise will sing.
Dear little brown eyes, you know his worth;
Affection enthrones him as your king.

Brave little lassie, whose soft words cheer
When the world is dark and skins o'ercast,
Making the future seem bright and clear—
The heaven of joy looms up at last.
Laddie, fold close to your loyal breast
This dear little woman, fond and true.
Her creed is simple and soon confest
In a sweet and tender "I love you!"

—J. T. B. in Boston Traveller.

My Lady's Violin

1895

If I were but her violin,
Pressed lovingly beneath her chin,
Ah, what ecstatic bliss!
To feel the throbbing of each vein
As from sweet music's tangled skein
Come sounds as soft as summer's rain
When storm clouds gently kiss!
If I were but her violin,
Her wooing, cooing violin!

If I were but her violin,
With envied place beneath her chin,
How sweet would be the note
I'd yield to her caressing hands—
The treasure which her skill demands,
Or servile be, as slave who stands
To kiss the hand which smote,
If I were but her violin,
Her heart subduing violin!

If I were but her violin,
To rest no more beneath her chin,
How sad would be the day
When music's daughter was brought low,
And when, with trembling hands and slow,
She'd lay me with the useless bow,
Forever from her touch away!
An old, neglected violin,
A silent, soundless violin!

— T. Hussey in Midland Monthly.

The Old Trundle Bed

1895

Oh, the old trundle bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy!
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine;
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding place at night.
Oh, a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, dear little old trundle bed!

Oh, the old trundle bed where I wondering saw
The stars through the window and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robins so restlessly slept;
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.

Oh, the old trundle bed! Oh, the old trundle bed!
With its plump little pillow and old fashioned spread,
Its snowy white sheets and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy stories may memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle bed!

— James Whitcomb Riley in "Armazindy."

Part and Counterpart

1895

The infant soul made up of images
Is like a lake, itself almost unseen,
But holding pictured in its "pure serene"
The sky above and the surrounding trees,
Till o'er the surface creeps a rising breeze
And slowly ruffles into silver sheen
Those depths of azure fringed with branching green,
A flame that follows on a form that flees.

As intermingled with the flow of being
It loses sight in gaining sympathy,
So action quenches all our primal seeing.
We cannot be both part and counterpart
Of outward things, and that passivity
A poet praised is half the poet's art.

— Alfred W. Benn in Academy.

A Bird's Flight

1895

From some bright cloudlet dropping,
From branch to blossom hopping,
Then drinking from a small brown stone
That stood alone
Amid the brook; then singing,
Upspringing,
It soared. My bird had flown.

A glimpse of beauty only
That left the glen more lonely?
Nay, truly, for its song and flight
Made earth more bright.
If men were less regretful,
And fretful,
Would life yield less delight?

— William Cantor.

Courage

1895

Because I hold it sinful to despond
And will not let the bitterness of life
Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond
Its tumults and its strife;

Because I lift my head above the mist,
Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow,
By every ray and every raindrop kissed
That God's love cloth bestow,

Think you I find no bitterness at all?
No burden to be borne like Christian's pack?
Think you there are no tears ready to fall
Because I keep them back?

Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve,
To curse myself and all who love me? Nay,
A thousand times more good than I deserve
God gives me every day!

And in each one of these rebellious tears
Kept bravely back he makes a rainbow shine.
Grateful I take his slightest gift. No fears
Nor any doubts are mine.

Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past
One golden day redeems a weary year.
Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last
Will sound his voice of cheer.

—Celia Thaxter in New York Weekly.

Alone

1895

Since she went home
Longer the evening shadows linger here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear
Since she went home.

Since she went home
The robin's note has touched a minor strain.
The old glad songs breathe a sad refrain,
And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain
Since she went home.

Since she went home
How still the empty rooms her presence blessed!
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed.
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest
Since she went home.

Since she went home
The long, long days have crept away like years,
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears,
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears
Since she went home.

Snow

1895

Myriad clouds, in swift succession blown,
Hang from the heavens, ponderous and gray.
In desolation lies the house of day,
Its azure architecture overthrown.

A wizard choir, the trees in terror moan,
And whilst the winds their wild, weird music play,
Earth from her ancient orbit seems to stray —
A frightened thing, bewildered and alone.

Then, like a swarm of white bees in the
air, the innumerable armies in the sky
Lay siege to the defenseless world below,
Building enchanted bastions everywhere —
Fantastic fortresses and turrets high,
Bright with the shining splendor of the snow!

— F. D. Sherman in Youth's Companion.

To a Distant Lady

1895

Bold sailors yet, through frozen seas,
Attempt to reach the northern pole.
They quit their friends and home and ease
To conquer the unconquered goal.

A less heroic errantry —
Silvia! It is my chief endeavor
To reach your heart, though round it I,
For all I know, may cruise forever.

I've now been held these winters two,
Bound in the ice of your disdain.
Could but I break a passage through
I'd not ask to come south again.

— New York Tribune.

My Sweetheart

1895

Her eyes are made for loving; her lips are made for kissing;
Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide and seek.
Her form is like a seraph's; no angel grace is missing.
To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek.

She loves me to distraction; her every action shows it.
She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee,
Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it,
Because she calls me "papa," this little maid of three!

— Detroit Free Press.

Independence Day

1895

Red as thy heroes' blood thine orient be!
Blue as their azure garb thy cloudless skies!
Their silv'ry swords as white, the stars that rise
To crown thine eye with quivering ecstasy!
Our banner's hues, the colors of the free,
Live in thy glories, clothe thee with their guise.
Faith, Hope and Love (the soul's fair trinity),
Lend thy soft vesture, heav'n's immortal dyes!

Who rants of creeds? Thy charter bears the seal
Of Catholic martyrs, for thy birthright slain.
Thy bulwark in dark days was Catholic steel;
Thy very stronghold, Catholic brawn and brain!
Shall bigots now impugn our loyalty?
Forbid, Columbia! We are leal to thee!

— Eleanor C. Donnelly in Donahoe's Magazine.

The Day of Small Things

1895

No novels now, but novelettes,
Cigars give place to cigarettes,
Titanic "suns" to twinkling "stars,"
Pictures to sketches, "pomes" to "pars,"
Bonnets to things like housemaids' caps,
Banquets to tidbits, books to scraps,
And three volume novels to "short stories,"
Gibbon-like length and epic glories,
Like mammoths and cave bears, are gone,
Earth brings not back the mastodon.
The microbe takes its place. They kill us
Not by a giant, but bacillus.
Monsters, huge dragons, Laidly worms,
We fear no more. 'Tis unseen "germs"
That floor us in our life's full pride.
We want a "Jack the Germicide,"
And not the giant killer, now.
Behemoth and the big bowwow
Are gone, for aught not smart and little
We do not care one jot or tittle.

—Punch.

The Rulers of Mankind

1895

What though the Sword, incarnadined and crowned,
Yoke to its car the servile feet of Fate;
What though the sophist Senate's pompous prate
Engross the hour and shake the world with sound.
Their carnal conquests can at best but found
Some tinsel towering transitory state
On force or fraud, whose summits, soon or late,
Fresh fraud or force will level with the ground.
It is the silent, eremitic mind,
Immured in meditation long and lone,
Lord of all knowledge, while itself unknown,
And in its cloister ranging unconfined,
That builds Thought's time long universal throne,
And with an unseen scepter rules Mankind.

— Alfred Austin in National Review.

The Garden of Dreams

1895

Who could dispense with that garden fair,
The lotus flowered garden of dreams?
Never a life is too homely or bare
To cherish a fragrant spot somewhere,
Budding to open in promises rare
In the magical gardens of dreams.

How could we live and not yield to despair,
Bereft of the garden of dreams?
The fever of living, the pangs of care,
The hopes deferred all the sorrows we bear
Forgotten are charmed to sleep in the air
Of the magical garden of dreams.

The coveted things of life are there,
In the tranquil garden of dreams.
Instead of our one little life of care,
There we live many lives ideal and fair,
Great aims uplift us, all things we dare
In the magical garden of dreams.

— Elizabeth Barton in Detroit Free Press.

How Shall I Love You?

1895

How shall I love you? I dream all day,
Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way.
Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,
Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray —
These may not tell of the love of my life.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?

How shall I love you? Love is the bread
Of life to a woman — the white and the red
Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed
On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!
The star in the storm and the strength in the strife.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?

Is there a burden your heart must bear?
I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear.
Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?
Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there.
For grief or for glory — for death or for life,
So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.

— Frank L. Stanton in Ladies' Home Journal.

Hereditary

1895

Your strictures are unmerited;
Our follies are inherited;
Directly from our gram'pas they all came
Our defects have been transmitted,
And we should be acquitted
Of all responsibility and blame.

We are not depraved beginners,
But hereditary sinners,
For our fathers never acted as they should
'Tis the folly of our gram'pas
That continually hampers —
What a pity that our gram'pas wern't good

Yes, we'd all be reverend senators,
If our depraved progenitors
Had all been prudent, studious and wise;
But they were quite terrestrial,
Or we would be celestial —
Yes, we'd all be proper tenants for the skies.

If we're not all blameless sages,
And beacons to the ages,
And fit for principalities and powers;
If we do not guide and man it,
And engineer the planet,
'Tis the folly of our forefathers — not ours.

— Mildred Lancaster in Home and Country.

An Elizabethan Ballad

1895

Dildido, dildido,
O love, O love,
I feel thy rage rumble below and above!

In summer time I see a face,
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Like to a stoned horse was her pace.
Was ever a young man so dismayed?
Her eyes, like wax torches, did make me afraid!
Trop belle pour moi, voila trepas.

Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;
Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.
Mon dieu, aide moi!
That I with the primrose of my fresh wit
May stumble her tyranny under my feet.
He donc je seral un jeune roi!
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Trop belle pour moi, voila mon trepas.

-- Extract from the Works of Robert Greene, 1560-92.

To An Absent Friend

1895

Could I but have my dear one back again
From the vastness of the great west unknown,
How would it ease my poor heart's silent pain
As I sit here at even all alone!

That he travels wide makes me more afraid
Who shall his wayward heart and footsteps guide,
For him softer the way my love had made,
So feels my poor heart while he wanders wide.

Cold was the night he left my sanctum warm,
A night of wintry tempest, harsh and wild,
Went forth my dear friend reckless, wild —
I say alone — for who hears angels' feet
As we pass along? Tho' we dream they come,
We hear them not upon the busy street;
We only know a void — we are alone.

Friendship! Thy very name is sorrow's own,
Synonym for parting said for trial,
'Tis I must bear the burden all alone,
And when the tear would start must wear a smile.

— Jessie M. Holland.

Flood Time

1895

Across the vale the floods are out,
The floods are out with rush and rout;
Across the world the floods are out,
The land is in the sea,
And round the oak tree that displays
The bronze bright head in wintry days
The roaring current swings and sways,
Shouting his song of glee.

And landsmen now are watermen,
The robin, as the water hen
That makes her nest in reed and fen,
The robin's gone afloat.
The wind that rocks him to and fro
With a soft cradle song and slow
Pleases him in the ebb and flow,
Rocking him in a boat.

Flotsam and jetsam whirling by
The bridge where lovers meet and sigh,
The whirling crows flap wings and cry
And praise themselves that they
Have built their homes one story each,
In the tall masts of elm and beach,
And them no swelling flood can reach
Till all the world be gray.

The westward waters, cool, serene,
Mirror the sunset's gold and green,
A road of flame and emerald sheen
Broken to million lights.
The eastward waters take the moon,
Clad in the pearl from throat to shoon,
Whiter than any lily in June.
She scales the heavenward heights.

— Pall Mall Gazette.