Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

WISE PASSIVENESS.

Think you I choose or that or this to sing?
I lie as patient as yon wealthy stream
Dreaming among green fields its summer dream,
Which takes whate'er the gracious hours will bring
Into its quiet bosom; not a thing

Too common, since perhaps you see it there
Who else had never seen it, though as fair
As on the world's first morn; a fluttering
Of idle butterflies; or the deft seeds
Blown from a thistle-head; a silver dove
As faultlessly; or the large, yearning eyes
Of pale Narcissus; or beside the reeds
A shepherd seeking lilies for his love,
And evermore the all-encircling skies.

THE INNER LIFE.

Master, they argued fast concerning Thee,
Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not
Till brows were on the fret, and eyes grew hot,
And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly;
Then through the temple-door I slipped to free
My soul from secret ache in solitude,

And sought this brook; and by the brookside stood
The world's Light, and the Light and Life of me.
It is enough, O Master, speak no word!

The stream speaks, and the endurauce of the sky
Outpasses speech: I seek not to discern

Even what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred;
Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie,
And let the musing soul within me burn.

TWO INFINITIES.

A lonely way, and as I went my eyes

Samuel Miller Hageman.

AMERICAN.

Hageman, a grandson of Dr. Samuel Miller, Professor in the Princeton, N. J., Theological Seminary, and son of John Frelinghuysen Hageman, a well-known lawyer, and author of "Princeton and its Institutions," was born in that city in 1848. He began to write verses before he was fifteen years old; and his poem of "Silence" was originally published in the Princetonian when he was eighteen. It was issued in a volume in 1876. He was pastor of the Union Tabernacle, Brooklyn, N. Y. (1880), with a large congregation. In reference to "Silence," Miss Jean Ingelow writes: "I have read the poem more than once with interest and admiration. I congratulate the author on the beauty of his work." Hageman is the author of "Veiled," a novel; also of a volume entitled "Protestant Paganism; or, The Capital Errors of Christianity."

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

left the spot,

[heard it not. On the sounding shore the ocean thundered; but I

#

*

Could not unfasten from the Spring's sweet things: Till the stillness grew oppressive, so that when I
Lush-sprouted grass, and all that climbs and clings
In loose, deep hedges, where the primrose lies
In her own fairness,-buried blooms surprise
The plunderer bee and stop his murmurings,—
And the glad flutter of a finch's wings
Outstartles small blue-speckled butterflies.
Blissfully did one speedwell plot beguile

My whole heart long; I loved each separate flower,
Kneeling. I looked up suddenly-Dear God!
There stretched the shining plain for many a mile,
The mountains rose with what invincible power!
And how the sky was fathomless and broad!

Somewhere on this moving planet, in the mist of years to be,

In the silence, in the shadow, waits a loving heart for thee;

Somewhere in the beckoning heavens, where they know as they are known,

Are the empty arms above thee that shall clasp thee for their own.

SAMUEL MILLER HAGEMAN-CHARLES DE KAY.

Somewhere in the far-off silence I shall feel a van

ished hand,

Somewhere I shall know a voice that now I cannot

understand;

Somewhere! Where art thou, O spectre of illimitable space?

Silent scene without a shadow! silent sphere without a place!

Comes there back no sound beyond us where the trackless sunbeam calls?

THE BLUSH.

933

If fragrances were colors, I would liken
A blush that deepens in her thoughtful face
To that aroma which pervades the place
Where woodmen cedars to the heart have stricken;
If tastes were hues, the blissful dye I'd trace
In upland strawberries, or winter-green;
If sound, why then, to shy and mellow bass
Of mountain thrushes, heard, yet seldom seen.
Or say that hues are felt: then would it seem

Comes there back no wraith of music, melting Most like to cobwebs borne on Southern gales

[blocks in formation]

O thou palliating Silence, Sabbath art thou of the Ay, marvels they are in their shadowy dance, soul:

Lie like snow upon my virtues, lie like dust upon my faults,

Silent when the world dethrones me, silent when the world exalts!

Wisdom ripens unto Silence as she grows more truly
wise,

And she wears a mellow sadness in her heart and
in her eyes:
[teach,

Wisdom ripens unto Silence, and the lesson she doth
Is that life is more than language, and that thought
is more than speech.

But who is the god that has given them soul? Where learned they the spell other souls to entrance, Where the heart other hearts to control?

"Twas the noise of the wave at the prow,
The musical lapse on the beaches,
'Twas the surf in the night when the land-breezes
blow,

The song of the tide in the reaches:

She has drawn their sweet influence home
To a soul not yet clear but profound,
Where it blows like the Persian sea-foam
Into pearls-

Into pearls of melodious sound.

Charles de Kay.

AMERICAN.

Charles de Kay was born in Washington, D. C., in the year 1848. He graduated from Yale College in 1868. He published a short novel entitled "The Bohemian: a Tragedy of Modern Life," in 1878; and "Hesperus, and other Poems," in 1880.

ON REVISITING STATEN ISLAND.

Again ye fields, again ye woods and farms,
Slowly approach and fold me in your arms!
The scent of June buds wraps me once again,
The breath of grasses sighs along the plain.

Ye elms and oaks that comforted of yore,
I hear your welcome as I heard before;

The night-blue sky is etched with dusky boughs,
And at your feet the white and huddled cows
Are breathing deeply still. Is all a dream,
Or does the hill-side with a welcome gleam?
Ye lofty trees, know ye your worshipper?
Know ye a wanderer, ready to aver

You branch leans downward to his eager face,
Yon bush seems following on his happy trace?
The cedars gossip softly, one by one,
Leaning their heads in secret; on and on
The whisper spreads from new-born larch to fir,
Thence to the chestnut tender yet of burr,
And now the fragraut blackberry on the moor
Says the same word the white beech mutters o'er.
A spice-birch on the fringes of the wood
Has lain in wait, has heard and understood;
The piny phalanx nods, and up, away,
Tree-tops have sped the name to Prince's Bay!

Charles H. Noyes.

AMERICAN.

In the summer of 1878 a little volume of poetry was published in Philadelphia, entitled "Studies in Verse, by Charles Quiet." This was the pseudonyme of Charles H. Noyes, a young lawyer of Warren, Pa., and a native of Marshall, Calhoun County, Mich., where he was born in 1849. While some of his verses bear the marks of immaturity, others are fervid with the true afflatus, and full of promise.

THE PRODIGAL SON TO THE EARTH. O mother, wait until my work is done! Loose thy strong arms that draw me to thy breast Till I am ready to lie down and rest; Grudge not to me the kisses of the sun.

Fear not, fond earth, thy strong love holds me fast; Thou art mine heir-I shall be thine at last.

O cousin roses! thirst not for my blood

To dye your paling cheeks. O rank, wild grass, Clutch not with greedy fingers as I pass. And you, great hungry giants of the wood!

Let not your roots for my rich juices yearn. Mine shall be yours, but you must wait your turn.

O roses, grasses, trees! I am your kin

Your prodigal blood-cousin, now grown strange With many wanderings through the lands of change;

You lent me of your substance, and I've been

A wasteful steward; yet I shall bring back My whole inheritance-you shall not lack.

Divide my all among you! 'twas but lent
To me a while to use. Part heart and brain,
Matter and force, until there shall remain
Of me no shadow; I am well content.
Order and chaos wage eternal strife;
The end of living is to bring forth life.

Guardian of thoughts, immortal memory!
Keep thou immortal some good thought of mine,
Which, in oblivion's dark, may softly shine
Like the pale fox-fire of a rotting tree.
If thou do keep but one song-child alive,
In its sweet body shall my soul survive.

MY SOLDIER.

The day still lingers, though the sun is down, Kissing the earth, and loath to say good-bye; While night, impatient, shows her starry crown Just gliuting through the curtains of the sky.

I sit within the door and try to knit;
Some sadness of the sky provokes my tears;
And memory finds some subtle charm in it

To lead me back through melancholy years,

Until she brings me to that summer's day,
When a tall shadow fell across the floor,
Lingered a moment, and then stole away,

Following my soldier through the open door.

My soldier! He was all the war to me;

His safety all the victory I craved; Morn, noon, and night I prayed that I might see My soldier-I forgot my country-saved.

When came a letter full of love and cheer,
Telling of victory with proud delight,
The mother's pride o'ercame the mother's fear,
And I was happy in my dreams that night.

But when none came, and news of battles fell
Around me like hot flakes of fire instead-
O God! if I have loved my boy too well,
Put against that those days of awful dread.

My soldier! and it seems but yesterday
His baby gums were mumbling at my breast.
I'm half persuaded now he's out at play,
And I have slept within and dreamed the rest;

CHARLES H. NOYES.-MRS. ROSA H. THORPE.

For it does seem so strange to me that he,
My baby, rosy-cheeked and azure-eyed-
The cherub boy I dandled on my knee-
Should have become a hero and have died.

My chubby baby, prattling to his toys!
My stalwart soldier kissing me good-bye!
My heart will have it she hath lost two boys,
And lends to grief a twofold agony.

And day by day, as the dear form I miss,

Fierce longing burns within me like a flame, Till all the world I'd barter for a kiss,

And walk through fire to hear him call my name.

"Twere not so sad could I have watched his face,

Soothed his last hours, and closed his dear, dead And it would comfort me to mark the place [eyes; With a wild rose-bush where my darling lies.

But, knowing nothing, save that he is dead,
I long 'neath yonder daisy-dotted knoll
To rest in peace my old, grief-whitened head;
Earth hath no crumb of comfort for my soul.

Mrs. Rosa H. Thorpe.

AMERICAN.

Rosa Hartwick, by marriage Thorpe, was born July 18th, 1850, in Mishawaka, Ind. After her marriage in 1871 she went to reside in Fremont, Ind., but subsequently removed to Litchfield, Mich. She wrote her popular ballad of "Curfew must not Ring To-night" when she was sixteen years old, but it was not till 1870 that it was published: then it first appeared in the Detroit Commercial Advertiser. It has since repeatedly undergone revision. Mrs. Thorpe has much of the spirit and simplicity of the old ballad-writers, and excels in realistic narrative illumined with poetical flashes. It may be that her best work is to come.

Charlie kissed her lips at morning,

Now was rushing down to death! Must she stand and see him perish?

Angry waters answer back: Louder comes the distant rumbling

From the train far down the track.

At death's door faint hearts grow fearless:
Miracles are sometimes wrought,
Springing from the heart's devotion

In the forming of a thought.
From her waist she tears her apron,
Flings her tangled tresses back,
Working fast, and praying ever
For the train far down the track.

See! a lurid spark is kindled,

Right and left she flings the flame, Turns and glides with airy fleetness Downward toward the coming train; Sees afar the red eye gleaming

Through the shadows still and black: Hark! a shriek prolonged and deafening,They have seen her down the track!

Onward comes the train-now slower, But the maiden, where is she? Flaming torch and flying footsteps Fond eyes gaze in vain to see. With a white face turned to Heaven, All the sunny hair thrown back, There they found her, one hand lying Crushed and bleeding on the track.

Eager faces bent above her,

Wet eyes pitied, kind lips blessed; But she saw no face save Charlie's"Twas for him she saved the rest. Gold they gave her from their bounty;

But her sweet eyes wandered back To the face whose love will scatter Roses all along life's track!

935

DOWN THE TRACK.

AN ACTUAL INCIDENT.

In the deepening shades of twilight
Stood a maiden young and fair;
Rain-drops gleamed on cheek and forehead,
Rain-drops glistened in her hair.
Where the bridge had stood at morning
Yawned a chasm deep and black;
Faintly came the distant rumbling
From the train far down the track.

Paler grew each marble feature,

Faster came her frightened breath,

"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.”

Slowly England's sun was setting

O'er the hill-tops far away, Filling all the land with beauty At the close of one sad day; And the last rays kissed the forehead Of a man and maiden fairHe with footsteps slow and weary, She with sunny, floating hair;

[blocks in formation]
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »