GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn,
And thought with a nervous dread
Toil without recompense, teurs all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more Weary of sowing for others to reap ;—
Than a dozen mouths to be fed.
There's the meals to get for the men in the field,
And the children to fix away
To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned;
And all to be done this day.
It had rained in the night, and all the wood
Was wet as it could be;
There were puddings and pies to bake, besides
A loaf of cake for tea.
And the day was hot, and her aching head
Throbbed wearily as she said,
"If maidens but knew what good wives know,
They would not be in haste to wed!"
"Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown?"
Called the farmer from the well;
And a flush crept up to his bronzèd brow,
And his eyes half bashfully fell;
"It was this," he said, and coming near
He smiled, and stooping down,
Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossom'd and faded, our faces between :
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother, -rock me to sleep!
Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold
Kissed her cheek-"'twas this, that you were the best Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
And the dearest wife in town!"
The farmer went back to the field, and the wife
In a smiling, absent way
Sang snatches of tender little songs
She'd not sung for many a day.
And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;
Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet,
And as golden as it could be.
"Just think," the children all called in a breath,
"Tom Wood has run off to sea!
"He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had
As happy a home as we."
'The night came down, and the good wife smiled To herself, as she softly said:
"'Tis so sweet to labor for those we love,— It's not strange that maids will wed!"
ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your
flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listen'd your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasp'd to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
LONE in the dreary, pitiless street,
With my torn old dress and bare cold feet
All day I've wandered to and fro,
Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go
The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head;
Oh why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
Is it because I'm nobody's child?
Just over the way there's a flood of light,
And warmth and beauty, and all things hright;
Beautiful children, in robes so fair,
Are caroling songs in rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me,
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering and nothing to eat.
Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down
In its terrible blackness all over the town?
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,
On the cold hard pavements alone to die?
When the beautiful children their prayers have said,
And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed.
No dear mother ever upon me smiled-
Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child!
No father, no mother, no sister, not one
In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run
When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see,
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!
Perhaps 'tis a dream; but, sometimes, when I lie
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky,
Watching for hours some large bright star,
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar.
And a host of white-robed, nameless things,
Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings;
A hand that is strangely soft and fair
Caresses gently my tangled hair,
And a voice like the carol of some wild bird
The sweetest voice that was ever heard-
Calls me many a dear pet name,
Till my heart and spirits are all aflame;
And tells me of such unbounded love,
And bids me come up to their home above,
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise,
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes,
And it seems to me out of the dreary night,
I am going up to the world of light,
And away from the hunger and storms so wild-
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.
HE kiss of friendship, kind and calm,
May fall upon the brow like balm;
A deeper tenderness may speak
In precious pledges on the cheek;
Thrice dear may be, when young lips meet,
Love's dewy pressure, close and sweet;—
But more than all the rest I prize
The faithful lips that kiss my eyes.
Smile, lady, smile, when courtly lips
Touch reverently your finger-tips;
Blush, happy maiden, when you feel
The lips which press love's glowing seal;
But as the slow years darklier roll,
Grown wiser, the experienced soul
Will own as dearer far than they
The lips which kiss the tears away!
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
M standing by the window-sill,
Where we have stood of yore;
The sycamore is waving still
Its branches near the door;
And near me creeps the wild rose-vine
On which our wreaths were hung,-
Still round the porch its tendrils twine,
As when we both were young.
The little path that used to lead
Down by the river shore
Is overgrown with brier and weed-
Not level as before.
But there's no change upon the hill, From whence our voices rung— The violets deck the summit still,
As when we both were young.
And yonder is the old oak-tree,
Beneath whose spreading shade,
When our young hearts were light and free,
In innocence we played;
And over there the meadow gate
On which our playmates swung,
Still standing in its rustic state,
As when we both were young.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON,
THE DEAREST SPOT OF EARTH !S HOME
'HE dearest spot of earth to me Is home, sweet home!
The fairy land I long to see
Is home, sweet home!
There, how charmed the sense of hearing!
There, where love is so endearing!
All the world is not so cheering
As home, sweet home!
The dearest spot of earth to me
Is home, sweet home!
The fairy land I long to see
Is home, sweet home!
I've taught my heart the way to prize
My home, sweet home!
I've learned to look with lovers' eyes
On home, sweet home!
There, where vows are truly plighted
There, where hearts are so united!
All the world besides I've slightea
For home, sweet home!
The dearest spot of earth to me
Is home, sweet home!
The fairy land I long to see
Is home, sweet home!
The following poem is founded upon an incident where a rich neighbor offered to make a poor family comfortable, and provide
for the child, if one of the seven were given to him.
A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.'"
I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
Of seven hungry mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this.
"Come, John," said I
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep" so walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby slept;
Her damp curls lay, like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white;
Softly her father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, "Not her."
We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamp-light shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair.
I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek
A tear undried; ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robby's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace;
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him,'
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one,—
Could he be spared? "Nay, he who gave
Bids us befriend him to the grave;
Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he;
And so," said John, "I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above,
And knelt by Mary, child of love;
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl, that lay
Across her cheek in wilful way,
And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee;"
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad,—
So like his father: "No, John, no;
I cannot, will not, let him go!"
And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed;
Happy, in truth, that not one face
We missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting then to ONE in heaven.
NEELING, fair in the twilight gray, A beautiful child was trying to pray; His check on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden, His smile still coming unbidden, And his heart brimful of glee.
"I want to laugh. Is it naughty? Say, O mamma! I've had such fun to-day I hardly can say my prayers.
I don't feel just like praying;
I want to be out-doors playing,
And run, all undressed, down stairs.
"I can see the flowers in the garden-bed,
Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red;
And Sammy is swinging, I guess,
Oh! everything is so fine out there,
I want to put it all in the prayer,-
Do you mean I can do it by 'Yes?'
"When I say, 'Now I lay me-word for word,
It seems to me as if nobody heard.
Would 'Thank you, dear God,' be right?
He gave me my mamma,
And papa, and Sammy
O mamma! you nodded I might."
Clasping his hands and hiding his face,
Unconsciously yearning for help and grace,
The little one now began;
His mother's nod and sanction sweet
Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet,
And his words like music ran:
"Thank you for making this home so nice, The flowers, and my two white mice,
I wish I could keep right on;
I thank you, too, for every day-
Only I'm most too glad to pray,
Dear God, I think I'm done.
"Now, mamma, rock me—just a minute—
And sing the hymn with 'darling' in it.
I wish I could say my prayers!
When I get big, I know I can.
Oh! won't it be nice to be a man
And stay all night down stairs!"
The mother, singing, clasped him tight,
Kissing and cooing her fond "Good-night,"
And treasured his every word.
For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard.
T stands in a sunny meadow,
The house so mossy and brown,
With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
And the gray roof sloping down.
The trees fold their green arms around it,—
The trees a century old;
And the winds go chanting through them,
And the sunbeams drop their gold.
The cowslips spring in the marshes,
The roses bloom on the hill,
And beside the brook in the pasture
The herds go feeding at will.
Within, in the wide old kitchen,
The old folks sit in the sun,
That creeps through the sheltering woodbine,
Till the day is almost done.
Their children have gone and left them:
They sit in the sun alone!
And the old wife's ears are failing
As she harks to the well-known tone
That won her heart in her girlhood,
That has soothed her in many a care, And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear.
She thinks again of her bridal,—
How, dressed in her robe of white,
She stood by her gay young lover
In the morning's rosy light.
O, the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek is fled;
And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on a silvered head.
And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,
Come back in her winter-time,
Till her feeble pulses tremble
With the thrill of spring-time's prime.
And looking forth from the window,
She thinks how the trees have grown
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
She crossed the old door-stone.
Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure,
And dimmed her hair's young gold,
The love in her girlhood plighted
Has never grown dim or old.
They sat in peace in the sunshine
Till the day was almost done,
And then, at its close, an angel
Stole over the threshold stone.
He folded their hands together,—
He touched their eyelids with balm,
And their last breath floated outward,
Like the close of a solemn psalm!
Like a bridal pair they traversed
The unseen, mystical road
That leads to the Beautiful City,
Whose builder and maker is God.
Perhaps in that miracle country
They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of the vanished spring-time Will bloom in the spirit's track.
One draught from the living waters
Shall call back his manhood's prime
And eternal years shall measure
The love that outlasted time.
But the shapes that they left behind them,
The wrinkles and silver hair,—
Made holy to us by the kisses
The angel had printed there,
We will hide away 'neath the willows,
When the day is low in the west,
Where the sunbeams cannot find them,
Nor the winds disturb their rest.
And we'll suffer no telltale tombstone,
With its age and date, to rise
O'er the two who are old no longer,
In the Father's house in the skies.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
'HE angry word suppressed, the taunting
thought;
Subduing and subdued, the petty strife,
Which clouds the color of domestic life;
The sober comfort, all the peace which springs
From the large aggregate of little things;
On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The almost sacred joys of home depend.
No-no! no fairer were you then than at this hour to
HE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky And, dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer
'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;
The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,
While the birds make music all the day; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
All merry, all happy, all bright;
By'mby hard times comes a knockin' at the door,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!
We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For our old Kentucky home far away.
They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door;
The day goes by, like the shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight;
The time has come, when the darkeys have to part, Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
The head must bow, and the back will have to Dend,
Wherever the darkey may go;
A few more days, and the troubles all will end,
In the field where the sugar-cane grow;
A few more days to tote the weary load,
No matter, it will never be light;
A few more days till we totter on the road,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.
OUR wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, summers not a few,
Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you;
And, love, what changes we have seen,-what cares and pleasures, too,
Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new!
O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life, When, thanks to God, your low, sweet "Yes" made you my loving wife!
Your heart will say the same, I know; that day's as dear to you,
That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.
How well do I remember now your young sweet face that day!
May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that. breast;
O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight
Of those fond eyes,-fond as they were when this old ring was new!
'HERE is a dungeon in whose dim drear light
What do I gaze on? Nothing: look again!
Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, -
Two insulated phantoms of the brain:
It is not so; I see them full and plain,—
An old man and a female young and fair,
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
The blood is nectar: but what doth she there,
How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare
Nor how I doated on you; O, how proud I was of you! But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where on the heart and from the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife,
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