SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns In the deep heart of every forest tree And there's a look about the leafless As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Save where the maple reddens on the Flushed by the season's dawn; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, by, And brings, you know not why, Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce If from a beech's heart, A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should WALTER F. MITCHELL. [U. s. A.] TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken. The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow, The brown of autumn corn. Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's know That, not a span below, A thousand gerins are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. In gardens you may note amid the dearth, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows need must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored Shall kiss the rose's mouth. brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye, The ship bends lower before the breeze, It is silence all, as each in his place, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, And the light on Fire Island Head draws | What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? I steady the helm for the open sea; The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!" And the captain's breath once more comes free. And so off shore let the good ship fly; Little care I how the gusts may blow, fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck, and my watch is In my below. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD, [U. s. A.] HEREAFTER. LOVE, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed, Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; Fragrance fanning off from flowers, Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the melody of summer showers, happy autumn hearth. That's our love. But you and I, dear, -shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net, On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds and be the haze with which some hill is wet! Or, beloved, if ascending,-when we have endowed the world With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled, Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled ? Only this our yearning answers, so'er that way defile, -where- | Come with a smile, auspicious friend, Not a film shall part us through the sons of that mighty while, In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, Floating, floating, one forever, in the And let me know my soul akin light of God's great smile! SONG. In the summer twilight, While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And, "Come," I sang, "ny true love, Come hasten home to me!" But the sea it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon, And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid, one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea, And,"Wait," cried the night and wind and storm, "Wait till I come to thee." To sunrise and the winds of morn, And every grandeur that has been Since this all-glorious world was born, Nor longer droop in my own scorn. Come, when the way grows dark and chill, Which used in happier days to speak, Come with a smile that dims the sun! With pitying heart and gentle hand! And waft me, from a work that's done, To peace that waits on thy command, In God's mysterious better land! JOAQUIN MILLER. [U. S. A.] FROM "WALKER IN NICARAGUA.” SUCCESS had made him more than king; Say this much, and be satisfied. I lay this crude wreath on his dust, He lies low in the levelled sand, A weakness for the weaker side, A palm not far held out a hand; No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, But at his side a cactus green Upheld its lances long and keen; It stood in hot red sands alone, Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; One bloom of crimson crowned its head, A drop of blood, so bright, so red, Yet redolent as roses' tears. In my left hand I held a shell, All rosy lipped and pearly red; I laid it by his lowly bed, For he did love so passing well The grand songs of the solemn sea. O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, When storms blow hard and birds be still, The wildest sea-song known to thee! I said some things, with folded hands, Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea, First to their labors and last to their rests. Ships are moving! I hear a horn; All night, as mounting her watery walls, Over the sea, and reaching away, The east is blossoming! Yea, a rose, ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. "Are men born so, with that white cockade?" Said the little field-mouse to the old brown rat. "Why, you silly child," the sage replied, "This is the bridegroom, they know him by that.' Saith the snail so snug in his dappled shell, Slowly stretching one cautious horn, As the beetle was hurrying by so brisk, Much to his snailship's inward scorn: "Why does that creature ride by so fast? Has a fire broke out to the east or west?" "Your Grace, he rides to the weddingfeast," "Let the madman go. What I want's 315 ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. [U. s. A.] BIRCH STREAM. AT noon, within the dusty town, Where the wild river rushes down, And thunders hoarsely all day long, I think of thee, my hermit stream, Low singing in thy summer dream, Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song. Northward, Katahdin's chasmed pile Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle, Eastward, Olamon's summit shines; And I upon thy grassy shore, The dreamful, happy child of yore, Worship before mine olden shrines. Again the sultry noontide hush Whose clear bell rings and dies away Again the wild cow-lily floats In thy cool coves of softened gloom, O'ershadowed by the whispering reed, And purple plumes of pickerel-weed, And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom. The startled minnows dart in flocks Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks, If but a zephyr stirs the brake; The silent swallow swoops, a flash Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, A ring of ripples in her wake. The level fields in languor swim, Their stubble-grasses brown as dust; Within, is neither blight nor death, The fierce sun woos with ardent breath, But cannot win thy sylvan heart. Only the child who loves thee long, With faithful worship pure and strong, Can know how dear and sweet thou art. |
