And the sunshine still is golden, And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 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, 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 Whose builder and maker is God. Perhaps in that miracle country They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of the vanished springtime 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 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, In the Father's house in the skies. So sweet the water's song through reeds ' and rushes, The plover's piping note, now here, now there. So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover, The west-wind blowing, blowing up the hill; So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover, Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes; Now plover, black bird, cease, and let me hear; And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes, That I may know whose lover cometh near. So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, Plover or blackbird never heeding me; AFTER THE BALL. THEY sat and combed their beautiful hair, Their long, bright tresses, one by one, As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, After the revel was done. Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, Idly they laughed, like other girls, Who over the fire, when all is still, Comb out their braids and curls. Robe of satin and Brussels lace, And Maud and Madge in robes of white, Sit and comb their beautiful hair, Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, Till the fire is out in the chamber there, falling, And the little bare feet are cold. Then out of the gathering winter chill, All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, While the fire is out and the house is still, Maud and Madge together, Maud and Madge in robes of white, The prettiest nightgowns under thesun, Curtained away from the chilly night, After the revel is done, Float along in a splendid dream, To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, While a thousand lustres shimmering stream In a palace's grand saloon. Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, Tropical odors sweeter than musk, Men and women with beautiful faces, And eyes of tropical dusk, And one face shining out like a star, One face haunting the dreams of each, And one voice, sweeter than others are, Breaking into silvery speech, Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, An old, old story over again, He said, "O brother, where's the use of The king sat bowed beneath his crown, climbing? Come rather to the shade beside me here, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour-glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand. And break the bread, and pour the plen- "Poor man, what wouldst thou have of teous wine! me?" The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied, like one in a dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king." Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by. "Oman, thou must have known," he said, "A greater king than I!" Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before his throne I stand?" The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste At the king's gate, the crafty noon The guards waked one by one. "Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know. On the king's gate the moss grew gray: The king came not. They called him dead: And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. - CELIA THAXTER. 295 THE WAY TO SING. Is the era's end. Our sight may pass No furlong farther. Since time was, THE birds must know. Who wisely sings This sound hath told the lapse of time. Will sing as they; The common air has generous wings, Songs make their way. No messenger to run before, Devising plan; No mention of the place or hour CONSIDER the sea's listless chime; Time's self it is made audible, Lay southward, lighting up the sleeping bay; And in the west the white moon, still and Silence was everywhere. The rising tide The murmur of the earth's own shell, A musical low whisper, multiplied, Secret continuance sublime You heard, and that was all. |