X. To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy, XI. But playing thus, and toying with the notes, I see the minstrels sail upon the deep. In mid-suspension of my leaping bow XIII. But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone, To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds? XIV. Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free XV. Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not anywhen, In bower or grove-or in the holy nook Which shields thy bed-thou would'st not care to look For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken As are the minds of England's fighting men When they inscribe their names in Honor's book. XVI. Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought. Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue And quick to flash (if what I hear be true) And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought. XVII. But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll XVIII. But there is something I could never bring XIX. I would not take thee from a lover's lips, I would not touch thee with my finger tips, XX. And could I enter Heaven, and find therein, FRANCIS S. SALTUS. O, MASTERS! your sweet singer lieth here-- NOW AND EVER. Ask what you will, my own and only love; For to love's service true, Your least wish sways me as from worlds above, And I yield all to you Who art the only she, And in one girl all womanhood to me. Yet some things e'en to thee I cannot yield,— On the still morning on the woodside field Who wast the only she, And in one girl all womanhood to me. We had talked long, and then a silence came; And in the topmost firs To his nest a white dove floated like a flame, And my lips closed on hers Who was the only she, And in one girl all womanhood to me. Since when, my heart lies by her heart-nor now Could I, 'twixt hers and mine, Nor the most love-skilled angel choose; so thou In vain wouldst ask for thine, Who art the only she, And in one girl all womanhood to me. ELIZABETH HENRY MILLER. POEM. Printed in the Fort Wayne Gazette, in 1878, after the death of the author by suicide. O GENTLE death, bow down and sip The soul that lingers on my lip; O gentle death, bow down an keep Eternal vigil o'er my sleep; For I am weary and would rest I stood beneath a summer moon A lawn unrolled beneath my feet That sobbing utterance could form, And patched with scraps of sound that seemed And pitched to such a piercing key A syllable of dew that drips I listened to yet never heard. For oh! the woman standing there A tracery of trees grotesque Against the sky behind her seen Like shapeless shapes of arabesque Wro't in an oriental screen; And, tall austere and statuesque She loomed before it-e'en as tho' The spirit hand of Angelo Had chiseled her to life complete, With chips of moonshine round her feet. And I grew jealous of the dusk To see it softly touch her face, I could not stir-I could but stand, Till, quivering in every limb, I flung me prone as if to swim The tide of grass whose waves of green Went rolling ocean-wide between My helpless ship-wrecked heart and her And I will nurse it on my knee JAMES O'REILley. SOLACE OF THE WOODS. WOODS, waters, have a charm to soothe the ear, When common sounds have vexed it: when the day Grows sultry, and the crowd is in thy way, Thy soul shall feel their freshening and the truth, Had turned thee to the thing thou wast not made. CURRENT POEMS. THE BANNER THAT WELCOMES THE THE dawn of new ages is breaking, O'er the spot where the grand hero perished O flag of the Navesink Highlands That patriot bands gave the air, The joy that our bosom is thrilling, The hearts of the ages shall share! The war ships, the peace ships, shall hail thee, The eye of the immigrant mother Shall long through the melting mist gaze, And turn into tears to behold thee, And close in the silence of praise. The sky-piercing eye of the sailor From afar shall thy sun ripples view; The tempest-tossed traveler returning Shall pledge his allegiance anew. The skies of good-will bend above us, The west winds breathe low for thy message, Speak, Flag of the ocean auroras, Speak, banner that welcomes the world! "O Liberty, thou who hast lifted My eye to the walls of the sun, I float for the new years of heaven, But for man move the cycles sublime; The summons for peace is ascending From the jubilee trumpets of time! "I salute ye, O feet that have followed Fair Hesper to destinies new. I salute ye, O pioneers coming, And so this glimmering life at last recedes In unknown, endless depths beyond recall; And what's the worth of all our ancient creeds, If here, at the end of ages, this is all— A white face floating in the whirling ball, A dead face plashing in the river reeds? CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM. -Californian Magazine, June, 1893. THE LAST BATTLE. THE noisy day was over; like a red rose tossed to the sky Its petals floated out to the West, and a pale moon hung on high. We lay in the sweet, white clover, half sorry, mayhap, half glad, John and I together, and there was Stephen the lad. We said not a word of the battle which drew anear with day, Our thunder the musket's rattle, our rain was the bullet's play; Face to face with Death forgot were a thousand ills, For it was the last, long night of all, and home lay over the hills! Home, which yearned and watched in more than one dear face, To whom that bitterest absence had brought the tenderest grace, And lying at rest in the clover, facing the waning light, To-morrow held happiness only, and War was a dream of the night. Then sudden I spoke my thought, “What eyes are of all most true?" And Stephen, his young face turned to the stars, smilingly answered "Blue;" "Ay" said John "you are right, boy, my all under heaven lies In a pair that are waiting for me alone, the bluest and truest of eyes! "I have her picture here safely hidden over my heart; I'll show it to you to-morrow, boys, to-morrow before we part!" And Stephen, he made no sign, but his hand lay over his breast, And I knew he thought of the last sweet look of the blue eyes he loved best. It was only a chance, light word, and seems still less to tell, Yet I thought of it on that next, dread day in a shudder of shot and shell, Strange, like the flash of a sword, when John fell down at my side; Straight, as a mountain pine tree smitten by storm, he died. We drew him out of the tumult, Stephen the lad and I, Back in the sweet, white clover, his face to the quiet sky, And the boy all flushed with fervor, kneeling beside him said, "Give me his musket; mine is gone; I'll fight for the bravest dead!" His hand was on John's heart when sudden he leaned and gazed, Then sprung to his feet with a cry as of anguish sore amazed; Had a bullet pierced him too? Nay, then 'tis the body dies! He saw but the face on the dead man's breast,— John's "bluest and truest of eyes." Was it Stephen who looked through the smoke with a face like the face of the dead? Who laid his lips to the picture once, then back through the tumult sped? In the din it seemed but a dream, and I left John lying apart With the smiling, blue forget-me-not eyes of the pictured face on his heert. Surely it was a dream, yet through all that horrible day The stricken face of Stephen the lad was before my sight alway; In the densest rout, in the broken ranks, in the smoking, blood-red air, In danger's front, in the direst need, I found that young face there! And found it again, as I knew I should, at the close of that daytime, when The sunset flamed o'er a smoking pyre strewn with the hearts of men; Upward turned, with a smile that it never in lifetime had, With a light as of triumph upon its brow, was the face of Stephen the lad. And I came on a mystery there, kneeling by him apart, For the same fair face looked up from his breast That lay on John's brave heart; |