The Cornflower, and Other Poems Part 24

We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days, The earth would hold me, every day familiar things Would weigh me fast, The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings Goes flitting past.

Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send its breath To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace, And combat death.

It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes The sorrow grow.

Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradise And leave thee so!

A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere, When thou didst grieve; Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fear I'd crave reprieve.

But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight, When shadows creep, Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night,"

And fall asleep.

THE CRICKET.

O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth, With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!

There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest: "Love's the only wealth that's lasting--who cares aught for all the rest?

Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard, Have you not the wife and bairns?" chirps the sweet, insistent bard-- Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow-- "Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below."

O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth, With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!

EARTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.

You cannot take from out my heart the growing, The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill.

"O Earth," you cry, "you should be old, not glowing With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!"

Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!

Old, and my children drawing life from me!

Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!

Old, steeped in richness and fertility!

Old, while the growing things call to each other, In language I alone can understand: "How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!"

Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!

Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them Healing and soothing and a hiding place.

And then, my human children, could you listen To secrets whispered in the stillness deep Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten-- 'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.

Some tell me moving tales of love and pa.s.sion, Of gladness all too great to be pent in-- The sweet, old theme which does not change its fas.h.i.+on-- Another cries out brokenly of sin.

While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it, Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast, Sobbing: "Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it, Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!"

The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow I hear to-day--I heard it yesterday-- Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow That ye may bring to me, O Century.

I answer mourner, penitent, and lover, With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap: "Peace, peace," I say, "when life's brief day is over Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap."

The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing, The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears, And yet you think I should be old, uncaring, The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!

Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness With all their marches, as you well can see, Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.

March on--what are your hundred years to me

While life and growth within me glow and flourish, While in the suns.h.i.+ne and the falling rain I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?

March on, O Century, I am safe holden In G.o.d's right hand, the garner-house of truth-- The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!

THAIL BURN.

The river is a ribbon wide, The falls a snowy feather, And stretching far on ilka side Are hills abloom wi' heather.

The wind comes loitering frae the west By weight o' sweets r.e.t.a.r.ded; The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest, A Golden Fleece unguarded.

We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair, That hand in hand do tarry; The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr, The la.s.s is Highland Mary.

He tells her they will never pairt-- 'Tis life and luve taegither-- The world has got the song by hairt He sang among the heather.

'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago, Yet all remember dearly The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow O' her he luved sae dearly.

And lads still woo their la.s.sies dear, I' cot and hall and dairy, By words he whispered i' the ear O' his ain Highland Mary.

THE LAKE Sh.o.r.e ROAD.

'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun, And every little spear of gra.s.s uplifts its slimness to the glow To let the heavy-laden bees pa.s.s out.

A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom Of shrub and fern and brake, Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find The coolness of the lake.

A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge, And flings her tinted blossoms in the air; The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol Of white the elderberry shades her head And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.

From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade, A bird flies with a call of love and joy That wins an answer straight From that brown thing of gladness on a bough, Too slight to hold him and his weight of song, The proud and watchful mate.

The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood, With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox, And lilies red and white; The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all A garden of delight.

MAGDALENE.

A woman in her youth, but lost to all The joys of innocence. Love she had known, Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame.

Pa.s.sion was hers, hate and impurity, The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush Of fallen womanhood, the envy of The spotless, the desire that they might sink Low in the mire as she.

Oh, what a soul She carried on that day! The women drew Their robes back from her touch, men leered, And children seemed afraid to meet The devilish beauty of her form and face.

Shunned and alone, Till One came to her side, And spake her name, and took her hand in His.

And what He said Is past the telling. There are things the heart Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world; And when He went His way, Upon her brow, where shame had lain, Was set the one sweet word: _Forgiveness_.