Songs Ysame Part 8

Mounted on snowy night-moths, off they raced, Startling the gnomes, asleep within the shade Of gloomy forests, with their merry cries, As at forbidden games all night they played.

But when at sunrise blew an elfin horn, Mischievous Puck was nowhere to be seen, The disobedient princes stood forlorn; Like dew-drops fell their tears on gra.s.ses green.

For fairy children, not within the bounds Of Queen t.i.tania's realm at morning's dawn, Change into blooming flowers where they stand, And bloom there till the summer time is gone.

Now, where the little princes played all night In robes of royal purple and of gold, The flowers we call pansies sprang in sight, And round them stood the little pages bold, In liveries of yellow, blue, and white; While upward through the east the great sun rolled.

Then some, repentant, sadly drooped their heads; Some turned their saucy faces to the sky; But now they all alike must wait the day When they can bid the summer time good-by.

Sometimes, when bees upon their busy rounds Stop to deliver some sweet message sent From Fairyland, the thoughtful faces smile And seem to grow a little more content.

When cooling shadows creep along the gra.s.s, And mother birds are twittering lullabies To sleepy nestlings, then the south winds pa.s.s, And close with fingers soft the pansies' eyes.

Upon the wings of dreams they're borne along To loving arms that rock them all the night, And fairy voices soothe their sleep with song, Till they are waked by kisses of the light.

The Tower of Babel.

ONCE, many centuries ago, Men tried to build a tower so high That rising upward, round on round, Its pinnacle should reach the sky.

And as they toiled and built and dreamed and planned, What hopes went upward with the rising stone!

That daring feet ere long should mount and stand Upon the golden stairway to the throne.

And then a dire confusion fell Upon the workers, building there.

Men called and shouted each to each With strange, uncomprehended speech, And what it meant no one could tell; So they left building in despair.

Yet in their hearts still lived the hope that they Might scale the ramparts of the sky some day.

Sometimes our souls expand and glow With holy visions bright and pure; But when from these deep vales below We proudly try to climb and reach With clumsy masonry of speech, And rounds of rhyme that shall endure, That sky-born thing, that heavenly theme, Touched only by a prayer or dream, A swift confusion o'er us flies, And sudden chills our hands benumb.

Our minds are blurred, our tongues are dumb, The vision fades away and dies.

Yet still we dream that song some day may be Rung through the arches of Eternity.

The Old Bell.

THE vines have grown so thick and twined so strong, With clinging hold, about the bell that swings In the old tower, that now it never rings.

No one has heard its voice for seasons long.

Sit by me on the broken belfry stair, And I will tell the simple tale to you Of those whose graves through yonder arch you view, Scattered about the churchyard, here and there.

Ah me! How closely memory's tendrils twine About the heart, and choke the words that spring.

It only throbs, the touch half-answering, Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine.

The Sea.

FOREVER, like a heart that knows no peace, Like one who wanders weary to and fro About the earth, but finds no resting-place, The sweeping tides of ocean ebb and flow.

Like a discarded lover who entreats For favor still, and will not be denied, Up to the beach, with soft, caressing touch And tearful broken whispers, steals the tide.

But still repulsed, it slow and sad withdraws, Yet at the dear one's feet its treasures lays, And turns again, to wail its sorrows out Through all the hopeless nights and dreary days.

Married.

IT is such a little while From the time the fledgling tries To tip from the edge of the nest to the bough, Then lifts its wings and flies.

Till it sits in its own wee nest, Surprised out of growth or ken, And half-way feels that in some strange way It is learning to fly again.

Motherhood.

FOR two dear heads of bronze and amber, For baby eyes of blue and brown, For two who cling, and kiss, and clamber, And on my shoulder nestle down.

All little hearts are dearer to me, All little faces sweet and bright, All childish tears and woes undo me, And I would heal them all to-night.

Sufficiency.

THE bird that sings one only strain, To tell his pa.s.sion o'er and o'er, Can feel as much of joy or pain As if he knew a thousand more.

And thou, sweet maid, whose gentle thought In smiles or tears finds present vent, What feeling could thy soul be taught, Or who has words more eloquent?

Ophelia.

CALM dost thou lie in wave-swept resting-place.

No more the glances of the haughty Dane Can fill thy gentle breast with longing vain.

The waves that stilled thy heart have drowned thy pain, And washed the sorrow from thy sweet, pale face, Ophelia.

Thine be the violets, but his the rue.

Though hope should sleep, and deep regret should wake, Thy clasped hand from Death's he could not take; The spell on those mute lips he could not break.

What more with life and love hast thou to do, Ophelia?