Love or Fame; and Other Poems Part 6

Two lives that glow as bright as heaven's own-- Two stars, that in the night have closer grown, G.o.d sets the music in each soul; no hand But that of LOVE the music can command.

The song of life is done--the tale is told, G.o.d grant the chain may count some links of gold.

A woman's life--a man's true love--a song-- What dreams of life may not to these belong!

The weaving of a story, old yet new, Life's strange, sad mingling of the false and true.

A woman's heart is like a harp of gold, It yields no music to the touch most bold, But to the hand that o'er the chords may sweep And gently wake the music from its sleep.

An idle dream a woman's life may be, Yet do not dreams belong to thee and me?

To every life some visions must belong; Are we to blame that they are sometimes wrong?

True women make true men,--'tis always so; Yet careless touch may soil the purest snow, The shadows of the night may hide the sky, Yet still beyond them all the stars still lie.

Miscellaneous Poems.

To Longfellow.

The crown of stars is broken in parts, Its jewels brighter than the day, Have one by one been stolen away To s.h.i.+ne in other homes and hearts.

--[Hanging of the Crane.]

Each poem is a star that s.h.i.+nes Within your crown of light; Each jeweled thought--a fadeless gem That dims the stars of night.

A flower here and there, so sweet, Its fragrance fills the earth, Is woven in among the gems Of proud, immortal birth.

Each wee Forget-me-not hath eyes As blue as yonder skies, To tell the world each song of thine Is one that never dies.

The purple pansies stained with gold, The roses royal red, In softened splendor shadow forth The truths thy life hath said.

Oh would the earth were filled with flowers To crown thee poet-king!

And all the world unto thy feet Its wealth of love could fling.

And would I were one lowly flower That fell beneath thy feet; That even in dying I might win One verse of music sweet.

The poet-heart doth hold the power To thrill the hearts of men; And though the chain is broken quite It joins the links again.

No hand like thine can sweep the chords, No heart like thine can sing; The poet-world is full of song And thou alone art king!

Oh would my eyes could see thy face On which the glory s.h.i.+nes!

And would my soul could trace the thought That lies between the lines!

But though my eyes may never see, My heart will wors.h.i.+p still; And at the fountain of thy song My soul will drink its fill.

Thy crown of stars will never break, Its circle is complete; And yet each heart some gem will keep To make its life more sweet.

The following autograph letter was received from the poet:

Dear Miss Sherrick:--I am much pleased and touched by the graceful and beautiful tribute you have paid me in your poem. I beg you to accept my best thanks for these kind words, and for the friendly expressions of your letter, which I have left too long unanswered.

Pardon the delay and believe me with great regard,

Yours sincerely,

Henry W. Longfellow.

Tower Grove.

Oh tell me not of the lands so old Where the Orient treasures its hills of gold, And the rivers lie in the sun's bright rays Forever singing the old world's praise.

Nor proudly boast of the gardens grand That spring to earth at a king's command; There are treasures here in the far great West That rival the hills on the Orient's crest.

Far from the sight of the dusty town Like a perfect gem in a golden crown, Lies a beautiful garden vast and fair, Where the wild birds sing in the evening air, And the dews fall down in a silent shower On the fragrant head of each beaming flower; While far and near o'er the land sun-kissed, Hangs the roseate veil of the sunset mist.

Under the shade of the western wall There's a glimmer of roses fair and tall, And the crimson heart of each royal flower Gleams purely forth from its leafy bower.

There are things in this world too sweet to last, But we catch their grace ere the bloom is past, And the roses that die in the early morn In the garden of memory anew are born.

The dear little pansies, quaint and fair, Uplift their heads in the silent air; And the gleam of the purple tinged with gold Is as fair as the roses' velvety fold.

There are tropical plants from the Southern seas Where the flowers sleep in the perfumed breeze; And the scent of the orange groves fill the air With a mystical incense rich and rare.

Like waxen buds in a leafy screen Magnolia blooms float in a sea of green; And their fragrance falls on the dewy air Like the breath of the tropics richly rare.

And up from the South in the voiceless night Steals the scent of the blossoms pure and white, And one by one as the winds sweep by They shrink away, from that touch, to die.

There are trees and flowers from every clime Defying the scope of the poet's rhyme; There are beautiful lawns where the feet could rest, Unwilling to wander, forever blest; There are peaceful nooks where the soul might dwell Forever lost in a fadeless spell; But the tomb of the man who is great and wise Is the loveliest spot in this paradise.

And just to the south is a park so fair That the children of G.o.d love to wander there; And the emerald green of its winding ways Is flecked with the gold of the sun's last rays.

There are statues, too, of the good and great, Who point on forever to Truth's wide gate, And the bronze and the green and the sun's red gold Are mingled at eve in a glory untold.

Immortal the name of the man shall be Who hath given these treasures so fair to see, And the grace of the flowers he loves so well The truth of his goodness forever shall tell.

But fairer than all are the deeds of love That s.h.i.+ne in G.o.d's temple of grace above; And Fame on her beautiful shadowless height Has woven his name in a glory of light.

A Sh.e.l.l.