Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 37

Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.

All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone, And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely G.o.d was pleased with him, Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim!

Whose the fault then? Hers--the maiden standing meekly at his side!

Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him--his bride.

Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.

Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name: For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.

Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray; Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood;

Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.

Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!

Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; There he met a long procession--mourners following the dead.

"Now why weep ye so, good people? And whom bury ye today?

Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?

"Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore; "For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; And because her days were given to the service of G.o.d's poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door."

No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.

"'Tis someone she has comforted, who mourns with us," they said, As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head;

Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while.

When, oh, hark; the wondrous organ of itself began to play Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear; All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head, With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it--dead.

They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side; While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, And then softly sank to silence--silence kept forevermore.

_Julia C. R. Dorr._

Our Folks

"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt; and tell A fellow just a thing or two; You've had a furlough, been to see How all the folks in Jersey do.

It's months ago since I was there-- I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.

When you were home, old comrade, say, Did you see any of our folks?

"You did? Shake hands--Oh, ain't I glad!

For if I do look grim and rough, I've got some feelin'-- People think A soldier's heart is mighty tough; But, Harry, when the bullets fly, And hot saltpetre flames and smokes, While whole battalions lie afield, One's apt to think about his folks.

"And so you saw them--when? and where?

The old man--is he hearty yet?

And mother--does she fade at all?

Or does she seem to pine and fret For me? And Sis?--has she grown tall?

And did you see her friend--you know-- That Annie Moss-- (How this pipe chokes!) Where did you see her?--Tell: me, Hal, A lot of news about our folks,

"You saw them in the church--you say, It's likely, for they're always there.

Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who?

Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!

All well, you say, and all were out.

What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?

Why don't you tell me like a man: What is the matter with our folks?"

"I said all well, old comrade, true; I say all well, for He knows best Who takes the young ones in his arms, Before the sun goes to the west.

The axe-man Death deals right and left, And flowers fall as well as oaks; And so-- Fair Annie blooms no more!

And that's the matter with your folks.

"See, this long curl was kept for you; And this white blossom from her breast; And here--your sister Bessie wrote A letter telling all the rest.

Bear up, old friend."

n.o.body speaks; Only the old camp-raven croaks, And soldiers whisper, "Boys, be still; There's some bad news from Granger's folks."

He turns his back--the only foe That ever saw it--on this grief, And, as men will, keeps down the tears Kind nature sends to woe's relief.

Then answers he: "Ah, Hal, I'll try; But in my throat there's something chokes, Because, you see, I've thought so long To count her in among our folks.

"I s'pose she must be happy now, But still I will keep thinking, too, I could have kept all trouble off, By being tender, kind and true.

But maybe not.

She's safe up there, And when the Hand deals other strokes, She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, And wait to welcome in our folks."

_Ethel Lynn Beers._

The Face upon the Floor

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, Which well-nigh filled Joe's bar-room on the corner of the square; And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in."

"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?"

"Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work-- I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical, good grace; In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place.

"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd-- To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink--that's what I want--I'm out of funds, you know; When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.

What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou; I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; G.o.d bless you one and all; Next time I pa.s.s this good saloon, I'll make another call.

_Give you a song?_ No, I can't do that, my singing days are past; My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do-- I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.