The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 28

What cares he if his cheeks are tinged and tanned By thy warm suns.h.i.+ne-kiss and by thy breezes bland?

Hark to the tinkling bells of grazing kine!

The lambkins bleating on the mountain-side!

The red squirrel chippering in the proud old pine!

The pigeon-c.o.c.k cooing to his vernal bride!

O'er all the land and o'er the peaceful tide, Singing and praising every living thing, Till one sweet anthem, echoed far and wide, Makes all the broad blue bent of ether ring With welcomings to thee, G.o.d-given, supernal Spring.

TO MOLLIE

O Mollie, I would I possessed such a heart; It enchants me--so gentle and true; I would I possessed all its magical art, Then, Mollie, I would enchant you.

Those dear, rosy lips--tho' I never caressed them(?)-- Are as sweet as the wild honey-dew; Your cheeks--all the angels in Heaven have blessed them, But not one is as lovely as you.

Then give me that heart,--O that innocent heart!

For mine own is cold and _perdu_; It enchants me, but give me its magical art, Then, Mollie, I will enchant you.

1855.

TO SYLVA

I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair; Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart; Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.

Wherever at noontide my spirit may be, At evening it silently wanders to thee; It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest, As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.

Through the battle of life--through its sorrow and care-- Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,-- Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son, I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.

1859.

THANKSGIVING.

[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]

Father, our thanks are due to thee For many a blessing given, By thy paternal love and care, From the bounty-horn of heaven.

We know that still that horn is filled With blessings for our race, And we calmly look thro' winter's storm To thy benignant face.

Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,-- Who seldom thanked before; And seldom bent the stubborn knee Thy goodness to adore:

But Father, thou hast blessings poured On all our wayward days And now thy mercies manifold Have filled our hearts with praise

The winter-storm may rack and roar; We do not fear its blast; And we'll bear with faith and fort.i.tude The lot that thou hast cast.

But Father,--Father,--O look down On the poor and homeless head And feed the hungry thousands That cry to thee for bread.

Thou givest us our daily bread; We would not ask for more; But, Father, give their daily bread To the mult.i.tudes of poor.

In all the cities of the land The naked and hungry are; O feed them with thy manna, Lord, And clothe them with thy care.

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord, We will not give a stone; For the bread and meat thou givest us Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us From thy all-bounteous horn We'll cheerfully divide that loaf With the hungry and forlorn.

CHARITY

Frail are the best of us, brothers-- G.o.d's charity cover us all-- Yet we ask for perfection in others, And scoff when they stumble and fall.

Shall we give him a fish--or a serpent-- Who stretches his hand in his need?

Let the proud give a stone, but the manly Will give him a hand full of bread.

Let us search our own hearts and behavior Ere we cast at a brother a stone, And remember the words of the Savior To the frail and unfortunate one; Remember when others displease us The Nazarene's holy command, For the only word written by Jesus Was charity--writ in the sand.

CHARITY

[Written in a friend's book of autographs, 1876.]

Bear and forbear, I counsel thee, Forgive and be forgiven, For Charity is the golden key That opens the gate of heaven.

SAILOR-BOY'S SONG

Away, away, o'er the bounding sea My spirit flies like a gull; For I know my Mary is watching for me, And the moon is bright and full.

She sits on the rock by the sounding sh.o.r.e, And gazes over the sea; And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?

Will he never come back to me?"

The moonbeams play in her raven hair; And the soft breeze kisses her brow; But if your sailor-boy, love, were there, He would kiss your sweet lips I trow.

And mother--she sits in the cottage-door; But her heart is out on the sea; And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?

Will he never come back to me?"

Ye winds that over the billows roam With a low and sullen moan, O swiftly come to waft me home; O bear me back to my own.