Songs Ysame Part 2

Voices of the Old, Old Days.

OH, voices of the old, old days, Speak once again to me, I walk alone the old, old ways And miss your melody.

To-night I close my tired eyes And hear the rain drip slow, And dream a hand is on my brow That pressed it long ago.

My thoughts stray through the lonely night Until I seem to see Home faces, in the firelight, That always smiled on me.

Those shadows dancing on the walls Are not by embers cast, They are the forms my heart recalls From out the happy past.

Forgotten is the gathering gloom, The night's deep loneliness, As round me in the silent room With noiseless tread they press.

Though in the dark the rain sobs on, I heed its sound no more; For voices of the old, old days Are calling as of yore.

Silent Keys.

AS we would touch with soft caress the brow Of one who dreams, the spell of sleep to break, Across the yellowed keys I sweep my hand, The old, remembered music to awake; But something drops from out those melodies-- There are some silent keys.

So is it when I call to those I loved, Who blessed my life with tender care and fond: So is it with those early dreams and hopes, Some voices answer and some notes respond, But in the chords that I would strike, like these, There are some silent keys.

Heart, dost thou hear not in those pauses fall A still, small voice that speaks to thee of peace?

What though some hopes may fail, some dreams be lost, Though sometimes happy music break and cease.

We might miss part of heaven's minstrelsies But for these silent keys.

PART II.

Retrospection.

THE grandsire, in the chimney corner, takes The almanac from its accustomed place, And while the kettle swings upon the crane, And firelight flickers on his wrinkled face, Reviews the slow procession of the months; And sees again upon the hills of green The gypsy Springtime pitch her airy tent Among the blossoms. Then the silver sheen Of harvest moon s.h.i.+nes down on rustling corn Until the hazy air of Autumn thrills With sound of woodman's ax and hunter's horn, And darker shadows climb the russet hills.

But while he ponders on the open page, The last sand in the hour-gla.s.s slips away.

The end seems near of his long pilgrimage, And he would call the fleeting year to stay.

But pa.s.sing on, she goes--a sweet-faced nun-- To take within the Convent of the Past The veil of silence. Then the gates swing shut, And Time, the grim old warden, bolts them fast.

No more can come again those halcyon days The Year took with it to its dim-lit cell; But often at the bars they stand and gaze, When through the heart rings memory's matin-bell.

Echoes From Erin.

ACROSS old Purple Mountain I hear a bugle call, And down the rocks, like water, the echoes leap and fall.

One note alone can startle the voices of the peaks, And waken songs of Erin, whene'er the bugle speaks.

They call and call and call, Until the voices all Ring down the dusky hollows and in the distance fall.

Methinks, like Purple Mountain, the past will sometimes rise, And memory's call awaken its echoing replies.

Within the tower of Shandon again the bells will sway, And follow, with their ringing, the Lee upon its way, And chime and chime and chime, Where ivy tendrils climb, Till bells and river mingle to sound the silvery rhyme.

Again the daisied gra.s.ses beside the castle walls Will stir with softest sighing, to hear the wind's footfalls; And through the moss-grown abbey, along Killarney's sh.o.r.e, The melodies of Erin will echo evermore, And roll and roll and roll, Till spirit hands shall toll The music of the uplands unto the listening soul.

_Killarney, Ireland._

An Alpine Valley.

OH, happy valley at the mountain's feet, If half your happiness you could but know!

Though over you a shadow always falls, And far above you rise those heights of snow, So far, your yearning love you may not speak With rosy flush like some high sister peak, Yet you may clasp its feet in fond embrace, And gaze up in its face.

And sometimes down its slopes a wind will come And bring a sudden, noiseless sweep of snow, Like a soft greeting from those summits sent To comfort you below.

What more? Love may not ask too great a boon.

Enough to be so near, though cast so low.

Think that a sea had rolled between you twain If careless fortune had decreed it so, And you could only lie and look across To distant cloudy heights and know your loss, And see some favored valley, fair and sweet, Heap flowers at its feet.

_Cham, Switzerland._

Through an Amber Pane.

BY some strange alchemy that turns to gold The light that drops from gray and leaden skies, Though heavy mists the outer world enfold, 'Tis always suns.h.i.+ne where Napoleon lies.

No more an exile by an alien sea, Forgetful of the banishment and bane; Now lies he there, in kingly dignity, His tomb a Mecca shrine beside the Seine.

And there the pilgrim hears the story told, How Paris placed above her hero, dead, A window that should turn to yellow gold The light that on his resting place is shed.

So on him falls, though summers wane, The suns.h.i.+ne of that amber pane.

By some strange miracle, maybe divine, The sunlight falls upon the buried past And turns its water into sparkling wine, And gilds the coin its coffers have ama.s.sed.

Could it have been those long-lost halcyon days Trailed not a cloud across our April sky?

Faltered we not along those untried ways?

Grew we not weary as the days went by?

Ah, yes! But unreturning feet forget Rough places trodden in the long ago, Rememb'ring only paths with flowers beset, While pressing onward, wearily and slow.

For Memory's windows but retain The suns.h.i.+ne of an amber pane.

The little white, wind-blown anemone By one round dewdrop may be fully filled, And by some light-winged, pa.s.sing honey-bee Its cup of crystal water may be spilled.

So does the child heart hold its happiness: A drop will fill it to its rosy rim.

It is not that these later days bring less, That joy so rarely rises to the brim; It is because the heart has deeper grown.