Songs Ysame Part 9

Requiem.

SLEEP, thou, whom Care so long oppressed.

Care whispers by thy couch no more.

Kind Death has shut the outer door; None can disturb thee,--sleep and rest.

Thy hands are folded on thy breast That throbs with Life's deep pain no more.

Though Love waits grieving by thy door, He cannot enter,--sleep and rest.

Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH, Thou comest a refres.h.i.+ng breath From meadows green, where morning stays, To those who bear the noon-tide blaze.

Elizabeth, Thou couldst look in the eyes of Death, Undaunted, did he promise thee Some bright new scene of mirth or glee.

I cannot think that time will gray That sun-bright head, nor bear away One dimple in those rose-cheeks hid; Sure he were daring if he did.

Elinor.

IN that shadow-land, where the Sisters three Are weaving the web of destiny, There floated once through the fateful gloom A thread of suns.h.i.+ne, that gleamed upon The thread of a life from the distaff drawn, And mingling, they pa.s.sed to the busy loom.

The wondering Parcea looked and smiled, As the light grew into the soul of a child, And in and out and through devious ways, They wove it in with the woof of days.

But they said on earth (who knew not the Fates) "As the lily's chalice holds the dew, So in her heart, at the morning's gates, She caught the suns.h.i.+ne, when she came through."

On a Fly-Leaf of "Flute and Violin."

A MASTER-HAND hath swept Life's violin and flute.

For him they laughed and wept When others found them mute.

From his high alt.i.tude He catches, fine and clear, The notes that might elude A less discerning ear.

Transposing to a lower key The dream-song that he hears, He sets his heavenly melody To human smiles and tears.

Inspiration.

THE singer walks by wood and rill, By town and stately river, And varied scenes his vision fill, And make his pulses quiver.

But when his song comes borne across On winds from dreamland blowing, We cannot tell what mystic touch Has set his chimes a-going.

We hear the robins in his rhyme, We see the orchards drifted With crests of bloom that glimmer white When mists of tears are lifted.

A hundred tunes seem intertwined To mingle in his singing, When but a single rose, perhaps, Has set his fancy winging.

On a Fly-Leaf of Irving.

WELCOME art thou, O singer!

If thou dost know a song That makes the long eve shorter Because its joys are long.

Welcome art thou, tale-bearer, If thou canst bear away Part of the cares that burden The dull and dreary day.

On a Fly-Leaf of Riley's "Afterwhiles."

UNTO him alone who strays Sometimes through the yesterdays, Lingering long in wood and field, Is the meaning all revealed Of these songs. Adown the rhymes Runs a path to bygone times; But 'tis found by those alone, Who the fresh green hills have known, And have felt the tender mood Of the country solitude; Who through lanes of pink peach blooms Used to see the lilac's plumes Nodding welcome by the door Where the home-folks come no more.

Blest the singer, then, who leads Back again through clover meads, 'Til old scenes we seem to see, Fair as once they used to be.

Who can call from years long gone, Friends we trusted, leaned upon; For whose sake we learned to bless Toilworn hands and homespun dress.

As he sings of them, and thus Wafts the pure air back to us Of the fields, there comes again Childhood's faith in G.o.d and man.

Chiaro-Oscuro.

SOMEHOW I love to look at the picture I made of her, Work of an idle time, the summer of life's long year; For as I stand and gaze, dreaming of those lost days, Almost it seems to me I can see her sitting here.

That is the way she sat, with her head a trifle raised, Looking thoughtfully out at a scene I could never see.

Delicate color of rose dawning and dying down, Flus.h.i.+ng the rare sweet face as she listened or spoke to me.

Whitest light of the sky I showered on her upturned brow, Gathered the darkest shades and brushed them into her hair, Thinking the while I worked of the law that always sends The deepest shadows to follow the high lights everywhere.

Now as I sit and gaze at the dream on the canvas caught, Sadly the thought comes back, to torture with unbelief-- Why must it always be that the strong white light of love Is followed forevermore by the deepest shadow of grief?