Green Fields and Running Brooks, and Other Poems Part 18

The stars are failing, and the sky Is like a field of faded flowers; The winds on weary wings go by; The moon hides, and the temptest lowers; And still through every clime and age I wander on a pilgrimage That all men know an idle quest, For that the goal I seek is--REST!

I hear the voice of summer streams, And, following, I find the brink Of cooling springs, with childish dreams Returning as I bend to drink-- But suddenly, with startled eyes, My face looks on its grim disguise Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, I hasten on, nor taste of rest.

I come upon a merry group Of children in the dusky wood, Who answer back the owlet's whoop, That laughs as it had understood; And I would pause a little s.p.a.ce, But that each happy blossom-face Is like to one His hands have blessed Who sent me forth in search of rest.

Sometimes I fain would stay my feet In shady lanes, where huddled kine Couch in the gra.s.ses cool and sweet, And lift their patient eyes to mine; But I, for thoughts that ever then Go back to Bethlehem again, Must needs fare on my weary quest, And weep for very need of rest.

Is there no end? I plead in vain: Lost worlds nor living answer me.

Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign Have I not pa.s.sed eternity?

Have I not drank the fetid breath Of every fevered phase of death, And come unscathed through every pest And scourge and plague that promised rest?

Have I not seen the stars go out That shed their light o'er Galilee, And mighty kingdoms tossed about And crumbled clod-like in the sea?

Dead ashes of dead ages blow And cover me like drifting snow, And time laughs on as 'twere a jest That I have any need of rest.

LONGFELLOW.

The winds have talked with him confidingly; The trees have whispered to him; and the night Hath held him gently as a mother might, And taught him all sad tones of melody: The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea, In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, Hath told him all her sorrow and delight-- Her legends fair--her darkest mystery.

His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; Bees cl.u.s.ter round his rhymes; and twitterings Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.-- Nor shall he cease to sing--in every lay Of Nature's voice he sings--and will alway.

JOHN MCKEEN.

John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish glee Of rhyming riddle, or story found In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound Old book of the Used-to-be!

John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!-- To have rolled your s.h.i.+rt-sleeves down, to don A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone Out on election days!

John, ah, John! did it prove your worth To yield you the office you still maintain?

To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth Of all the happier things on earth To the hunger of heart and brain?

Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded span Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,-- Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man?

The blinds of your mansion are battened to; Your faded wife is a close recluse; And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do Dutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose!--

But O for the old-home voices, blent With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes!

THEIR SWEET SORROW.

They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say.-- He holds her hand an instant, wholly Distressed--and she unclasps it slowly.

He bends his gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks--"Quick! Act! Speak up!"

A tension circles both her slender Wrists--and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own.-- Then, blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly--and "Never! Never!"

Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh,-- While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.

SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S.

Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, And cooked 'em on our stove one day When our hired girl she said I may.

_Honey's_ the goodest thing--Oo-_ooh_!

And blackberry-pies is goodest, too!

But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet!

Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,--an'

She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!-- An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face-- An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'!

I _ruther_ go to the Circus-show; But, 'cause my _parunts_ told me so, I ruther go to the Sund'y School, 'Cause there I learn the goldun rule.

Say, Pa,--what _is_ the goldun rule 'At's allus at the Sund'y School?

MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME.

They called him Mr. What's-his-name: From where he was, or why he came, Or when, or what he found to do, n.o.body in the city knew.

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone In a low hovel of his own; There cooked his meals and made his bed, Careless of all his neighbors said.

His neighbors, too, said many things Expressive of grave wonderings, Since none of them had ever been Within his doors, or peered therein.

In fact, grown watchful, they became a.s.sured that Mr. What's-his-name Was up to something wrong--indeed, Small doubt of it, we all agreed.

At night were heard strange noises there, When honest people everywhere Had long retired; and his light Was often seen to burn all night.

He left his house but seldom--then Would always hurry back again, As though he feared some stranger's knock, Finding him gone, might burst the lock.

Beside, he carried, every day, At the one hour he went away, A basket, with the contents hid Beneath its woven willow lid.